Banner by nemo_88

Blood Runs Thin

By kcarolj65

Prologue

He woke to darkness.

Darkness surrounding him, permeating him, resonating through and from him, rising up to roar furious, insane futile threats against the spark.

Spark Indestructible.

Memory a bright hot ninja star twisting twirling inside him, razor-edged and whirring like blender blades, shredding his demonic innocence to bloody raw hamburger scraps.

Blood in his mouth, more trickling from his nose, his ears. And everything hurt so awfully - body, heart, mind, soul. The last, worst of all.

He felt shattered, crystal-sharp shards and slivers to nick and tear at any attempt to gather them. Humpty Dumpty smashed to smithereens. Would he ever put himself together again?

Did he want to?

No. Not if it was going to mean existing with this, like this, with the soul a relentless mirror held up to show his terrible reflection.

He couldn't - no, he was not able to do this. How did this happen? He curled into a shuddering ball of denial and misery, trying to make sense of the utterly senseless.

Oh, God, WHY?

"I - din't - " His voice was thick, hot and heavy in his throat, or was it the unfamiliar weight of tears?

"I - din't - ask for - this!"

'Make me what I was. So Buffy can get what she deserves.'

As requests went it'd been a bit ambiguous, he knew. But to be this, wasn't what he'd meant. Not this unruly seething amalgam of all-too-muchness, his fragile consciousness crowded with both demon and soul, wrangling like two cats in a sack.

The demon, growling rage at the presence of the interloper. {Fucking Lurky. Get my hands on him and I'll gouge his eyes out, use 'em for marbles...}

{{no, no, can't do that wouldn't be Right don't you see?}} A voice like wind-chimes stroked by an angel's hand. {{because he gave you what you Wanted stop denying it you wanted this in your Heart of hearts so don't blame Lurky for Giving it to you}}

'No, no, no I didn't, didn't want this, did I? Wouldn't ever want this, or put myself through this, not in a million years. Not even if I was bug-shagging crazy as Dru.'

Which he knew he might be. But no.

'Not unless I - I hated myself, yeah? Not unless I really, truly hated myself -'

Dagger-flash of memory, of hazel eyes wet with incredulous tears, a choked voice ringing Heaven's bells to shiver his heart: Ask me again why I could never love you!

Ah.

(gasp)

And then other eyes, glowing neon, piercing the veil of words to the core, the real and true.

Give me what I asked for.

The huge claw clapped to his chest, his doom intoned in subterranean thunder, and the sudden pungency of eucalyptus, the searing pressure thrusting at, forcing in, filling him up to overflowing with something tasting harshly of mint, cool and hot at the same time like peppermint schnapps -

...what I asked for...

Sinuses screaming, eyes burning with soul-light and streaming acid rain down his face.

And the welcoming cry of his aching heart - yesyesyesyou'reHOME

'Oh...no...'

Had to breathe, had to breathe now, carefully, to be certain he still could.

'I...did. I did.'

"I asked for this." Confession the merest breath of sound. His tears ran into the sand beneath him forming a sticky gritty paste that he rubbed his face into as if to scour the knowledge away. The knowledge that he'd done this to himself.

He coughed, retched, gulped air and swallowed. Swallowed again, to settle it. Ha. As if it ever would.

Was this what Buffy deserved? How could one such as he be certain?

But, he knew it was what he deserved. Thousands upon thousands of wide scared eyes and echoes of pleas (please please don't!) told him so.

"Oh, God," he groaned, unsure if the utterance was yet one more blasphemy atop countless others or honest supplication. Even less sure that it would be heard. That was the worst, wasn't it? To ask, and to doubt the very possibility of answer.

This, what he'd chosen, was worse than Hell.

He'd thoughtlessly, willingly embraced Hell when he said Yes to Drusilla in the mews long ago. For twelve decades afterwards, he'd barely thought about what that meant, and certainly hadn't cared.

Now he did, and it ached and burned. With the spark of his soul he had rekindled his hope of Heaven. And now, for the first time, he truly comprehended that it was forever denied him. All because of one fateful choice.

How selfish he had been, succumbing to temptation without a single thought for his poor, dependent mother. And weak, contemptibly weak - he'd taken one look into Drusilla's witchsilver eyes and willingly turned his back on the world of light, to take the easy road and run away from his life, from decency, from his responsibilities. And then to have the audacity to gloat about it, congratulate himself on his "escape from mediocrity," to glory in it!

God, he was disgusting. She was right about that.

He uncurled himself and rolled onto his back. Deliberately exposing his belly, making himself vulnerable to whatever still lurked in the dark, and not caring. For this was the cruel irony he had fashioned for himself, to yearn for grace and know himself forever separated from it, sundered by flesh and fangs and rivers of blood that nothing, nothing could ever wash clean. No alchemy here to turn the dross to gold, no magic wand to wave it all away. No love, no sacrifice momentous enough to cleanse him. This was his penance, this was his punishment for his weak selfishness.

'Christ, no wonder Angel's such a broody ponce. No wonder he spent a century whingeing and sucking on rats.'

{At least Angelus wasn't so stupid as to have chosen this, tosser.}

'Right, so right...what have I done?'

The darkness swirled like a sucking vortex, a riptide threatening to pull him under. So tempting. Yes. Yes, let me drown. Let me drown in you until I drown in my own dust, and am gone.

Wind-chimes, silvery carillon calling to anchor, to salvage: {{stopstopStopit no use complaining it's Done so Do Something with Yourself with what you've Learned and what you Know Make a Difference choosing this was the Best Thing you'll see someday you'll See}}

{Shut up, wanker!} A snarl at the soul, then soft all sly sympathy: {C'mon, old son. Just meet the sunrise and put us out of our misery. Y'know you want to...}

{{hush hush Young One you don't want to be like Him do you?}}

Well, if that didn't stiffen his spine, nothing would. 'Like him? Huh. Not hardly.'

He lay there, outwardly motionless, inwardly reaching deep inside, to that core of cool practicality, that well he had always drawn upon in times of crisis (after the alcohol-fueled raging). The pattern was long-established, tried and true: Rail at his circumstances with all bombast and extremity, rend tear and smash, and then settle down...think...and adapt. The most basic of survival skills.

Think...and adapt.

Calmed somewhat, he opened his leaking eyes to the void and squinted, thought aloud: "Right, then." He shifted upright, wincing. "Just gotta figure out...how the Hell do I get out of here?" The darkness seemed impenetrable, with the torches all blown out by Lurky's soul-summoning. Even enhanced vamp-vision didn't help much.

In the end he followed his nose. Through the reek of rotting demon flesh and whatever noxious substance had fueled the torches he discerned the smell of fresh air, cool enough to be night. As he hitched along, gritting his teeth against the pain of bruises and torn muscle, he wondered silently, "And when I do get out - what then?"

'Wonder if I could ask for - nah. Cashed out whatever credit I had with Lurky, and there's no one else.

Still, a little help would be nice...'

"Holy shit!" He yelped, nearly blinded by the brilliance bursting before him, shimmering white light that seared his eyes in contrast to the pervasive dark. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes, stunned and wondering. 'This might be taking "ask and ye shall receive" a bit far...'

"Hello, Spike." The voice, undeniably female, was vaguely familiar. Warm and saucy, laden with spice. A curry of a voice. He liked curry.

"Uh - hello?" Squinting, peering through a finger-lattice into the shifting beams of light.

"Or do you wanna be called William now?" He had the impression of soft yet not mocking laughter, the kind that made you smile in response even if you didn't get the joke.

"Dunno. Whatever." Still trying to see the figure adorned in radiance. "Not that I'm not grateful for the company, but who -"

As if suddenly dimmed by a switch, the light faded enough for him to see, to recognize. He started, blinked, swallowed hard.

"Cordelia?"

"More or less," she trilled. "Actually, 'more' is the more accurate description." She smiled and he felt his heart lift to it. She was so beautiful. "I, uh - well, I guess you could say I got an upgrade." The lovely brunette gestured at her glowing, white-clad form. "Cordy Version 2.0."

"Yeah," he breathed. "You look -" {{Like the very heart of Beauty,}} his soul murmured reverently. He wrestled it into submission with an inward scowl and opted for: "- great. Really great."

That glorious smile widened. 'Cheerleader always did like the compliments.' "Thanks! Look, I'd go into the details about the new improved me, but that can wait. 'Cause I didn't come all this way to talk about myself, believe it or not."

"Kinda figured." He summoned a faint but genuinely appreciative smile, feasting his eyes on her. Truth to tell, he didn't care what she was now or why she was here. He was just so grateful that she was.

She noticed the intensity of his gaze and - was it possible for such a being as she?- seemed to blush. Then she bit her lip and her eyes slid from his. Avoiding.

'Uh oh. That can't be good...' His brow creased and a horrid little suspicion popped up like a fragile seedling in his gut.

Don't say it Cordy, don't say it don't say it...

"Angel needs your help."

'Oh, for fuck's sake.' He felt his jaw tighten against her words and the soul's admonition at his response - no, his whole aching body instantly seized up taut as if challenged (which he supposed it was), automatic reflex to his grandsire's name. "You have got to be kidding."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

'Bugger. Girl - or whatever she is now - is serious.' He drew a loud breath through his nose. "What does he need me for? He's got a whole posse up there in L.A. hangin' on his every word, dun't he? I'm the last person in the world he needs, believe me."

Cordelia's mouth set in a thin line and her dark eyes narrowed. 'Stubborn chit. Angel always could pick 'em, the bastard.' "It's got to be you, Spike. No one else."

Spike snorted. "Have you gone completely sack o' hammers? Bloody Hell, Cordelia - last time I saw him I had him tortured, remember? He'd stake me on sight, or try to, anyway." 'Not that I don't deserve it...'

"No, he wouldn't," she said softly, sadly. "He - can't."

The way she said that extinguished Spike's irritation like a spate of icy rain, replacing it with a pang of anxiety even as he shook his head in a continued show of denial. Anxiety. As incomprehensible a feeling as it was unwelcome, in association with Angel. He'd never entertained the possibility of feeling such a thing for his grandsire. Had never thought it would be necessary because - well - Angel. Irascible, immutable, indestructible. Not a creature one would feel apprehensive for. About, sure. But never for.

Until now.

"Why not?" he whispered, already hearing his capitulation and hoping she didn't.

She took a moment before answering, her gaze capturing, holding his. "It's a long story," she said finally. "You wanna hear it, you gotta say Yes."

'Always comes to that, yeah? Making a choice.' And the soul echo: {{Do Something with Yourself.}}

Oh, she had him, and she knew it as well as he did. But he still had to put up some resistance, and reached for the only card he had up his sleeve: "But - Buffy -"

"Is fine. For now." A pause, then she added delicately, "And I think it's too soon for you two to see each other, anyway. Don't you?"

'She knows.' And with that it all came crashing down upon him again, even as he realized that of course she knew. Wherever she'd come from, she'd known he was here. Stood to reason she'd know why. But it still bothered him, made it all worse somehow. "Cordelia - " he began, then broke off, overcome with shame. What could he say or do? Apologize? Explain? If such things were even possible (which he doubted), they belonged to Buffy first.

He wished he could curl up and disappear.

"I know, Spike." Her voice was so gentle, with no hint of sarcasm, not a breath of condemnation. Hesitantly he dragged his gaze up to meet hers, softly shining at him, and a sob caught in his throat. "I know it all."

He wanted to weep. He could say nothing.

She was silent while he struggled to compose himself.

When he finally drew a shaking breath and released it in a sigh, she offered him a tentative smile. "Are you in?"

He nodded, once. "Yeah." His lip curled, a brave attempt at his trademark cocky smirk. "I'm in."


Chapter One

The lights of Los Angeles sprawled for miles along the night-dark coast, reached wavering golden fingers across the water toward the cargo ship that chugged patiently toward the dock. Welcoming, beautiful even, the warm electric glow beckoning travellers to the comforts of land and home.

Standing on the port side of the deck, Spike had no eyes for the city, paid no heed to its empty promises. His attention was fixed instead on the water untouched by the lights, to the north.

Angel was out there, somewhere. Spike could feel him, like a faint tremor deep in his bones, and wondered if Angel could feel him too, if he knew that Spike was near, and if he could read his grandchilde's intentions. He hoped so, though he knew it was probably a futile hope.

The enormity and horror of what had been to Angel, and the events leading up to it, had stunned Spike when he learned of them twelve days ago, his third night on the ship.

He'd just returned from a long stint on deck, where he'd helped the crew in moving the heavier items to and from the hold, in hopes the exertion would tire him enough so that he'd get at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. With his nightmare memories and the bickering of his soul and demon, true rest was rare and precious, and never lasted nearly long enough. That night, though, he'd had genuine hope for it...

He stripped off his shirt and boots and lay back on the cot, sighing again as he arranged his aching limbs in a comfortable position.

"Hey."

He started violently, his eyes popping open. There she was, softly glowing, seated near his feet. He raised himself to his elbows, grousing, "Bloody hell, Cordelia! Warn a bloke, why don't you?"

"Nice to see you too, Spike."

He lowered his eyes, abashed. "Sorry...sorry. Just startled me, is all." He rubbed at the back of his neck, peering at her. "Where you been, anyway?"

She shrugged, and the gesture struck him not so much as nonchalant as evasive. "I had - things to do. Preparations."

"What for?"

"Now that? Would be telling." Her bright grin waned and, somewhat alarmingly, so did she. The glow dimmed and her form seemed to fade in and out slightly, so that Spike could see the wall behind her every now and then. That was unexpected and - ominous. Seeing his concern, Cordelia gave an apologetic little shrug as her form stabilized. "I've been keeping an eye on you, but you seem to be doing pretty well on your own."

Spike dropped his eyes and toyed with the edge of the blanket. "Wasn't on my own. Had a bit of help along the way - the villagers, the captain." He glanced up at her. "You saying you didn't have a hand in that?"

"Well, maybe just a little." They smiled at each other, then she became serious again. Spike braced himself.

Here it comes.

Cordelia said solemnly, "I made you a promise, Spike. To tell you the whole story if you agreed to help Angel."

"Yeah."

She searched his eyes for a long moment, shifting closer. Somewhat breathlessly (did Higher Beings breathe?) she said, "I'll tell you all I can. There's not much time." Truly alarmed now but not wanting to miss whatever she could tell him, Spike leaned toward her as she stretched out a shimmering hand. "You ready?" Before he could do so much as nod assent, her hand connected with his cheek, and it began.

Faces, images, scenes strobed in bright, harsh bursts upon his mind's eye like a string of old-fashioned flashbulbs, scoring the ignorant darkness with almost painful intensity. Some faces he recognized, others he did not. Angel, of course. And - Darla. (Darla?!) And a stake and a baby, a boy Spike instinctively knew was Angel's son, impossible as it seemed.

Boardrooms, suits, arctic eyes full of plots and schemes. A torchlit room and a worn leathery face, chanting. Wispy mouse-colored hair, a strong scarred jaw and sleek voice like hemlock, vowing, lying, threatening.

A door of lightning and the baby, Angel's boy, in the liar's hands. Angel watching in helpless anguish as his son was taken through the fiery door and it winked out.

Trusting blue eyes heavy with pain and guilt, swiftly smothered by a pillow. An encircled red pentacle on a marble floor.

Then the flash and the roar, the beast and the slender boy-warrior that dropped into the world after him, dispatching the terrified creature with ease. The boy's eyes, instantly recognizable.

The liar, dying, leaving his legacy of deceit and hatred behind him. The boy, plotting, waiting for his moment.

And the iron coffin, the pitiless sea, and despair.

When it had all played out Spike was curled up on the bed, his arms wrapped around himself to quell his shaking.

'S'worse than I thought it was. God... Angel... Slowly he unclenched his body, dashed the heel of his hand against his damp eyes and sat up, gripping the metal frame of the cot to reanchor himself in the physical world. He swallowed hard several times, shaking his head in a pantomime of denial, though he didn't doubt the truth of what he'd seen.

When he'd lifted his head, he'd been unsurprised to find himself alone again, Cordelia's soft glow and faint scent gone. And despite his exhaustion, he hadn't gotten much sleep that night, either.

Gonna find you, Peaches, he sent a silent promise over the dark water. Find you, get you well again. His jaw tightened. And then find that vicious little brat and beat some sense into him.


Chapter Two

Spike cut the engine of his bike and stared up at the edifice before him. Typical. Can't make do with a crypt or a cave, or even a house for that matter - Angel's gotta have a bleedin' hotel for crap's sake. He snorted and shook his head, set the kickstand and dismounted. Needs a place big enough for that ego, maybe. Or could be, he's just compensating. He grinned nastily at that, even as his soul chided him.

{{Thoughts become Words words become Actions be careful how you Begin}}

{Get stuffed!}

Spike crossed the courtyard to the front door of the hotel, eyebrows lifting at the name. The Hyperion? He knew his Greek mythology as well as anyone: Hyperion, a Titan, father of Helios, the sun. He shook his head at Angel's appetite for self-flagellation, then winced as another thought struck him. Hyperion was also the father of Selene, the moon, and Eos, dawn.

Dawn. Ah, Bit. Never even said goodbye to her. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. Probably hates me now.

He set his hand to the brass door handle, pausing briefly as he wondered if he needed an invitation to enter, then shrugged and pulled. The door opened easily and he stepped inside, eyes widening slightly at the faded but undeniable grandeur of the lobby. In spite of this, the place had a comfortable, lived-in feeling, a warmth that Spike had not expected.

And it was empty as a tomb. He knew that right away. Oh, people still lived here, he could smell numerous scents, but their owners were all elsewhere at the moment. Probably out looking for the Great Pouf, whose scent he could still discern though it was faded, old. Weeks, months old.

What surprised him most was how many scents there were besides Angel's. Angelus had never been much for socializing, preferring to keep his little family under his thumb and watchful eye at all times, and in Sunnydale he hadn't seemed much different, mostly limiting his contacts to Buffy alone and only joining the Scoobies at dire need.

But apparently Los Angeles had effected a turnabout in his grandsire's attitude and practices, for he detected three very strong scents, one of them unquestionably the boy's, a readily identifiable mix of Angel's marsh-mist scent and Darla's smoky amber musk. Also a soft, earthy aroma that reminded him of grasslands under warm dry breezes, and a tarry, gritty smell like the heart of the inner city. Cordelia's sparkling cinnamon and nutmeg - and another, older even than Angel's but unmistakeable, a redolence of melancholy and book-bindings.

Well, he could smell them, but he had no idea where they were, and he needed their help to retrieve Angel - he had no contacts in Los Angeles, and hiring a boat and the necessary equipment via customary (i.e., legal) channels in the post-9/11 era would take too much time. He sat on the sofa for a few moments, knees jiggling impatiently, but then rose to pace about the room.

Bugger. Hate waiting. Where the hell are they?

Office. He hurried in and sat at the desk, opening drawers and slamming them shut again when he failed to find what he sought. Dammit! Where was the -

Rolodex! Hidden under the daily newspaper no more. He flipped through quickly, but paused, heart in his throat, at the card marked "Summers, Buffy."

Oh, love... His eyes greedily drank in the address, the telephone number penned there in Angel's elegant scrawl. He knew them by heart, of course, but seeing them...

"Ow!" He jerked back, shaking his tingling fingers. A spark had erupted from the cards, which were now flipping by themselves as he stared disbelievingly. A few seconds later the flipping slowed and then stopped - at a card that obviously had been torn in two and crumpled by an angry hand, but then smoothed out, repaired with tape and replaced in the Rolodex.

His eyes narrowed as he read the information on the card and he scratched the back of his neck, grimacing doubtfully. He recognized the name, hence the skepticism. Sure about this one, pet?

He didn't expect an actual answer and started as the card literally jumped out of the Rolodex and landed on the blotter in front of him. Guess that'd be a Yes.

He shrugged, picked up the card and reached for the phone, then hesitated, thought better of it. This sort o' thing'll best be done in person. He knew it was an excuse to get out of here and do something, but a justifiable one: He didn't dare risk refusal when the need was so great. He rummaged through the drawers again for the Los Angeles street map he'd espied earlier, located the proper section and scribbled directions onto notepaper. Then he headed for the door.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, former Watcher, was about to receive an unexpected visitor.


Chapter Three

Bugger. Now what? Frustrated, Spike twice thumped Wesley's door with the side of his fist, then closed his eyes and leaned his head against his braced forearm. Even before knocking the first time, he'd known the apartment was empty; he just hadn't wanted to believe it. Shoulda called first, maybe.

But he truly hadn't expected Wyndam-Pryce would be out at this hour, in light of what both Giles and Buffy had implied about him: Typical prissified Watcher-type, all tweed and smug self-righteousness. A lightweight. Not the sort to be out and about at all hours, although he had worked with Angel for some considerable time, which naturally involved a good bit of night work. But if the scents - or lack thereof - were anything to go by, Wesley hadn't been in contact with Angel for some time. Neither Angel's nor any similar to those he'd perceived in the Hyperion, were detectable here.

But Wesley apparently wasn't living the life of a hermit, at least not entirely. In addition to the strong smell of sadness and book-bindings he associated with the ex-Watcher, Spike caught the deep musky scent of expensive perfume, underlaid with the barest hint of something toxic. Bitter almonds, was it? Or perhaps not so deadly, but definitely dangerous, and undeniably female.

His bird? Spike thought, mildly amused. Bet that'd surprise old Rupert, learning Wesley's a bit of a dark horse, bedding some femme fatale. He straightened with a sigh, pushing away from the door. He'd just have to curb his impatience and wait for a more respectable hour - respectable for humans, anyway. He swallowed a growl of annoyance and headed for the elevator.

As he approached the small lot behind the apartment building where he'd parked his bike, a small nondescript car pulled into the lot, making for a space at the farthest, darkest corner. There the engine cut off and the car door opened to disgorge a tallish figure. A man, who scanned the parking lot with perfunctory vigilance before popping the car's boot with the automatic release.

Spike grinned as the unmistakeable scent drifted toward him. Finally! Somethin' goin' right for once! But his grin died swiftly as Wesley hauled his cargo from the boot.

His human cargo. A girl, gagged, hands bound behind her - and struggling against Wesley with all her might. Even restrained as she was, she writhed and squirmed, fighting for leverage, to push the man away -

And all at once the dim parking lot disappeared and Spike was once again straddling the Slayer on stark white tile, fury mounting as he pawed and grappled with her, unheeding of her pleas: Spike, no...please stop...please, don't do this!

Tears stinging his eyes, he shook off the memory and focused on the scene before him, saw Wesley draw something from his pocket and threaten in a voice like dry ice:

"Don't make me use this. You won't like it at all-"

With a roar Spike crashed into him, cutting off the warning mid-sentence, dislodging the girl and smashing Wesley painfully against the rear bumper of his car. Bright fireworks of agony burst in his brain, so hot and intense that he barely managed to maintain consciousness and his grip on the dazed Wesley. The girl cried out as she fell heavily to the pavement, then rolled to her knees. Impressed with her pluck Spike summoned a weak grin and produced a knife to cut through her bonds; freed, she stood, wavering uncertainly. "Go on, luv. Go!" For a moment she hung there, rubbing the marks on her wrists, clearly undecided; then she flashed a hint of a grateful smile and staggered off into the darkness. Spike watched her go, then turned his attention to the stunned man beneath him. His grin hardened as he grasped Wesley's jacket lapel and flipped him onto his back, leaning over him menacingly.

"What the fuck were you doing with her?" Spike choked. Fucking hypocrite, I am... Grimly he shook it off. No time for navel-gazing, tosser. He shook Wesley to rouse him, not too roughly, watching as his head lolled from side to side and his eyelids fluttered, opening to reveal surprised steel-blue eyes that widened exponentially as they focused on the livid face above his. Spike blinked, diverted briefly: He recognized those eyes though he'd never actually seen them in person before, and his own were irresistibly drawn to the livid red scar carved across Wesley's throat. He winced inwardly - That musta hurt like fuck - before he recalled himself and tightened his grip on Wesley's jacket.

"Spike?" Wesley gasped. Spike nodded with grim satisfaction, still smiling that death's head smile.

"You wanna explain what you-" was all he had time to say before Wesley's bemused gaze and slack mouth hardened determinedly and his hand flashed up toward Spike's throat. Too late, Spike recognized the small device he held and released a furious groan as fifty thousand volts pulsed and sizzled through him, the current triggering the chip to emit a firestorm of torment so overwhelming that he fell back, groaning and twitching helplessly before the world suddenly, mercifully, went black.

**

Nausea was the first sensation he registered as he slowly regained consciousness, exacerbated by the headache still pulsing through his brain, though thankfully the chip seemed to have quieted, the pain an aftereffect of its taser-enhanced firing. Nausea, pain, and a definite sense of entrapment, though he could not detect any ropes or chains binding him. Still, he could not move, not at all, not even his little finger. Though he knew it would cost him new pain, he drew in a long breath through his nostrils, and detected the faintly electrical scent of magic.

Shit.

"Ah, back among us, I see," Wesley's cool, cultured baritone broke the silence as Spike opened his eyes to tiny slits, trying to minimize the effect of the light on his aching eyeballs. The ex-Watcher sat in a chair a few feet before Spike's, steel-blue eyes faintly amused even as he half-absently applied an ice pack to the swollen bruise on his forehead.

"My first inclination was to stake you, or leave you for the sun to dispose of," he continued with a casual brutality that startled Spike as he continued gathering his wits, with some difficulty. The vampire peered warily at the former Watcher. Giles and Buffy both underestimated this one, in so many ways, he mused darkly. Be sure to tell them all about it, if I ever get out of here. Which isn't a sure thing, by any stretch.

"Not only did you attack me, but you nearly allowed Justine to escape, after I'd gone to considerable effort to locate and capture her," Wesley continued conversationally, as if hunting down and kidnaping a young woman were an everyday occurrence, like brushing one's teeth. He lifted the icepack slightly away from his forehead and nodded at something to Spike's left. "Fortunately, she was unable to go very far in her condition."

Girl didn't get away. Fuck. Defeated, Spike squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then glanced aside to see her lying unconscious on a sofa, both hands and ankles bound now. He shot a dark look at Wesley. Got her with the taser, too, the wanker. Jolly. Now what?

Swallowing down the nausea, he set his jaw and spat, "So why didn't you? And what do you want with her?"

"Hm." Wesley actually seemed to consider the questions as he shifted the ice pack to another (presumably) sore spot, this one hidden beneath his hair at the crown of his head. "I didn't destroy you because it occurred to me that you were trying to save her. She doesn't deserve such gallantry, as I think you'll agree when you fully understand the situation. But you could not have known that, and so tried to save her. Such behavior from you, of all creatures, intrigued me enough to allow you to live, at least long enough to learn why you are here." Wesley sat back and crossed his legs, apparently at ease, though his gaze still burned into Spike's with unnatural intensity. Spike wondered vaguely if it had something to do with the magic binding him, but stubbornly gritted his teeth and glanced away.

Apparently this show of belligerence was unacceptable. Quick as a snake Wesley was out of his seat and grasping his chin in hard, calloused fingers, forcing his eyes up. "You're looking for Angel, aren't you?" he hissed. "For another round of torture, I suppose? What was it he told me - oh yes. Hot pokers and - hm - pliers, I think." Wesley smiled coldly. "I wonder, would such implements would be more effective on you than they were on him?" He released Spike's chin and directed a scornful look down the length of his nose at him. "Personally, I have little doubt they would."

"'M'not here to hurt him! I'm here to find him!"

"To what purpose?" Wesley asked softly. When Spike again set his mouth in a stubborn line, Wesley backhanded him swiftly, causing flowers of bright pain to bloom once again in his brain. As he recovered, blinking, he sent a surprised, grudgingly respectful look in Wesley's direction: the man was stronger than he looked - and it was his own strength, not some magicked-up muscle.

"I'll ask you once more, Spike. Why are you here? And why would you come to me?" Wesley's aspect darkened as Spike gave an insolent shrug, but he refrained from striking out again. When he resumed speaking, the raw, sincere torment in his quiet voice pierced Spike's heart. "Let me assure you, whatever you may have heard of me, I will not be party to any attempts to hurt Angel again."

"Then we're on the same side here, mate. I don't want to hurt him either," Spike answered firmly. Calm now, he met Wesley's gaze unflinchingly, with none of his earlier belligerence. "You asked why I came here?" He took a deep breath, bracing himself for yet more skepticism and possibly downright enmity and retribution. In for a penny... He snared Wesley's gaze in his own, holding it for a moment before he confessed softly, "Because Cordelia sent me to you."

Wesley started, goggling for a moment before shaking his head, though he did not break eye contact. "Cordelia? But, how -" He lurched to his feet and paced about the room, occasionally throwing agitated, querulous looks at Spike, who blinked, surprised and pleased by his reaction. Agitation, puzzlement, astonishment, yes - but thankfully, not outright disbelief or even much doubt.

"You believe me," he whispered, awed.

"Yes. Well, actually, I must," Wesley admitted, smiling faintly as Spike's brow furrowed. He nodded at Spike's chair. "The enchantment on that chair is not only to bind its occupant, but also to elicit truthful answers from him or her. As incredible as it may seem, at the very least I must believe that you believe Cordelia sent you. Which should be impossible, since she's been missing for months."

Spike quirked an ironic brow at him and Wesley gave a little shrug and a nod, acknowledging the inappropriateness of "impossible," in the world they lived in.

"Tell me about it, about her. And how you came to be here."

Disarmed by the mild tone, Spike relaxed and suddenly realized how very tired he was. He needed sleep, and blood of course, but this was more important. Once again he faced Wesley calmly. "You might wanna sit down for this. 'S'kinda a long story."

"Yes, I imagine it must be. Most interesting as well, I'm sure." Wesley reclaimed his seat and and fixed Spike with a searching but not unfriendly gaze. Spike smiled inwardly, relaxing further; despite their rocky beginning, perhaps he and the former Watcher could -

"For one thing, I'd very much like to know how you recovered your soul."


Chapter Four

Aghast, Spike stared, his tiredness forgotten. Not that he was particularly sorry that Wesley knew, but the fact that he'd hidden the knowledge, had encouraged Spike's assumption of his ignorance, was unsettling. "You knew I have - and still you - bugger." He peered suspiciously at the man. "How did you know?"

Wesley shrugged. "There are ways. Certain incantations, coupled with a L'zyr-Beathn talisman can reveal inner truths in a willing subject. As you were unconscious, you could put up no resistance."

Spike gaped for a moment, then grumbled, "Bloody rude, if you ask me."

"So is assaulting a stranger in a carpark."

"Point." They regarded each other silently, then Spike sighed: "So, what, now? You know I've got my soul and yet I'm still all trussed up like a sodding Christmas goose?" He struggled ineffectually to illustrate his point, muttering, "Bloody magicks."

"I didn't know you had your soul when I 'trussed you up,' as you put it. And the presence of your soul doesn't preclude you from evil."

Flashing him a sour look, Spike snorted, "You obviously haven't read Good and Evil According to the Scoobies."

"Indeed. I imagine that would be a rather slim volume."

Spike grinned. Knew I liked this bloke. In return Wesley offered his first genuine smile, faint yet unmistakable. Another tense sizing-up with those steel-blue eyes, then Wesley nodded slightly and murmured, "Relaisse." The invisible bonds holding Spike to the chair dissipated and he sighed audibly in relief, stretching luxuriously.

"Thanks, mate," came out in an appreciative groan as he popped the vertebrae in his neck. "Never was much for sitting still."

Wesley answered this with a faint twitch of his lips but said nothing, instead merely watching Spike. Waiting. Expectant yet not impatient, not demanding, simply waiting.

Spike's grin faded. It was time.

He nodded once, took a deep breath, and began.

*

"...an' she told me Angel needed me, that it was important I be the one to rescue him. Not exactly sure why, considering we're not each other's favorites by any stretch, but at the time I wasn't in any state to be questioning much. Lurky's minions busted me up right proper, they did. Took me half a day just to get to the cave mouth, and then I had to wait for sunset to get back to the Jeep." Spike paused, smiling wistfully at a sudden thought. "Wish Glinda'd been there, then."

"Glinda?"

"Tara - uh - MacLay. Red's bird. White witch, knows 'er way around healing herbs an' all, found some that work on vamps even. Always decent to me, since I helped her a few times." Even if one of those times involved punching her in the nose. Good thing Glinda's not one to bear a grudge. His smile broadened. Luscious peach. "Bet she could've -"

"Spike."

Something in the hushed, hollow voice silenced Spike immediately, sent a shiver through his frame. And as Wesley gazed at him with steady sympathy, a dreadful knowledge paralyzed him as surely as the magic had held him not long before.

No...

Unconsciously, his head began to shake a rapid, jerky denial.

"I'm sorry, Spike," Wesley murmured. "Tara was shot by that fellow who'd made so much trouble for Buffy - uh, Warren Mears, I believe his name was. She - died instantly."

As if from a great windswept distance Spike heard an agonized little cry and realized belatedly it had emerged from his own throat. Dead. Tara. 'S'not - shouldn't be - possible. He hadn't loved the girl, but he'd liked her - it was almost impossible to not like Tara, so wise and gentle, an unexpected and most welcome ally in the summer of Buffy's death. And for the first time, perhaps, he fully comprehended that Every. Single. One of his victims had probably been Tara - or Buffy, or Dawn - to someone, bringing all his crimes into sharp, excruciating focus, the faceless thousands suddenly faceless no more. Head bent, he blinked rapidly and shoved his hands into his hair, fingers clenching spasmodically.

God. Poor Red.

"I learned of it when Rupert came to Los Angeles with Willow," Wesley continued gently; despite the considerate tone, his words rolled over Spike like a dark wave, dragging him down. "I gathered that Willow went on something of a magical rampage after Tara's death. She killed Warren, and tried to raise Proserpexa's Temple and destroy the world. 'To end its pain,' she said... Not to me, of course - she was all but catatonic while she was here." A pause, then he added: "They were on their way to Devon - a friend of Rupert's leads a coven there, and they agreed to shelter Willow, and train her to control her power."

About bloody time, Spike couldn't help thinking, then winced at his temerity. Glass houses, mate. He swallowed down his tears as best he could; still, when he attempted to speak, his voice was a harsh rasp. "When?"

"Near the end of May."

Bloody. Hell. Not a week after he'd left. All the wounds in his soul that he thought had begun to heal were slashed open again, bleeding in slow, agonizing drops that burned like holy water. Fucking - selfish - prick - should've been there! Red...and Buffy...and oh, Bit - Tara was like a mum to her this last year -

"How -" God, his voice was still shaking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "How did they stop her?"

Wesley hmphed thoughtfully. "Rupert wasn't terribly forthcoming with all the details. Magic was involved, of course, and some sleight-of-hand, as it were - but he said the real credit belongs to Xander."

"The whelp?" Spike couldn't hide his astonishment, but as he considered the matter more carefully, it made sense. "Well, good on him, then," he muttered.

Silence fell between them again, during which Spike could feel Wesley's eyes on him, appraising, sizing him up. After all his effort at making a good impression, just then Spike didn't care what the former Watcher saw or thought of him. His eyes and chest felt hot and crushed, his soul ached with loss and recognition, and even his demon was subdued, silent, offering not one scrap of snark or bluster.

"It's nearly dawn, and you're tired," was Wesley's next quiet observation. Spike sighed shakily and nodded, head still bent. "We can continue this after you've rested." He rose and disappeared into a dim hallway, emerging a few moments later with pillow and blanket. He dropped them on the unoccupied sofa and nodded toward the still-unconscious girl on the sofa opposite. "She should sleep at least several more hours, so you ought to be safe enough here."

Safe? Spike glanced at the girl, then turned a puzzled look on Wesley, who acknowledged it with a sour smile. Though the man said nothing more, made no gesture, Spike's eyes fell on the red scar at Wesley's throat and widened in comprehension. A quirked brow confirmed it, then Wesley turned to go, repeating softly, "We'll continue this later."


Chapter Five

Justine's sharp gasp woke Spike from fitful, half-remembered dreams that he was none too loath to leave behind. Stretching slightly, he reached out with his senses and determined the time must be something after noon. He wondered briefly where Wesley was - the ex-Watcher didn't strike him as the slugabed type - but his attention by necessity centered on the awakening girl. As he watched her eyelids flutter he considered confronting her about slashing Wesley's throat, but decided against it.

Let's see what the girl will do first. Been on the receiving end of prejudgment a few too many times myself... He closed his eyes to mere slits and lay quietly, observing her as she came to full awareness with another little gasp, this one quickly muffled, and began struggling against her bonds.

For all his severe demeanor, not to mention the implied provocation, apparently Wesley had been more merciful in cinching her wrists than he could and probably should have been: something less than ten minutes' battle against the heavy ropes was sufficient for her to free her hands and sit upright, rubbing her wrists to restore full circulation, then bending with a soft, pained grunt to release her legs.

Once that was done, she braced one hand against the back of the sofa and rose slowly to her feet, trembling in every limb - an aftereffect, no doubt, of the taser charge. Spike watched as she bent and stretched ruthlessly against the sharp pangs and aches to regain as much range of motion as possible. Again, her spirit impressed Spike. Would've made a damn fierce Slayer, this one.

He shut his eyes completely when hers fell on him, forcing himself to remain utterly still as she gingerly approached the sofa and sank down to her knees, studying him. A soft, appraising snort shifted the air and he felt her reach out to him, probably to wake him so he could escape with her. Since he was covered from the shoulders down by the blanket, she most likely assumed he too was bound, as much Wesley's prisoner as she had been.

Her fingertips trailed lightly over his forehead, pushing back a few stray curls that wind and exertion had freed from the influence of hair gel. Slitting one eye open again, Spike saw her smile faintly, with a sort of hesitant admiration - just before her thumb brushed against his scarred eyebrow. Her own brow furrowing, she bent closer and peered at it, then her eyes went wide as saucers and she flinched away, lips moving silently - but not so silently that his enhanced hearing didn't comprehend her words.

"William the Bloody."

Well, this ought to be interesting.

His other eye opened slightly to see her glancing frantically about the room, her scent redolent of equal parts fright and determination. Quietly but swiftly, she crawled out of his range of vision; a moment later, he heard a muffled wooden clunk he recognized all too well and braced himself, ready.

Justine didn't disappoint.

Almost before he could react she flew at him, her left hand reaching for the back of his neck to hold him down while her right swung the stake at his exposed back. Blurry-swift he flipped over and caught her wrist in a grip stronger than titanium, grinning at the shock stamped plainly on her face.

“Now, that’s just plain rude, attacking a man in his sleep,” he chided her like a disappointed parent as his fingers closed around the stake and effortlessly twisted it from her grip. “Not to mention ungrateful, considering I did try to save you last night. Ah, ah.” This as she swung her free hand at him; he easily caught her fist and brought her wrists together, clamping them in one hand. “You really have a thing for turning on people, don't you."

"You're not people," she snarled, then yelped as Spike fisted his hand in her hair and drew her head back, lingering over her throat just long enough for her panic to manifest in unwonted, helpless tears, then turned his head to mutter in her ear: “You and me, we’re gonna have us a chat.” He hauled her to her feet, ignoring her gasp of pain, and half-carried, half-dragged her toward the chair, forcing her into it with terrifying ease. “Have a seat, why don’t you.” He closed his hands around the armrests and smiled sweetly at her as she cringed, knowing that it would only frighten her more. He didn't care. "Might as well get comfy, this is gonna take a while."

She sat wide-eyed and panting frantically for just a moment, then exploded out of the chair and shoved him, using all her weight and momentum to push him back as she made for the door. Spike staggered back, surprised at her escape, then rolled his eyes at his own stupidity - Gotta activate the thing, braintrust! - and lunged after her, grabbing her just as her fingers scrabbled at the doorknob. She struggled and kicked as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides and lifting her feet off the ground; one flailing heel slammed painfully into his knee, nearly felling him as he wrestled her over to the chair and shouted for Wesley.

So intent was he on securing her that he didn't realize his chip hadn't fired once.

*

Spike sprawled on the sofa, aching head leaning atop the backrest, eyes closed. They opened briefly and he offered a nod of thanks as he accepted a tumbler of Scotch from Wesley, who sat down heavily on the opposite sofa, equally drained, and stunned to boot.

The cause of their tiredness slept fitfully in the chair Spike had dubbed the 'Siege Perilous,' tear tracks drying on her pale cheeks. Occasionally, pained whimpers issued from her, though neither Spike nor Wesley had touched her once the latter had activated the spell. No, Justine had brought her hurt upon herself, attempting to resist answering their questions over the past several hours. An attempt that had, in the long run, proved futile against the anti-falsehood spell of the chair.

Just because Justine gave the information unwillingly didn't mean that she hadn't enjoyed their reactions to it, though: she'd savored their horror and astonishment while she described her actions, her lies and betrayal of Wesley, her manipulation of Connor on Holtz's behalf. If the bright hard gleam of pride in her eyes was anything to go by, she had especially relished divulging Connor's part in Angel's entrapment, grinning with fiendish delight at Wesley's unguarded, shattered expression.

That very delight thoroughly revised Spike's opinion of her. She'd make a far better vampire than a Slayer, this one. Stone bitch could give Darla a run for her money for sheer nastiness.

After that revelation Wesley had fallen utterly silent and removed to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between Justine and himself as possible, as if he feared what he might do if he remained too close to the sneering woman. Only when Spike had finished questioning her did he return, placing a sleeping spell on her in a hoarse, strained voice.

Spike grunted appreciatively as the smooth liquor eased his dry throat, a soothing stream that he'd like nothing better than to drown in for a day or two. Maybe a week. Wesley wouldn't mind a healthy binge, either, I'll wager. Taking in the man's slumped shoulders, the lost, numb expression, Spike's mouth twisted sympathetically. Might help him deal with all of this...poor bastard didn't even know Connor was back from Quor'toth, much less involved with Angel's disappearance. And that meant, of course, that not only had Wesley been isolated from Angel himself but also from the others, people he had considered friends. Even in their extreme need to find Angel, they had not come to him, hadn't asked for his help.

Spike knew exactly how Wesley felt. Hadn't even been a year since the resurrection spell, but he still felt the sting.

Unfortunately, they really didn't have time for wallowing in wronged feelings. Angel needed them now, and only after he was recovered could there be any chance for clearing up misunderstandings and resolving issues.

Quietly, Spike said Wesley's name, waited, then repeated himself in a louder voice and offered a faint, sympathetic smile when Wesley's dazed eyes rose to focus on him. "Alright, mate?" At Wesley's murmured assent, Spike continued gently but firmly, "Good man. First order of business, as I see it, is to get a boat. Y'know anyone might help us with that?"

His spirits sank a little at Wesley's dull headshake, then sparked anew when Wesley suddenly blinked and his spine straightened, and the headshake became slow yet increasingly assured nod. "Yes, I - well, I'd have to ask though I can't imagine she'd refuse -"

"She?" Spike teased. "What, your bird got a yacht or something?"

"What? No - Virginia's not my bird - not any longer -" Wesley's mouth quirked with mixed amusement and irritation as he realized what Spike was up to. "Not that that's any of your business," he chided loftily, eliciting a chuckle from the vampire. "But Angel saved her life, and once she understands the situation, I'm quite certain she'll want to return the favor."

"Best get on it then, mate," grinned Spike. As Wesley muttered assent and exited the room to make the necessary phone call, Spike settled back on the sofa, fists clenching in an attempt to control his excitement.

Hang in there, old man. We'll be there soon. He picked up the tumbler, toasted his absent grandsire and tossed down the contents. Just hang on.


Chapter Six

Not until the narrow bank of bluish cloud along the horizon had swallowed the last rays of a red sunset did Spike feel it safe to venture onto the deck of the sixty-foot vessel sailing out of LA harbor. Sleek and white, well-appointed though decidedly more functional than decorative, the boat was a legacy of one Magnus Bryce who, it seemed, had made something of a hobby of deep-sea treasure hunting.

From the state-of-the-art sonar, scuba and recovery equipment, plus the two contract frogmen down below readying their night-diving gear, Spike gathered that Bryce had fancied himself LA's answer to Mel Fischer. When he wasn't making deals with one demon or another to extend his power and influence, that is. According to Wesley's pretty ex, her father had made one dark-magic deal too many and, inevitably, had had to pay the consequences.

Spike had to admit, Virginia Bryce wasn't anything like he'd expected her to be. Here was no Paris Hilton-esque dilettante heiress: Upon Bryce's "disappearance," Daddy's little girl had taken the reins of her father's empire and immediately began weeding out its shadier elements and putting the business on the straight and narrow, displaying a cool, decisive efficiency that Spike suspected was nearly as intimidating as her father's magicks had been. And for the three days since Wesley requested help for Angel, all of that practicality and can-do attitude had focused on their situation, with impressively swift results.

Assisting Virginia in the more, er, specialized of her company cleanup efforts was her fiance Sion MacRhys, a white wizard of considerable power who also protected Virginia from Bryce's old enemies and creditors as well as former friends and ex-clients who resented being discarded like so much garbage. Sion had certainly given Spike and Wesley a thorough and rather unpleasant magical scanning despite Virginia's vouching for them, but once satisfied that they presented no danger, the bloke was friendly enough in his brash Northern way and quick to offer his skills in the rescue effort, if needed.

At the moment, there was no such need, so the pair, unsurprisingly, took advantage of their freedom. Hand in hand they had wandered out on deck and now stood at the bow railing, Sion's arms loosely wrapped around Virginia from behind. Spike kept his distance, not wanting to interrupt or even to look at them. Seeing them together inevitably conjured painfully impossible dreams of holding Buffy in just such a way, as he'd never been able (allowed?) to do - sweetly, tenderly, her back against his chest, his cheek resting on top of her head. With no ulterior motive, no objective other than enjoying the simple pleasure of her presence, the scent and feel of her in his arms, and the beauty of the sea under the evening sky.

He sucked in his cheeks and looked away - masochist that he was, he had been eyeing them sidelong - swallowing hard as the dream-image faded and died, insubstantial as a soap bubble. Never in a million years, mate. Better make your mind up to that. Got more pressing matters to think of, yeah?

Matters like his entrapped grandsire somewhere beneath the waves before them. Somewhere close, he knew. Spike threw a glance over his shoulder at the pale-faced Justine where she sat between Wesley and the sonarman, directing their course with obvious reluctance. When her eyes met Spike's through the glass enclosing the bridge he grinned nastily at her. Won't need your help much longer, slag, he thought, fighting down the mild admonition of his conscience with little difficulty; evidently his soul was almost as furious with her as his demon was. Wonder if you'd make decent bait?

{{Spike...}}

Right. Overt threats, the soul didn't like so much. Spike rolled his eyes in capitulation and faced forward again, scanning the darkening water.

Some while later he straightened abruptly, his vampire senses tingling in a long-unfelt but nevertheless highly familiar way. Sharp, intense, equal parts pleasure and pain. Too right, that. Concentrating, he tried to follow the tingle directly back to its source by turning his body slowly, first one way...no...the other...maybe...a little more -

There! Ruthlessly subduing his excitement Spike forced himself to stand still, take the time to focus, make certain - and then he darted into the bridge and pointed emphatically to port. "That way!"

Wesley rose from his seat as the captain adjusted their course and slowed the engines, and Justine got shakily to her feet as well, eyes huge, face even paler than before. The bridge suddenly became very crowded as Virginia, Sion, and the two divers squeezed in, alerted by the shift in course. Wesley set a hand on Spike's shoulder and leaned close, pitching his voice low so as not to disturb the crew. "How close?"

"Very," Spike answered tightly. He swallowed his next words when the sonarman spoke up:

"Getting something here...left ten degrees...yeah, that's it...okay, cut the engines."

"Drop anchor."

They all waited as the engines went silent and the sonarman fiddled with his equipment. The intervals between the tinny pings became shorter and shorter until they blended into a soft, continual whine. The sonarman reduced the volume and, as they all gathered around in a fascinated huddle, pointed at the screen. With each circular pass the glowing radial outlined a dark, distinctly oblong form directly in the middle of the screen. "That's it."

"Are you sure?" Virginia asked. Spike snorted at her skepticism but, checked by Wesley's warning squeeze on his shoulder, refrained from comment.

"Well, it's definitely metal, probably iron. Right size, too."

"Depth?" one of the divers asked.

"Eighty meters, give or take. Current's not bad enough to give you any problems..."

Spike didn't stay to hear any more. He returned to the deck, drawing deep breaths to calm himself, mood shifting rapidly between relief and excitement and - now that they were here, so close - more than a little apprehension about what they might find in that cruel iron box.

Oh, it was definitely Angel, there was no question about that, and he was definitely alive - er, still undead, rather. Too deep for the sunlight to reach him, and fortunately not even a well-placed narwhal horn could turn a vampire into ocean silt, not that there were any of those about, this far south. Spike wasn't worried about any of that.

As for Angel's condition, though - well, that remained to be seen, didn't it?

Caught up in his thoughts, he didn't hear Wesley's approach and so nearly jumped out of his skin when the man spoke his name. He turned and met Wesley's characteristic faint yet genuine smile.

"Well done, Spike." It didn't take vampire senses to pick up the relief and hope in the man's voice, guarded but unmistakable, and Spike sent a crooked smile to him in answer before returning his gaze to the water, swirling silver and black in the light of a half-moon.

"This is a long way from over, Wes," Spike cautioned, the very words and tone feeling strange in his mouth. He scowled half-heartedly. This soul better not make a killjoy out of me. World doesn't need another broody souled-up vamp, 's'already got one of those.

Or will do, once we get him back. He put aside his apprehension about Angel's condition; the elder vampire still occupied this plane, and Spike didn't doubt his grandsire's strength or resiliency one bit. The thought heartened him, eased his jangling nerves somewhat, and the next smile he directed at Wesley was broad. Almost - hopeful.

But cautiously so.

Comfortably silent, they settled in to wait, watching the divers and crew go about their business.


Chapter Seven

Silence. Dark, heavy silence. All of them trapped motionless in it, flash-frozen in horror, as if moving or speaking or even breathing would make the horror more real and more unbearable than it already was. The only sounds were the waves lapping against the boat, and Virginia's distressed cry, muffled against Sion's shoulder.

Mere moments ago the deck had been a flurry of noise and activity - first the long, steady creak and whine of cable as the big winch hauled its prize up from the depths and swung on its boom to hold the coffin dripping over the deck; the shouts of the crew as they gathered round the coffin, guiding its descent as the winch reversed direction and slowly lowered it to rest; the hollow hiss of blowtorches working on the metal fastenings, snapping sparks into the night air while seawater trickled sullenly from the coffin's seamed edges. And the triumphant shout as the clasps were breached, the shriek and slide of the locking rods being ripped free of their moorings, the final thunderous crash of the coffin lid striking the deck as it fell open.

And then the silence as all of them stared and stared.

Angel lay in about four inches of seawater, eyes closed, his complexion a sickly greenish-white - what there was of it, anyway. The thin metal bars that formed the grating over the coffin's "window" had been close-woven enough to keep out the larger carrion-eaters such as hagfish and their like, but smaller ones had squeezed through, their access evidenced by the ragged, bloodless gouges seaming Angel's face and throat. Muscle and sinew and even a bit of bone were exposed in places, and Spike shuddered as he saw Angel's ears were almost completely eaten away, now little more than barely-attached scraps of cartilage floating grotesquely in the water next to his head; the corner of one eyelid hadn't escaped damage, either, though thankfully it appeared his eyes themselves were intact. Angel's trademark black silk shirt and black chinos were still relatively whole, though what they'd find when they removed his clothing was anyone's guess. Spike thought darkly that Stephen King's guess would probably be the most accurate.

No stranger to carnage - though he'd lacked the patience to inflict this kind of damage, he'd certainly seen enough of it in his time - Spike was the first to move, followed quickly by Wesley. The lengths of bent rebar pinning Angel in place were no match for the combination of bolt cutters and vampire strength, and were quickly removed and discarded. Leaning over his grandsire, Spike carefully worked his hands underneath Angel's body, preparing to lift - and made a startled, disgusted sound as something wriggled beneath his fingers. Cursing, Spike plunged his hand between Angel's collar and nape, drew out a small but vicious-looking eel-like thing, and with a venomous glare at Justine, flung the creature directly into her face, the slimy slap of it eliciting a shriek that Spike would enjoy remembering later, when he had leisure to do so.

Gently, Wesley and Spike lifted Angel out of the coffin and set him on his side on the deck, then Spike lay down behind him and once again wrapped his arms around his grandsire. A slow, powerful squeeze forced foul-smelling seawater from Angel's lungs and stomach, draining out of his mouth in a silty brown-green puddle on the now-scuffed white deck. Looking a little green herself, Virginia announced faintly, "Um - I'll just go and make sure everything's ready below." She turned to leave, Sion with her, then stopped and turned back to ask in a stronger voice, "Should he get the human blood first?"

"That'd be best, pet. Thanks." Spike shifted his grip and squeezed again, bringing up more water.

"You got it." She looked up at the sky. "Better get him inside soon."

"We will," Wesley assured her, rising and moving toward her to take her hands in his. "Thank you for this, Virginia. And all of you, as well." He raised his voice to include the still-subdued but no longer motionless crew who were quietly gathering their gear, fastening down equipment in preparation for the return to the marina. They acknowledged his thanks and Virginia smiled at him and touched his cheek, then went inside.

Five minutes later, after each successive constriction of his arms about Angel's middle produced less and less water, Spike sat up, drawing Angel's body up to rest against his chest. Angel's dark hair felt lank and slimy against Spike's cheek as he rested for a moment, closing his eyes. Hair gel's all washed out, old man. You really are in bad shape. He opened his eyes and briefly scanned the near-abandoned deck before his gaze met Justine's.

Satisfied? he asked her silently. For just a moment her eyes flickered, then she swallowed hard, jaw firming. "He deserved it. And worse," she declared, but with something less than her usual fanatic conviction. She started, backing up a step when Spike rose smoothly to his feet, still clasping Angel to his chest.

"Maybe he did," Spike said softly. He lifted Angel into his arms and gave her one last piercing look. "What do you deserve, Justine?"

Wesley followed him silently as he carried Angel into the boat's interior and went below.

*

Spike glared at Wesley as he ripped off a length of tape and used it to attach the gauze at the crook of the man's elbow. "That was bloody stupid, Wes! He could've torn your arm off in a second! Or gone for your throat!"

"I know," Wesley muttered wretchedly as Spike smoothed the tape and patted the bandage to indicate he was finished, a little harder than he needed to. But dammit, Spike was pissed - Wesley had taken a terrible risk, opening his brachial artery and offering it to Angel while Spike was out of the room disposing of empty blood-packets. Fortunately, Angel had taken no interest in Wesley's blood, not even when Spike forced Wesley's arm away and began staunching the flow. Threading his fingers into his hair, Wesley squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the heels of his hands against them, then reopened them to fix a stricken look on Angel. "But I had to try. I feel - helpless."

Spike took this uncharacteristic admission as a measure of Wesley's exhaustion and sighed, the sound equal parts exasperation and sympathy. "I know. That's the kind of risk you can't afford to take, though." Even if I understand why you did. Know something about guilt, I do. Though why Wesley felt guilty for being deceived by a false prophecy, betrayed and nearly killed by the fanatical disciple of a crazy time-traveling demon hunter, and then almost killed again by his best friend and subsequently abandoned by everyone he cared about was beyond Spike, despite the circumstances.

He supposed he could understand Angel's reaction to Wesley's unwitting part in Connor's kidnaping. Still, it had shocked him - he'd assumed Angel's soul would prevent him from indulging that sort of murderous revenge, especially against a friend - but then, Spike wasn't a parent. He'd cheerfully slaughtered dozens of strangers at a time to amuse his dark princess or to extract her from dangerous situations, but he supposed his single-minded, protective affection for Drusilla paled by comparison to Angel's paternal love for his son.

He considered his grandsire's motionless form. The elder vampire had been cleaned up and dried off, his sodden clothing removed and replaced; both Wesley and Spike had been relieved to find that it had provided some protection, with only a handful of raw patches on his torso fewer on his legs, and none at all on his feet, still shod in good leather boots before they too had been removed to put him to bed. They'd had to pick out some unpleasant wriggling things from the larger wounds, but other than that, Angel was in relatively decent shape, considering his ordeal.

To heal his injuries, though, Angel needed blood. And he wouldn't take it.

For two hours they'd tried to feed him, to no avail. They'd attempted mugs and plastic pouches of human blood, heated exactly to normal body temperature, and received only near-imperceptible reactions in response - a hoarse growl so soft that even Spike could barely hear it, and the tiniest spark of gold in Angel's half-closed eyes, quickly doused. To pig's blood there was no reaction at all. In the end Spike had consumed the human blood; once it cooled, it couldn't be reheated, and there was no sense in wasting otherwise perfectly good blood. He'd still felt slightly guilty about it, though, despite his hunger.

"What else can we do?" Wesley whispered. "There must be something."

"Dunno. Look, Wes, you're all in. Doss down in that cot over there. I'll wake you if there's any change."

"But what if he doesn't -"

"He will, Spike said positively, emphasizing it with a nod. "Prolly just needs to rest, dry out a bit more." His voice softened. "So go on, Wesley. Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

Reluctantly Wesley rose from his seat and moved to the cot, all but collapsing into it in his exhaustion. Without removing his eyes from Angel's placid, ravaged face, Spike listened as Wesley's heartbeat and breathing slowed into sleep within just a few minutes. Only then did Spike allow his calm, confident expression to drop, giving way to deep anxiety.

For despite his reassuring words, Spike was just as worried as Wesley, if not more so. In his experience, no vampire had been subjected to this type of damage combined with blood-debt for such an extended period of time - except that old fruit-bat of a Master himself, so ancient and powerful that he was no basis for comparison - but vampire torpor was hardly unheard-of, and still practiced in some remote areas. The undead generally divided into two groups, one sleeping, one awake, so their feeding habits wouldn't attract much attention among the sparse human population. When the time came for the groups to switch places, usually just the scent of blood was enough to break through the torpor; if that didn't work, a little blood smeared across the lips was more than sufficient to bring the torpid vampire to ravenous, glowing-eyed awareness. Sometimes the blood-smearer suffered dire consequences for being so close to the waking vampire, as the brain took somewhat longer to rouse than the demon's hunger. More than a few fledglings had met their end that way, which was why Wesley's attempt to feed Angel his blood had rattled and angered Spike the way it did.

The fact that Angel had barely responded at all to the fresh blood welling from Wesley's arm was, quite frankly, frightening. To vampires, blood simply didn't get any better than that - warm, sweet, alive in a way that no bagged blood, no matter how well preserved, could ever be. Some indefinable element disappeared forever once it had been siphoned off, neatly packaged and tainted with anticoagulants - for Spike it had to do with the physical contact, the feel of a warm body in his preternaturally strong arms, the taste of fear and helplessness and (for some) arousal. But that wasn't it entirely, either, and Spike wasn't sure it could be defined in human terms. It just was.

So for Angel to have refused - no, worse, ignored - Wesley's blood, fresh from the tap, was bad. Really bad. In unconscious imitation of Wesley's actions, Spike bent his head and raked his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes in momentary defeat, then opening them to glare defiance against the onset of melancholia. No. This can't be the end of it. Came this far, did this much, only to leave him in a coma? No. Not gonna happen. We'll figure it out.

Spike sighed again, conscious of his own tiredness. He settled back in his chair and folded his arms, making himself as comfortable as he could. His eyelids drooped and he didn't bother trying to hold them open. Angel was safe, he wasn't going anywhere, and they'd come up with something, hopefully sooner than later. Any other outcome was simply unacceptable.

He dozed, his exhausted mind telling over the events of the past weeks. How many since that awful night in Buffy's bathroom? Six? Seven? Two-plus weeks to get to Africa, another four days to find Lurky's cave, and he still wasn't exactly sure how many he'd spent in there, fighting for his soul and then recovering enough afterwards to begin his journey home. Faces, images swirled through his thoughts - Buffy in tears, Lurky's glowing eyes and white-hot hand delivering his soul. Wesley, Justine, Virginia...Cordelia. Her smile. Her words, and his promise.

It's got to be you, Spike. No one else. Are you in?

Yeah. I'm in.

Spike jerked painfully awake as the cinnamon-nutmeg scent overpowered the seawater smell, just for a moment, before fading again. "Cor-" he bit off the name as he realized that she was gone, if indeed she had ever been there. But the brief hint of scent, the fleeting sense of her presence were more than enough to refresh her behest, the task she had set for him in Lurky's cave.

And with it came the knowledge of what he must do.

It's got to be you, Spike.

"Oh, bollocks," he breathed. Bollocks indeed. Cheerleader had any, they'd be made of brass.

With a weird detachment, as if someone or something else was moving his arm, he watched his hand reach out for Wesley's knife, wiped clean and resting on the bedside table. He hefted it in his hand, eyes shifting between the shining steel of the blade and his grandsire's still form, his breath coming hard and fast to calm his roiling emotions. This was - this would be -

Necessary. Cordelia's voice was a whisper in his mind.

She was right, he knew she was. The knowledge didn't make it any easier.

It'll be okay, Spike.

"'S'that a promise, pet?" he muttered, but he was already moving toward Angel, lifting him and then turning to settle on the bed, his back against the headboard, his grandsire cradled loosely in his arms. He tested the blade with his thumb - razor-sharp, it made a tiny slice in his skin. A drop of dark blood welled up, sluggish and reluctant as was common in vampires, lacking the circulation to compel a faster flow.

But Spike's blood wasn't common, by any stretch, nor was Angel's. The blood of the Order of Aurelius, one of the oldest, most powerful vampire lines in existence.

And it called to Angel. That one tiny drop stirred him more than mugfuls of pig or human or even the warm live trickle of Wesley's blood had done or ever could do. Angel's eyes moved behind the closed lids; a barely-discernable vibration began deep in his chest. Spike watched him, apprehension and hope warring with fascinated distaste for pride of place in his heart.

No one else. True. Darla was gone, by her own hand. Drusilla - impossible. There was no one else. Only Spike.

Swallowing hard, Spike lifted Angel until the dark head lolled against Spike's shoulder. Angel sniffed audibly, the vibration intensifying to a muted growl as he weakly butted his head against Spike's collarbone.

Now. Gotta do it now -

Determined, excited, hopeful, and - above all - terrified, Spike raised the knife to his own throat and cut, grimacing as he pressed the point deep enough to breach the dormant cartoid, widening the incision so the blood oozed steadily, if slowly, from the wound.

Snuffling like a hungry wolf, Angel stirred and lifted his head, eyes still closed but his demon undeniably aware, Aurelian blood drawing him as inexorably as a siren's song. His mouth dropped open to accept Spike's offering, trickling over his lips and tongue to the back of his throat. He swallowed noisily, growling, swallowed again, and then a third time, and released what sounded like a groan of vexation - irritated, perhaps, by the slowness of the flow.

"Sorry, mate," Spike said insincerely, shifting Angel higher up on his shoulder, "that's as good as it's gonna get until you -"

- until you can feed on your own was what Spike had been about to say but the sudden flash of burning golden eyes, a wildcat's roar, and then the exquisite agony of fangs striking hard into his throat silenced him. All he could manage was a groan as the intense, desperate suction pulled and wrenched, dragging out his essence through the punctures.

Guess that's taken care of. Spike gasped as another growl from Angel vibrated through both their bodies. "Angel -" Another deep, deep pull on his blood, and the room began to swim before his eyes. His hand clenched in Angel's hair - to hold him there? Or pull him away? He didn't know...and it didn't matter.

It didn't matter, because even as his vision darkened Spike perceived a point of light at some distance, approaching, growing larger, brighter. So elusive, so far away and an instant later right there, surrounding, infusing, transforming.

"Oh, God," was all Spike had time to mutter before a wave of pleasure-pain and wonderful, ecstatic, soul-deep connection swept him away in a blinding flash of color, brighter than a hundred sunrises.


Chapter Eight

For a measureless time there was nothing save the lovely coruscating light moving all around and through, and the link like a silken cord, delicate yet strong.

And presently, this:

hullo, Will

not so much a voice in his mind as an impression, a warm tide of welcome and approval that Spike latched onto like a sunflower following its star.

Liam

A wave of amusement answered that, prompting a smile. Angelus would have clouted Spike for using his human name; Angel merely laughed, it seemed. Pain and posturing and animosity put aside for this new bond, this communion.

Utterly content, Spike relaxed further, drifting in the changing light. His grip weakened, loosened, even as Angel's strengthened around him.

He was fading and knew it, but it was all right. Was the whole point of this, wasn't it? And he well satisfied to have it so. A grey fog encroached on the light, beckoning, and he was okay with it, really he was, so long as the thread remained unbroken...

As if from a great distance he could hear spoken words, unimportant, uninteresting babble among which he vaguely recognized his grandsire's name. Angel, Angel echoing over and over, or perhaps repeated - yes, that was it, repeated with growing urgency: Angel - must stop now, that's enough - no more - Angel - no! Spike sighed. All so trivial, hardly worth listening to -

A sudden lurch and a growl of pure unadulterated rage wrenched Spike away from the comforting grey haze. Effortfully he opened heavy eyelids to see Wesley pulling at Angel, calling his name as he tried unsuccessfully to dislodge Spike from his grip.

'S'okay Wes, don't wanna stop -

Slowly, as if moving through honey, Spike lifted a shaking hand to Wesley's shoulder which felt hot and solid and unaccountably strong beneath his quivering fingers. With the last of his diminishing strength Spike pushed against it as hard as he could.

Which wasn't very, more like a kitten's push. Wesley barely moved. In the next instant, though, with no pause in his feeding, Angel grasped a handful of Wesley's shirt, lifted and tossed him away like a ragdoll. He cried out as he hit the wall and slid to the floor, sprawling gracelessly there, mouth slack with shock and hurt. Seeing his pain, Spike tried to signal reassurance with a smile but could not gauge his success, the advancing grey was darkening to black -

The last thing he saw was the door crashing open to admit Sion, quicksilver eyes blazing with power; the last thing he heard, a Word, slicing the air like a knife thrown with deadly accuracy.

And with it, his link with Angel was gone, a pain almost physical, abrupt and acute as an amputation. His choking cry faded to silence as the dark rose up and swallowed him whole.

*

"Spike..."

The sound of his name skimmed the surface of the black like oil droplets on water, undeniably there but barely discernible, unable to penetrate. Huh. Trying to wake him. That didn't mean he had to answer. Even if he could.

Some time later - it could have been moments or hours - Spike became aware of something sinuous sliding into his unresisting mouth, cool at first and then blessedly warm. More delicious heat spilling down his throat to land like a small warm sun in his gullet, shining there and growing until at last it emitted slow rays outward, tendrils of warmth and healing that his depleted body seized upon, greedily absorbing what it needed.

As his eyes opened to focus blearily on Wesley's drawn, concerned face, the facts of his surroundings slowly clicked into place one by one. They were still on the boat, though the engines were silent; they were moored at the marina. The sun was high in the sky - early afternoon, then. He could sense Angel, faintly, which meant he was no longer in the room with them and probably still unconscious. Everyone else - Virginia, Sion, the crew - had gone.

Wesley continued to feed him in silence, until at last Spike began to feel sated. He tried to speak - a mistake, as blood trickled down the wrong pipe and he choked. With a sound of annoyance Wesley pulled the tube out of his mouth and dabbed at the regurgitated blood, sponging lurid abstract rosettes onto the white terrycloth towel. His movements were a little too forceful, a little too quick - Hacked off, he is. Not surprising.

But then, Spike was hacked off too.

"I could make a comment about pots and kettles, you know," Wesley said in the pissy-prissy tone that had always got Spike's dander up whenever Giles used it. Must teach it at Watcher school. He bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying so, remaining quiet while Wesley finished cleaning him up.

Task completed, Wesley settled back into his chair, jaw muscles flexing, and did not look at Spike as he twisted the towel first one way, then the other. Sublimating, Spike thought with a tiny wry grin. Then the man tossed the towel aside and fixed Spike with a hard, accusing stare.

Spike's grin died a quick death as his ire rose again. It was an effort to ask neutrally: "What happened?" He had a pretty good idea.

"Near as we can tell, Angel almost drained you dry." You bleeding idiot! Spike heard as clearly as if Wesley had said it. "The - noise awakened me and I tried to - to pull him away from you. But he was already too strong, so I called Sion. He cast a spell to put Angel to sleep - " That's not all it did, mate, Spike thought sourly, " - and we were able to drag him away then. Not a moment too soon, apparently." Wesley bent and retrieved an empty blood packet, displaying it with slightly shaking fingers. "I fed you four of these before you stirred even once, and two - no, almost three - afterwards." He dropped the packet and glared at Spike, waiting for something. Probably an apology.

Which he wasn't going to get. Well-meaning do-gooders, always stickin' their noses in where they don't belong, the demon complained faintly and was swiftly reprimanded by the much stronger soul. Spike sighed and closed his eyes. Wesley was right, he knew it. But it didn't diminish his sense of loss, of having the truest, most thorough connection he'd ever known stripped away from him. For those idyllic timeless moments, not only he and Angel but also his soul and demon had been wholly at peace with one another, on common ground where both could exist and thrive as equals - and then it was gone. Not irretrievably, maybe, but still he felt the deprivation and the pain of it, something immensely precious stolen away from him -

He opened his eyes and blinked, surprised and then embarrassed by his presumptuousness, though even his shame could not dislodge the thought: Maybe, just maybe, 's'a little like what Buffy felt last year. Just a little. Not nearly so pure - dealing with demons here, purity not really part of the package - but maybe as close as a demon can get, to what she knew in Heaven.

Just thinking of it, of her, made his heart ache sharply and he shook himself free of it. Don't. Focus. He turned to Wesley. "Angel's all right, yeah?"

Wesley pursed his lips in irritation but answered dutifully nonetheless. "He seems to be resting comfortably. He's still enspelled, though I'll break it in plenty of time to get him ready to leave."

"'S'e healing okay?"

"Oh yes - his minor wounds completely so, the more serious well on their way."

Spike nodded and ventured a small, satisfied smile. Wesley didn't respond to it with one of his own, instead slumping forward with elbows on knees, fingers lacing and twisting agitatedly. A long, tense pause, then Spike tried awkwardly, "Had to do it, Wes. 'S'why Cordelia sent me. Aurelian blood, y'know - an' honestly? Should've thought of it myself. Did the Blood-of-the-Sire ritual to heal Drusilla a few years back, after all."

"I'm not angry with you, Spike," Wesley said in the tone parents use when they actually are quite furious with their children but don't want to admit it for fear of losing control. "Nor am I worried about why you did it or whether it was the right thing to do." Squinting confusion, Spike gave a querulous head-tilt to which Wesley replied, "What concerns me are Angel's actions, not yours. If it truly was Cordelia who set this task for you - well, I simply cannot believe she would have sent you on a suicide mission - no, hear me out!" This, exasperatedly, as Spike tried to wave away his fears. "Deny it all you like, but it could have ended that way, Spike, had Angel - not been stopped when he was." A pause for a deep breath, then, more quietly: "He might not have killed you outright, that's true. But, I feared you'd be reduced to the same state in which we found him."

Spike glanced away, swallowing hard, feeling utterly out of his depth. "Well, I wasn't, was I?" he said gruffly around the lump in his throat. This concern, this solicitude - he just wasn't used to it. With the exception of his mother, Joyce and the Bit, Willow and Tara and sometimes (infrequently) Buffy, humans had never shown him much kindness, living or undead. Certainly no man ever had, and he had no clue how to respond to it, knowing only that he must. Wesley deserved at least that much from him.

When he looked up again Wesley's head was bowed. Anxiously chewing his lip, Spike cast about for something - anything - and finally settled on tapping the side of his fist on Wesley's knee a few times, then flashing a jaunty smile as Wesley's eyes came up to meet his. "And don't worry, we'll figure out what was up with Angel, too."

Not so easily placated, Wesley studied him with cool skepticism for long moments before he relented, lips curving reluctantly. "Yes, I'm sure we will." He rose, stretching, and bent to gather the tube and other implements. When he straightened, he paused and gave Spike a quizzical look, shaking his head slightly.

"What?"

"Nothing." At Spike's impatient stare Wesley amended, "It strikes me sometimes - how different you and Angel are."

To that Spike only shrugged and smiled. But the comment stayed with him as Wesley left, suggesting as he did so that Spike sleep until sundown.

He considered it for a while, the ancient history, the recent past - and then, the possibilities of the present and future. As he drifted off, he thought comfortably: We're not so different, Angel and me.

Not anymore.

*

Spike slowly walked down the hallway, brow furrowed in concentration. He'd politely declined Wesley's offer of assistance, instead sending the man off with a request for fresh clothes; now, far wobblier on his pins than was acceptable, he questioned the wisdom of that refusal.

Get you a walker and a sponge bath, maybe, the demon sneered and he gritted his teeth in annoyance and renewed determination. He was okay, dammit, just needed to take it a bit slower than his usual quick swagger - see, didn't even need the handrail affixed to the wall as an aid to those lacking sea-legs. So long as he didn't go too fast. And he didn't need any help taking a shower, which he desperately needed after nearly two days in blood- and seawater-fouled clothes, thank you very much.

An irksome little tune ran through his mind as he went: " Put - one - foot in front of the other..." then he groaned as he recognized it. Bloody hell, that's from that sodding Christmas special Bit made me watch - the Santa Claus one - or was it the one with the Heat Miser -

"Spike."

Angel. Was awake.

Startled, Spike nearly stumbled and might have fallen if not for the convenient railing, which he gripped convulsively even as he cursed the infirmity that necessitated his use of it at all. Wouldn't do for Angel to see his weakness - didn't need any more guilt-fodder for brooding, did Angel - so he regained his balance fast as he could, released the railing (though he kept his hand just above it, hovering), and took measured, steady steps toward the open doorway of the chamber where Wesley and Sion had apparently taken Angel. Once there, he leaned against the jamb as casually as he could, then looked at his grandsire, stifling a gasp.

Fully dressed, hair stupidly artfully gelled to stand straight up, Angel sat in a wheelchair, staring at Spike with an utterly blank, inscrutable expression on his nearly-healed face. Spike winced at the wheelchair, the contraption evoking some rather unpleasant memories, and what he'd thought he might say went right out of his head.

Finally he managed this bit of eloquence: "Angel. Doin' all right?"

"Better," Angel answered tersely, his gaze sliding away. Spike waited a moment, then rolled his eyes in vexation. Stingy git. But his mood improved markedly when Angel added, even more tightly, "Thanks."

Which was all the thanks Spike was going to get, he knew. Still, he was inordinately pleased with it, and hard put to curb the thousand eager questions knocking at his lips. Most of which involved Angel's experience of the blood-link, what he had felt, whether it had differed from Spike's, and if so, how? And why -

"You know, you really ought to take a shower." Angel's wry observation cut through Spike's reverie; Spike blinked, then grinned, a much broader echo of Angel's thin-lipped smirk. He shoved himself upright and silently congratulated himself for not wobbling as he replied.

"Headed that way now. Pretty ripe, am I?"

"You could say that."

"Didn't exactly smell of roses yourself, Peaches," Spike snarked without thinking. His eyes flared wide as he realized what he'd said, and he bit his lip in consternation as Angel's smirk froze momentarily, then softened into a rueful little smile.

"I can imagine," he murmured, the mildness of his tone allowing Spike to relax a little, though he still cursed himself for insensitivity. He made a little conciliatory gesture as he shifted slightly, preparing to leave.

"Yeah, well. I'll just be off then." He paused to ask, "You gonna be all right here?"

"Fine. Go on. I'll see you later."

With a nod and an apologetic half-smile, Spike turned and continued down the hallway. Yeah. Later.

They'd talk then.


Chapter Nine

When the limousine slowed in front of the Hyperion, Spike pushed open the door and jumped out almost before the vehicle had completely stopped, idly pleased that his physical condition had improved to the point that he staggered only slightly as his boots met pavement, fighting momentum for balance. Truth be told, a few bumps and bruises would've been a small price to pay, to escape that, he thought with a heavy sigh of relief.

It should’ve been an enjoyable ride from the marina, he mused, admiring the limo as he waited rather impatiently for his companions to alight. Posh ride, it was - gleaming black exterior, butter-soft black leather upholstery and red carpet inside (Spike heartily approved the color scheme), first-rate Scotch in the mini-bar, and an amiable chauffeur who knew L.A. well enough to avoid the worst of the Friday evening traffic. Just one more of Virginia's many kindnesses they could never repay her for. The lady tycoon herself and her wizard consort were not present to see them home in person, having committed to a charity function that evening, and had sent their regrets along with the limo.

Yes, it should’ve been a good time, riding in a posh car like that, sampling the liquor and taking advantage of the state-of-the-art stereo system. Undoubtedly would have been, had his two companions dug the proverbial sticks out of their arses and attempted anything resembling fun, or even decent conversation, along the way.

Instead Spike had been subjected to nearly forty-five minutes of the most awkward silence he'd ever had the misfortune of experiencing. After stashing the coolbox in the boot, they three had settled into the limo and had very conspicuously spoken no more than a handful of words to each other, aside from Wesley reporting what had happened to Justine: He and Sion had escorted her from the boat earlier that afternoon and left her to her own devices, though Wesley speculated that Sion may have laid some sort of geas on her to prevent her from stirring up any more trouble. Which, considering how much trouble she already had caused, was damned magnanimous of them, in Spike's opinion; but she'd served their purposes, however grudgingly, in helping them find Angel, and there was no reason other than sheer meanness for holding her any longer.

After that, silence had reigned supreme inside the car, writhing between Angel and Wesley like a wounded snake. A big wounded snake. Anaconda-sized. Feeling very much in the middle, Spike had made a concerted effort to start a conversation, unsuccessfully, which only agitated him more. After all, it wasn't as if they had nothing to talk about - if anything, they might have too much, but neither of Spike's companions showed any inclination toward doing so. Throughout most of the ride Wesley sat upright with eyes closed, head tilted back against the yielding headrest, though Spike knew he wasn't asleep, not with the air stinging and roiling with so many unresolved hostilities and regrets. For his part, Angel stared moodily out the window as the sights of L.A. slipped quietly by, not actually registering any of it.

Meanwhile Spike was on tenterhooks, all but fidgeting with annoyed impatience; he wanted, desperately, to begin the much-anticipated conversation with Angel, so they could get it over with and move on, but was discouraged from it by his grandsire's marked avoidance of him. Since they'd helped Angel from the boat - he'd insisted on walking rather than using the wheelchair, a choice Spike heartily concurred with - and seen him safely into the limo, he'd barely even glanced at Spike, much less spoken to him. Spike felt the snub, was frustrated and hurt by it, like a child trying to explain mitigating circumstances to a parent who refused to listen.

Bloke's got a lot on his mind, he excused (rather generously, he thought). Gotta take his kid to the woodshed, an' no one likes doing that, no matter how deserved it is. He’d been a reluctant and mostly ineffectual disciplinarian with Dawn the previous summer, just no damn good at it whatsoever as he was constitutionally unable to dish out more than nominal punishments for even the most outrightly stupid and/or careless behavior. Like the afternoon she went off alone to visit Buffy's secluded grave, only to get caught in a thunderstorm that didn't end until well after nightfall. God, how worried they'd all been! Throughout his frantic scouring of Sunnydale Spike had considered various torments as retribution for his terror and fury, had even contemplated breaking her ankle so she couldn't run off again, and to hell with the chip. Yet when he'd found her, huddled in a ball in a crypt (fortunately one with only its intended tenant in residence), one look at her trembling lip and red-rimmed blue eyes had driven all thoughts of chastisement from his head. Shaking with sheer relief, he'd snatched her up and cradled her against his chest, groaning epithets into her damp, tangled hair as she clung to him, sobbing.

But as Angel emerged from the limousine, jaw set in a way he recognized all too well, Spike doubted his grandsire would have similar difficulty doling out punishment to his wayward son. Spike considered telling Angel that Connor had been as equally deceived as deceiving, if not more so, but decided to stay out of it. Not his business, really, nor his place.

All the same, Spike gave a little shiver as he moved to Angel's side, pulling Angel's arm around his shoulders. Wesley took his place opposite, and together the three slowly walked across the courtyard to the front door.

Two young faces, one black, one white, looked up at their entrance, jaws dropping simultaneously as Wesley said coolly, "I believe you've been looking for this."

"Angel!"

*

"So - uh, Spike. You and Angel are - family?"

Pushing open the kitchen door for her, Spike turned what he hoped was his most reassuring smile on the slender girl beside him; her pretty wind-and-sunny-wheatfields scent, that he recognized from his earlier visit, meshed well with the Texas twang in her voice, though he knew better than to mention that. If her wide brown eyes were anything to judge by, the girl was apprehensive enough without him going on about knowing her scent.

"Yeah. He's my grandsire, bein' as how he sired Drusilla, who sired me -"

At the wordless, disgusted sound from behind them, Spike glanced back at the robust young black man who had carried the coolbox from the lobby. Along the way Gunn's angry obsidian gaze made the space between Spike's shoulderblades itch, as if the man had mentally launched countless stakes aimed at just that spot and fantasized about explosions of dust.

"Charles," Fred pleaded softly, turning an apologetic smile on Spike when Gunn shrugged and looked away. "He really doesn't like vampires. Well, except for Angel, of course."

"I'm not all that fond of him, either," Gunn declared, startling Spike. "I just wanna dust as many of 'em as I can, and I'll take any help I can get doin' it." With a thud he set the coolbox down on one of the galley tables lining the room, his hostile gaze never leaving Spike. "And ain't nothing fights harder against a wolf than a half-wolf."

"Got that one on good authority." Spike assayed a tentative grin to which, unsurprisingly, Gunn didn't respond. "Seein’ as‘ve been a half-wolf myself the past few years."

A moment of astonished silence, broken by Fred's puzzled, "Excuse me?" that was overlapped by Gunn's louder, "What, you got a soul, too?"

"Well - yeah, I do now. Just got that about a month ago, though. I was talkin' about my - chip -" Spike's voice died as the light bulb suddenly went on.

Bloody hell. The chip.

Didn't fire when I was fighting Justine, forcing her into that chair. Or when I pushed Wesley - was too weak to hurt him, but I didn't know that then, or care. Just wanted him to move away.

Had it stopped working? How? The taser charge? The feeding?

Did he really care how, if it was good as gone?

So many thoughts and feelings rushing through his bewildered mind, he couldn't possibly sort through them. Nor did he have time to, he realized, aware of twin incredulous gazes fixed on him.

"Spike? Are you all right?"

"What's a chip?"

"Behavior-modification chip," Spike recited rather woodenly, still a little dazed by the idea that, all unknowing, he might have been chip-free for the past week, and would be, f