Title: Miles To Go
Author: Rachel Anton
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Summary: Two souled vampires with a long way to go.
Spoilers: Through Grave and Tomorrow
Disclaimer: If they were mine they'd be on the same show, dammit.
Thanks: To Laura for helping me put this together, and to Cynthia and Donna
M. for outstanding beta reading. And to all three of you ladies for much
needed encouragement.
Notes: Well, I've pretty much been Jossed to hell with this one, but try to
imagine it happening between Grave and Lessons, maybe before Spike *completely* lost it.
xxxxxx
There are one hundred and forty-six miles between Sunnydale and Los Angeles,
and on the way Spike thinks of one hundred and forty-six reasons he shouldn't
be doing this. There are more, of course, but he figures there's a nicer
symmetry to it if he stops at that number.
Once he reaches the city limits, he starts trying to remember why he thought
it was a good idea.
There's the bike. He still loves riding the bike, after everything. Nothing
like a good, long drive through the night, just him and a whirring hunk of
metal between his legs, the road and the wind. Stupid bleeding soul can't
change the way that feels.
So, there's that.
Also, Los Angeles isn't Sunnydale, and anyplace that's not Sunnydale is
better than anyplace that is Sunnydale. Least as far as he's concerned. Least
for right now.
He tried, but there were lights on in every room at Buffy's house, and he
knew- just knew- that Clem was in the crypt, with junk food and beer, waiting
for Spike to come home so he could shower him with friendship and good cheer,
and it was all a little bit too much. He couldn't stay. Isn't even sure, now,
why he went back at all.
And there's the satisfaction- has to be at least a little in seeing the
bastard's face when he realizes. It'll make this whole fucking nightmare
slightly bearable. For a minute, maybe. That constitutes a reason.
He's never been to the hotel, but as luck would have it, when he stops to
look up Angel Investigations in the yellow pages he finds a flyer for the
damn place on the windshield of a seemingly abandoned car. He takes it as a
sign. Good or bad, he doesn't know, but quite impossible to ignore. There's
even a bloody map on the back.
It takes him forty-five minutes to get there, through the insane tangle of LA
roads and traffic, and he thinks of forty-five more reasons he should just go
back to Sunnydale. Or somewhere else. Anywhere else.
But by the time he's convinced himself to turn around, he's pulling up in
front of the hotel and it seems too late.
There's no one in the lobby, which seems like bad business sense considering
the whole help the helpless slogan. The helpless usually have insomnia.
Spike saunters up to the front desk and pounds on the bell irritably. A
skittish looking woman hurries out of a back room. She's wearing glasses and
her mouth is full of food. Spike hates her on sight, but doesn't really know
why.
She's holding a napkin, and she brings it up to cover her mouth and asks
around her snack, "Can I help you?"
"Need to see Angel," he says, surprised at the vehemence in his own voice. He
hasn't heard himself speak in...days? Has it been days or weeks? Doesn't
matter.
The girl swallows and shakes her head. "Sorry," she says, smiling faintly,
looking sorry in that way people have when they're really not but feel like
maybe they should be. "I think he's sleeping. I'm sure if you come back
during normal business hours..."
"Normal business hours? Don't you people fight creatures of the night and
whatnot?"
She shrugs and nods and keeps up with the stupid smile. Spike thinks if this
were all happening three, maybe four years ago, the stupid bint would be dead
by now. It makes him feel crazy, thinking that, and he hates her even more.
"Well, it's night!" he says, slow burning hysteria creeping into his throat.
"It's night, and I'm a creature, and I need to see Angel right bloody now!"
She starts backing away from him, but still- still!- smiles at him politely.
"I...I'll just...call him." She ducks behind the counter and starts fiddling
with the telephone. Spike walks a circle around the lobby, trying to burn off
the nervous energy that never seems to go away now. He hears snippets of
conversation- "Someone here to see you...He won't leave...think he might need
help...Charles isn't here..."- and eventually it becomes too annoying to
tolerate. He walks behind the counter and pries the receiver out of her
spidery fingers.
"Getting little girls to do your dirty work now?" he growls into the phone.
"Not very heroic, mate."
There's an "oh shit" on the other end, and a dull thud as the telephone hits
the floor. Then Angel's flying down the stairs, stake in hand, yelling at the
woman- who is apparently named Fred, of all things- to get out, run away. Run
away from the scary vampire. He's so predictable, Spike has to laugh.
And it's funny, too, because really, Angel himself could do far more damage
to the girl than Spike could manage at this point. But Angel doesn't know
that. There's a lot that Angel doesn't know.
Once he's got the damsel in distress shooed up the stairs, out of the way,
Angel puts on his menacing face and points the tip of the stake in the
direction of Spike's chest.
"You've got ten seconds to get out of here," he says, and starts counting
down. "Ten...nine..."
It's all very amusing to Spike- the posturing, pretending he could actually
do it, thinking Spike would fight it in the first place.
"That's not very friendly," he says, and Angel continues to count and circle.
"Here I thought we could catch up, spend some time, discuss our common
interests."
Angel stops at five, and looks him up and down, scathingly. "I've got no
interest in you. And I don't have the time. Or patience."
Spike looks back, and notices how rough around the edges Angel seems to be.
Skinny and paler than usual. Not that Spike's in top form himself these days.
It hits him how long it's been since they've even spoken, how much has
changed since then and how much of it he wishes he could change back.
"What about Buffy?" he asks. "Interested in her?"
He expects Angel's hackles to rise immediately, waits to see his muscles
twitch and his jaw clench, but there's nothing. In fact, if anything, he
seems to deflate. The stake hand lowers and his battle posture slackens.
"I'm really not in the mood, Spike. Just spit out whatever you've gotta say
so I can go to sleep."
He presses on, trying to ignore Angel's boredom.
"I can see why you were so smitten with her. She's quite a wildcat in bed.
Not that we made it to the bed very often, but I'm sure you know what I mean."
It makes his stomach churn, saying the words, but that's good. That's a part
of it.
Angel shakes his head and laughs through his nose. Like it's a bad joke. Like
it's all so absurdly impossible to believe that it doesn't even warrant a
glare.
"This is what you came for, Spike? I'm going to bed."
He drops the stake on the counter, dismissing Spike as even the mildest of
threats, and starts walking back up the stairs.
"So, that's it? Not at all concerned? My, how the bloom of love has wilted."
"Why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth? You're a liar,
and a bad one."
"What, you want proof? You want me to tell you about the scar under her left
tit, or the noises she makes when she comes? Though I s'pose you might not
know about those... maybe you should call her, see what she has to say about
the matter."
God, he hopes it doesn't come to that. He'd have to stop it, if the wanker
actually tried to call her. That's a nightmare he'd rather not live.
Angel's stopped on the stairs, and his back is a little stiff, which has to
be a good sign.
"I want you to tell me what you want so I can get you the hell out of here,"
he says. "Is it money? Weapons? I don't have your stupid ring anymore."
"I want you to turn around so I can see your face when you realize you're not
so fucking special anymore."
And he does turn around, making Spike regret the request, because that
withering look of pity is most certainly not what he came here for. It must
be in his voice. He hates his voice, the way it wavers and chokes on words-
makes him sound like an eight-year-old having a temper.
He swallows and musters his pride, then continues.
"Yeah, that's right, poor little Soul Boy with his wretched curse and his
pansy mission to help the helpless. Well, you're not the only one who can
fuck a Slayer, and you're not the only one with a soul now either."
Angel stares at him, confusion and a little bit of curiosity finally creeping
into his expression. He comes back down to the lobby to get a closer look.
Spike can tell that he sees it now, that he knows it's the truth. Maybe not
the Buffy bit, but he can see the soul. Or smell the reek of it, now that
he's paying attention.
"Course, hasn't turned me into a bleeding arse-bandit, but I s'pose you were
always that, weren't you."
He thought he knew how to do this, but things have changed more than he
realized, and he's just pushing buttons at random now, waiting for the prize
to pop out. It seems to go right over Angel's head.
"How?" he asks, still more curious than angry.
"They're practically giving them away down in Africa. And no pesky castration
clause. You oughtta see about getting an exchange."
He's closer now- close enough for the smell of him to hit the back of Spike's
throat, bringing back the sweet tang of a need he hasn't felt in years.
Decades, even. Or maybe he has. Maybe he just found another owner, one who
could do the same things, make it right.
"You didn't really....with her..." Angel flounders. He believes. It doesn't
matter.
"You wanna see the scars?"
Angel doesn't say what they both know. He can already see them. Everywhere.
Spike thinks he must be a walking, festering wound. The stupid soul's only
made it worse, harder to hide.
"So that's what you came to tell me? That you're, what, her boyfriend? Feel
like a big man now?"
"Oh, I'm not her boyfriend. She broke it off."
Never her boyfriend. Not even close, but he doesn't have to know that.
"So you got yourself a soul and she still dumped you?"
"She doesn't know about the soul yet." And if he has anything to do with it,
she never ever will. There's just no purpose, no fucking excuse for causing
her any more pain.
He steps a little closer and Spike feels his eyes, raking like pinpricks
across his flesh. Angel's lips curl into a smirk that's one part mockery, one
part disgust, and one more part...something. One part that...yes.
"Wanted to tell Daddy first?" he asks, voice low and vibrating through the
pit inside of Spike's gut. This was such a terrible idea.
"Just didn't think it would matter much to her, given how we left things."
Spike tries to get another image in his mind, a different thought that's far
away from cold porcelain and horrible screaming and his wretched, sinful
hands. This is the money shot- it's the best he's got, and it won't work if
he's actually thinking about it, if he lets himself shake or cry.
"And how was that?" Angel asks.
"Well, like I said, she broke it off, but you know old Spike. Can't take no
for an answer."
Dogs are nice. He had a dog once, when he was human. It was white with brown
spots.
"You know how some girls are. Just don't know how to appreciate a good time.
Had to get rough with her there at the end, show her what's what."
They had a cat, too, when he was very young. Orange. Stupid thing bit him,
right through the fleshy area between his thumb and forefinger. Hurt like a
mother.
"You're disgusting," Angel is telling him, but there's not enough conviction
behind it, not enough of...that. Maybe it's because Angel taught Spike
everything he knows about disgusting, and good times, and maybe somewhere, in
places he doesn't let himself go anymore, he knows that everything Spike
does, he does with a small part of Angel inside of him. Or maybe he just
doesn't care anymore. "And pathetic," he adds. "It's no wonder she dumped
you."
"Took her an awfully long time, though. Think she was sort of enjoying
wallowing in the muck with me. Certainly was good at it."
"What do you want me to do?" Angel asks. "Do you want me to do this?"
And then it's there- God, it's finally there- his fist knocking into Spike's
nose, sending him hurling back against the wall, then sinking to his knees.
It's sweet, but it isn't real. There's no feeling in it. Angel's just making
an intellectual point. Wanker.
Spike wipes at the blood trickling out of his nose, and hopes his eyes aren't
too pleading when he says, "It's a start."
Angel regards him from across the lobby with marked disgust. "Get out of
here, Spike. I don't have the energy for this."
Bored again. Spike doesn't understand it. Was he not making himself clear?
Maybe he should just spell it out. I tried to rape your ex-girlfriend, you
stupid git. The love of your life, remember her? Don't you fucking care? But
he can't bring himself to say the words, knows that if he does he will start
crying and it'll all be over.
"I'm not your sire anymore," Angel says. "And I don't want to be."
And, fuck him, the bastard's found a new way to torture Spike. But that's
good too. In a way, it's all just perfect. If he has to beg for it, the whole
thing is just that much more humiliating.
"You're a useless old man," he spits, sounding angrier, more hurt than he
intended or expected. What could be so great in bastard's life, anyway? What
could he have that's better, living in this moldy old hotel, wandering
through hundreds of empty rooms, jerking off to memories of past fucks? Is
Spike really such a pathetic alternative? He probably tells himself he's
above it now, but Spike knows he's not. He knows now, for himself, more than
he ever wanted to know.
"I'm useless? Tell me, Spike, what have you done lately to help the world?
Look at you. What the hell are you doing?"
"Don't hand me that high and mighty bullshit," Spike growls. He's still on
the floor. Still on his knees. "You think you're doin' all your good works
for anyone but yourself, you're an even bigger fool than I thought."
"Maybe it started that way. Maybe it was a way of dealing with the guilt, but
now..."
"Now what? What good does it do? Don't matter how many you save now. The
other ones are still gonna be dead."
Spike wonders, though. If he could save one, just one, just...because, how
would that feel? What would that be like? He doesn't think it would stop the
voices in his head, the screaming. Wouldn't stop that tosser William from
blithering around his brain, making him weep at every war photograph in the
papers, every child he sees on the street.
"You think I don't know that?" Angel asks him. "You think you know more than
I do about all this? How long have you had your soul, ten minutes?"
"What's to know? S'not a bleeding skill."
"You know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about moving on, coping, doing
something useful with yourself."
"Yeah, well, it's not as difficult as you make it out to be." Spike realizes
how ridiculous he must look, kneeling next to a tiny pool of blood from his
nose that won't stop fucking bleeding, begging with his eyes for another
blow, talking about how adept he is at moving on, coping, doing something
useful. He stands up, brushing himself off at the knees.
Angel laughs. Wanker.
"It's not, huh?"
"No," Spike says, as emphatically as he can manage. He moves closer to Angel,
attempts a swagger but barely manages a limp. "I'm doing just fine. Maybe
you're just a pussy."
"Yeah, maybe I am. So did you want me to hit you again now?"
Wank. Er. Spike feels the familiar loathing washing over him like a warm,
comforting blanket. Yes, the feeling is the same, but Angel is different.
This mockery is of a wholly new breed.
"Just tell me," Angel says, and his voice is soft and even and oh-so
rational, and maybe it isn't a joke. Maybe there is some vague sense of duty
or even compassion in this new, not-so-improved Angel. "Just tell me and I'll
do it. Just say it."
God, how Spike hates him. Hates his perfect, clean shirt and his stupid hair
and his full, healthy body. Hates him for being able to take this, or leave
it, and not feel a thing.
"Yes," Spike whispers, and he can't even look at Angel's face anymore. Can't
look at anything but his shoes, and he hates those too.
But he senses Angel rearing his fist back, hears his intake of breath as he
prepares for the beating, and then it all just...stops. He looks up again,
and Angel's stance is relaxed now, hands hanging limply, uselessly at his
sides.
"Nah," he says. Nah. "Not worth bruising my hand."
And Spike realizes that Angel's actually enjoying this. The worthless piece
of shit is taking some perverse pleasure in this spectacle, this torment, and
once he realizes, he wonders why he didn't expect that. Those Watchers and
Slayers and Scoobies can tell themselves and each other whatever they want,
but he knows the truth now. He knows that Angel's pleasures aren't as far
from the dark heart of Angelus as they would all like to believe.
Then, as a final insult, Angel begins ascending the staircase and makes a
vague gesture with his hand that could be a dismissal or a beckon. And it's
up to Spike to guess which, or ignore it entirely.
He follows, his head bowed like a pathetic, recently scolded puppy. Angel
stops when Spike is just two steps behind him. He looks over his shoulder.
"What are you doing? This isn't a hotel. Go home."
Spike feels like screaming, he feels like ripping Angel's lungs out right
here, right now, letting him live without them for as long as it takes to
give back just a little of this misery. And that's...well, it's what he came
here for, isn't it?
It isn't until he's halfway back to his bike, lighting up a smoke, that Spike
realizes yes, yes it is a hotel. And who the hell does Angel think he is,
dismissing him like that, like some unwanted stray cat who wandered through
the window? What gives him the right- the bloody gall!- to pretend he has no
responsibility, no accountability? Why does his soul give him the ability to
pick and choose the things he's sorry for, the things he's willing to deal
with and the things he can just let go, like they mean nothing?
It isn't fair. It isn't right, and Spike isn't willing to let it go.