Los Angeles, California, August 5, 2004
The meeting took place at an old, abandoned farm just north of LA. Buffy, Giles, and Faith with a contingent of slayers faced off against two vampires and an Old One. They stood a few feet apart, but by the tension in the room that small distance might as well have been the Grand Canyon.
“So you want us to give you and your group safe passage to Las Vegas?” Buffy repeated Angel’s request.
“Las Vegas was never taken over by Wolfram & Hart,” Spike jumped into the discussion, as he tried to catch Buffy’s eye, but she was too busy staring hostilely at Angel and Illyria. “I guess they figured that old Sin City was too much of an icon to destroy.”
“As I’ve already said, you,” Buffy directly addressed Angel, “and Spike are free to go wherever, but as far as. . . .” She turned her glare back at the Old One. “Others go, no deal. I will not be granting safe passage for any of them.”
“Oh come on, luv!” Spike finally got Buffy to look his way but then was immediately sorry. The look she gave him was not the friendly, grateful Buffy of two weeks ago, but one of pure enmity. Sighing, he wondered if he had made the right choice by throwing his lot in with Angel and Illyria. “Demons aren’t prone to violence and mayhem in Vegas, too busy enjoying the sinful nigh. . . .” He stopped his speech, as suddenly a hanged corpse appeared swinging from the barn’s rafters. “Right then,” he said, staring upward. “Who invited the ghost?”
Turning his head to glance at Buffy and company, all he received was blank stares. “Oh come on!” Spike waved a hand in the direction of the corpse. “Don’t you see it?”
“I came here because I owe the both of you,” Buffy said through gritted teeth, as she glared first at Spike and then at Angel. “There are hundreds of cities I have to save, so I don’t appreciate having my time wasted. . .Spike. And you. . . .” She turned her anger at Angel. “I may have a soft spot for. . . .” She gestured at Spike. “Him. But don’t think you can wheedle things out of me by using the Spike-is-pathetic-card.” Turning to her colleagues, she motioned for them that it was time to leave.
“Buffy!” Spike began, as he took a step toward her but was roughly grabbed and held back by Angel. “Buffy, I’m not winding you up. I really see a corpse. . . .” He turned his head and looked up, but as suddenly as it appeared, it now had disappeared.”
Led by Buffy, the slayers filed out of the barn with only Faith pausing to say something.
“Smoking a lot of wacky weed, or are you drinking too many bottles of Benadryl again?” Passing Spike, she gave his arm a playful punch while heading toward the exit.
Releasing his grip, Angel said nothing; a death scowl said it all, as he too turned to make his way out of the barn.
“People, I’m telling you, there was a. . .a,” Spike called out after them. No one listened, so he finished his thought with a mutter to himself. “Sodding corpse.”
**
August 6, 2004
The intruder made no sound and had no scent, but still, a slight displacement of the air alerted Spike. Balling up his fists, his body readied itself to strike. Cracking open an eye, the figure that stood beside his bed was a familiar one, a smartly dressed business woman with a large shard of glass stuck in her left eye-socket.
“Bloody hell!” Spike reared up and out of the bed. “You again?” he said as he backed away. “I swear I saw the end of you spooks last year at Evil Incorp. . . .” He broke off as the sudden realization of who was responsible for yesterday’s dead corpse vision hit him. “Pavayne! Bloody trotter is back.”
Scrambling backward, Spike grabbed his jeans up off the floor and headed for the door. “Angel!” he shouted, as he pulled his pants on while simultaneously hopping down the hallway. “Angel!”
“Bloody deaf old man,” Spike muttered to himself, as he finally managed to pull his jeans on. “So much for his superior vampiric hearing. Angel!” he yelled again at the top of his lungs.
“Spike.” A voice floated up to him from the ground floor. “I’m downstairs. Quit waking up the neighbors with your bellowing.”
“I just saw another spook,” Spike called down over the mezzanine’s railing. “This one I recognize. It’s one of Pavayne’s minions. He’s back and has taken to haunting me again. And you. . . .” He looked directly down at Angel. “Need to do something about it.”
“I already have.” There was weariness in Angel’s voice. It was well past daybreak, and he had been up all night.
Running to the stairs, Spike slid down the staircase banister landing gracefully feet first. “So what did you do?”
“It occurred to me last night that Wolfram & Hart might have unleashed Pavayne again, so I sent Illyria. . . .” He glanced briefly over at the Old One, who was watching them silently. “To investigate.”
“And?” Spike prompted, as Angel stopped his explanation to sit down tiredly in a nearby chair.
“His restraining cell was empty,” Illyria answered, cocking her head, while staring at Spike. Interesting odors of fear, puzzlement, and excitement were rolling off him in waves.
“See!” Spike’s voice became higher. “I did see a corpse yesterday, and you wankers didn’t believe me.”
“I then contacted Buffy. We met again. . .this time just the two of us.” Angel resisted the urge to plug his ears because he knew that particular piece of information would be sure to elicit a loud, agitated response. He wasn’t disappointed.
“How bloody great for you!” Spike began to nervously pace back and forth. “I’ve got a bloody, bad ghost on my arse, and all you do is use me as an excuse to contact Buffy. I knew the old we-went-out-separate-ways-and-time-changes-everything speech was a just your usual blather.”
“Spike, I. . . .” Angel began to explain.
“And do you think thee Immortal Ponce is just going to idly stand by and watch you try to reconcile with her?” Spike scoffed, remembering the various run-ins they had with the immortal demon. He had always got the best of them.
“The meeting was not personal.” Angel finally got a word in. “I asked Buffy to take you in protective custody. You need to get out of LA.”
“Oh, so that’s your solution?” Spike was still extremely agitated. “Ship me off to the humans, and wash your hands of me. Bloody Ponchus Pilate!”
“Pontius Pilate,” Angel automatically corrected. “And it’s a perfect solution. It gets you out of LA and away from Pavayne, and who better to protect you than an army of slayers.”
“Because they’re not responsible for my protection, YOU ARE!” The decibel level in Spike’s voice rose again.
If the situation hadn’t been so serious, the look on Angel’s face would have been comical. He had no idea where Spike was coming from. Since when did Spike consider himself to be Angel’s responsibility?
“Spike,” Angel began, tone placatory.
“You’re not going to just walk away, or should I say, run away like you did back in Romania, An-gel-us.” Spike now spoke in a calmer tone, but his words showed he was still dead serious.
The room became perfectly still with only the sound of a ticking clock.
“Illyria.” It was Angel, who broke the silence. “Find a messenger among the minions; someone. . . .” He glanced over at the sunlit front doors. “Who can go out during the daylight, and send him to that abandoned farmhouse. I believe Faith and a few other slayers will be there by sunset waiting for Spike. Have him tell them that Spike won’t be coming.”
Illyria nodded in acknowledgement, but as she turned to leave, Angel had one more directive.
“Do you know of any demons here in LA that are skilled in dealing with spirits?”
“The Phasmatic Clan deals with the spirit world,” Illyria answered immediately.
“Good.” Angel stood up slowly. “This afternoon why don’t you approach them and begin negotiating for their services. And you.” He turned to Spike. “Go get all your belongings and move them into my room.”
“I’m not. . . .” Spike immediately began to protest, but Angel cut him off.
“If you want me to protect you from Pavayne, then you have to be with me. . .at all times.”
**
Two hours of playing video games with only having his character die had Spike throwing down the game controller with disgust. He was careful to murmur quietly, “bloody hell,” since Angel was sleeping a few feet from him.
Staring at a now blank television screen, Spike folded his arms around himself and slouched down in the chair, thinking hard. He had always been one to follow his heart, his emotions, and not his head. But he also would be the first to admit that following his emotions hadn’t always worked out for the best in numerous situations. And now? Shifting around, he knew that he was putting himself, Angel, and Illyria at risk for not following the simple plan: leave LA and put himself under the protection of Buffy and her army, but his heart didn’t want to leave LA.
“If you’re done playing your games, why don’t you come to bed?”
Turning his head, Spike stared into the open eyes of Angel. “Thought you were sleeping.”
“I can’t sleep when you’re playing that thing.” Rolling over on his back, Angel stared at the ceiling, folding his hands over his chest.
“The sound is turned off.” Spike immediately became defensive. “So how could it be bothering you, especially when you’re going deaf anyway?”
“The light from the television flickers. I can see it even with my eyes closed.”
Heaving a sigh, Spike stood up to shut the TV off; he couldn’t find the remote at the moment. “Better now, Mr. Sensitive?”
“Yes, now take off your clothes.”
Spike scowled with surprise. “You want my clothes off? Been dying to see me starkers, have you? Wot?” he asked, as he pulled his tee shirt over his head. “Is your fee for protecting me, my bum?”
Rubbing his tired eyes, Angel wondered how long he was going to be able to stand having Spike near him before he snapped and strangled him . “I’m not going to touch you, but if you’re going to sleep in my bed, you’re going to do it without your filthy clothes.”
“My clothes are not filthy,” Spike automatically argued back, as he stripped off his pants and socks and launched himself on the bed. Yanking up the covers hard, he bounced his way under them. Sighing, Angel waited for the bed to stop shaking.
“There, happy now? No clothes,” Spike said as he lifted the covers again, so Angel could get a clear view of his naked form. “And are you sure you don’t want to be taking advantage of me?”
“Is that an invitation?” Angel asked with surprise, as his cock twitched. War, death, and destruction had their effects, bringing out the base emotions and the need for sexual release.
“Yes-no. . .I. . . .” Spike spoke swiftly, unsure of what exactly he wanted to say. “If that’s what it takes for you to allow me to stay here in LA.”
“What!” Spike’s statement had Angel sitting straight up. Unexplained anger replaced all thought of any kind of sexual encounter. “Since when do you feel the need to bribe me with sexual favors, boy?” he growled out.
“Since the nonce, Pavayne returned, and I really should leave LA and put myself in protective custody of the slayers!” Now Spike was sitting up. “It’s the right thing to do, you know.”
“And I already told you that you can stay here with me,” Angel reiterated, still puzzled by Spike’s seemingly insecurity.
“And we’re both sodding idiots. I should leave. You know it. I know it, and probably that bloody cow Illyria knows it too.”
Pausing a moment, the two vampires stared at each other, before Angel’s mouth curved in a slight smile. “If memory serves me, this isn’t the first time we’ve been idiots, and it isn’t the first time we’ve stood together for a cause that was foolishly insane.”
“I’m just another bloody headache for you now with Pavayne after me.” Spike stated quietly. “You don’t need this when the slayers are threatening to attack, and the Belletors, the Hajas, the. . . .”
“You fought by my side, when hell was unleashed, and now I’ll remain by yours.” Lying back, down, Angel turned over on his side, eyes closing. “Stay here with me. . .William. I promise to keep you safe.”
Spike settled back down in the bed, arms hugging himself. “The problem is Liam,” he whispered to himself. “Is why do I feel so compelled to stay here with you?”
****
Finis