![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Automated Utopia
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fenderlove
Rating: This chapter is rated PG-13 though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
If you would like to watch the musical act Fred and Spike see during this chapter, please view this YouTube video of Abney Park performing their song "Sleep Isabella."
Pairings: Spike/Fred, Spike/Angel.
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Automated Utopia :: Chapter Six.
The sound of twangling bells roused the entire Angel Investigations staff promptly at noon. Fred had installed the small clocks throughout the house at Angel's insistence that they function with the rest of the world at a relatively decent hour. With the strange hours of operation that they kept in investigating otherworldly criminals, everyone except Angel would have preferred to sleep quite later in the day.
Spike groaned as the clock outside his room began clanging its bells. He pulled one of his pillows over his head in a feeble attempt to stifle the noise. His neck was still aching from the previous night, a fact which was not helped by the amount of port he had consumed afterwards. Spike absently wondered if Fred was suffering from the muzzy feeling associated with consuming slightly too much liquor. Not remembering Fred leaving his room, Spike quickly sat up in bed, the blankets covering him falling away. He was dressed only in a pair of drawers, which disturbed him greatly since he had not being wearing any under his trousers the night before. Fred lay next to him on her side, clad only in his well-worn blue shirt. Her clothing, including her corset, was draped over the chair at his desk. Spike's mind reeled, and he felt flushed; he definitely did not remember anything untoward happening before he fell asleep. He could barely tear his gaze away from her long, pale legs sticking out from beneath his blue dress shirt. His fingers itched to run along that creamy, smooth skin.
Pulling himself together and giving her shoulder a gentle shake, he whispered, "Fred, love?"
Waking up slowly, Fred lifted her head from the pillow, her curls falling cutely into her face. "Hmm?" she murmured, blinking several times and yawning.
"It's noon, and I really don't remember getting undressed or even you getting undressed-" he rambled a bit, obviously flustered, raking his hand through his wavy blonde hair.
Fred smiled, giving a playful tug on the waist of his underclothes, "Well, you feel asleep with your trousers still on, so I thought you'd be more comfortable like this."
"You undressed me?" he said, sounding scandalized.
"Don't worry, I averted my eyes," she laughed followed by another yawn.
Overcoming his initial shock, Spike felt nearly liberated by her frankness and joviality. He laid back down and wrapped his arm around her slender waist. He smirked, "And I see that you commandeered my only dress shirt."
Fred kissed the tip of his nose and replied, "It was the only thing I could find that I was sure did not have blood on it."
"My domestic skills are quite lacking," Spike said, pulling her closer to him.
"I don't think that you're completely lacking," she responded, cupping the side of his face, running her thumb along his cheekbone. "You've managed to do quite a bit with your room. You just need to reform your laundry habits."
Spike grinned wickedly, "Are you going to reform me, Miss Fred?"
"I believe I can handle such a challenge," she answered, pulling him into a kiss. Their lips pressed together, his hand threading gently through her hair before stroking down her back and then her thigh.
When they broke for a breath, Spike quirked an eyebrow, "I have to warn you that I am extremely stubborn and slow to learn. You might have to punish me."
"Now that," Fred said as she nuzzled him, her forehead pressed to his, "would be my pleasure." Her hand snaked over his waist before landing a playful smack to his backside.
Spike growled softly, rolling Fred onto her back, "Is that so, love?"
Fred's response was to give him another spank. He leaned down to kiss and playfully nip at her neck and jawline.
"But I don't think I will reform you too much," she giggled, stroking his blonde curls.
The bustling footfalls that could be heard from the floor above interrupted their cheerful repartee.
Knowing that they would soon be missed if they did not dress and head up, Fred said softly, "Perhaps, if you were feeling so inclined, we could pick this up after our evening at your club."
"I think we could definitely negotiate something," Spike replied, giving her one last kiss.
They dressed quickly. Helping her draw her laces while she washed her face, Spike pondered if anyone would notice that she was wearing the same clothes as the previous night. Fred did not express any worry about it and continued putting up her hair. Once they were suitably presentable, they went up to the dining room where everyone was already seated.
When they entered the dining room, they were greeted with the sights and smells of a feast fit for the Queen. Lorne had cooked a lavish brunch as was his custom. Cooking and cleaning responsibilities often rotated amongst the residents as housekeepers, butlers, and cooks rarely stayed employed longer than two weeks. Those that did not immediately flee at the sight of the green-skinned demon that lived on the ground floor quit soon after seeing the various supernatural fluids that wound up in the laundry bin or the glass jars of blood in the icebox. Even with six members in the household, daily chores could be cumbersome if everyone did not do their part. Lorne was definitely the most adept at cooking, and while they held the days in which Angel was in the kitchen with strained smiles and forced compliments for burned puddings and toast, they adored the culinary miracles that Lorne managed to whip up.
Spike and Fred discretely sat down at the round dining table. Gunn and Wesley were tucking into their brunch while Angel was reading the morning edition of the Times. Lorne was attempting to feed Norman, who was definitely wearing more food than he was eating. Somehow Lorne had managed to dress Norman, making the demon look like a bald grey-skinned toddler.
Lorne passed Spike the warmed decanter of blood with a small smile, "You two are up late."
Angel looked up from his periodical at the pair. Noticing that Fred was wearing the same clothes as the night before, he said casually, "Fred, you really shouldn't stay up all night in the workroom. It can't be good for your lungs to stay down there with the boiler and all that smoke."
"I wasn't in the basement," Fred replied with a shrug, buttering a crumpet, "I spent the night in Spike's room."
There was a small clattering as Wesley choked on his tea and hastily sat the cup down a little too hard, and then there was an awkward silence. Gunn looked rather nonplussed and continued to eat his meal while Wesley paled, recovering from his shock, though he said nothing. Spike stopped mid-drink waiting for someone to say something, throwing a careful glance to Angel who was sitting eerily still with his paper. Fred continued quietly eating her crumpet before asking Spike to pass her the teapot.
"I think we might have to invest in decorating a nursery now that there's a possibility of curly-haired vamplings," Lorne remarked good-naturedly, watching as Norman devoured four scones in under a minute.
Spike gave a little chuckle, "Vamplings? Even if it were possible for me to procreate, I don't think I would call my offspring 'vamplings,' really."
"What about 'Spikelets?'" Fred laughed. "And 'Spikettes' for the girls."
Spike gave a slightly bemused expression, "How many do you want? A litter?"
"That's enough," Angel said coldly, folding up his paper and setting it on the table.
"Oh, I'm only teasing," Fred replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "It's not as though everyone here isn't well acquainted with everyone else's romantic life."
"Or lack thereof," Spike added giving a pointed glare at Angel.
"Can I have a word with you in the study, William?" Angel said, trying to keep his tone level.
Spike huffed annoyedly, "Fine, but let's make it quick. I don't want my brekkie to get cold."
Fred sighed discontentedly as the two vampires exited the dining room. She looked at the others at the table. Wesley pushed his plate away from himself and had an expression as though he might become sick on himself. Gunn had continued to pile food on his plate, seemingly in an attempt to distance himself from the conversation entirely.
"Don't worry," Lorne said, giving her hand a pat, "I'm sure Mr. Broody-britches is just in there warning Spike to not impune your honour."
"My honour should be none of his concern. I'd feel better if he worried less about my honour and more about my feelings on the matter," Fred replied, no longer feeling very hungry.
"And what," Wesley paused, and then ventured on, "are your feelings on the matter?"
Fred smiled softly, "Spike's going to take me to his club tonight, and I'm feeling that I'm going to have a wonderful time."
Gunn chuckled, knowingly, "Then you most likely will. You have excellent taste, I seem to recall."
"Thank you, Charles," she responded.
"I wasn't aware that Spike belonged to any club," Wesley said, somewhat concerned with what kind of club would have Spike as a member.
As the conversation in the dining room continued, Spike and Angel were having their own behind the closed doors of the study. When the heavy doors closed behind them, Spike was ready with a bevy of sharp tongued comments aimed at the older vampire.
"You can order me about and call me ignorant, Angel, but do not presume to think that Fred is incapable of intelligent thought by questioning her choices," Spike said in his tirade. "I'll have you know that nothing improper has occurred. However, Fred is a grown woman and far more intelligent than either of us. She's got the right to decide what is best for her, and she's agreed to dine with me tonight so don't you dare tell me to break that invitation."
"I wasn't going to," Angel said when Spike finally took a breath.
"And another thing-" Spike paused. "What did you say?"
Angel repeated himself and added, "I would not do Fred the disservice."
Spike frowned, "Then why did you ask me in here?"
"Do you love her?"
"I like her," Spike answered, his was a little taken aback by such a direct question from Angel. "I am happy when I'm around her, and I think that I could come to love her, hence the traditional courting ritual of taking a lady out to supper for conversation outside of work." Hoping to hedge around what had gotten Angel's dander up if it wasn't specifically his newfound closer attachment to Fred, he continued, "Are you worried I might hurt her?"
"Far from it," Angel poured himself a brandy, noon be damned. "I'm afraid she might hurt you."
"Hurt me?" Spike scoffed incredulously.
"When you fall for a woman, you fall hard," Angel replied, taking a large draught from his glass.
Spike quirked an eyebrow, "So, you ask me in here because you're worried that I am going to have my heart broken?"
"It wouldn't be the first time."
"Well, you would know all about that, wouldn't you? Saw to it yourself," Spike's eyes flashed from stormy blue to gold in his anger. He felt furious that Angel would meddle with him in such a way- first dictating how he lived within the house and his comings and goings, and now to feign actual concern for his well-being was beyond condescending.
Angel was determined not to raise his voice though he was not entirely sure of his motives in asking Spike for this private chat. It was true that he worried how Spike would react to yet another failed relationship. The boy had done some truly horrific things to the general populus when he had found Drusilla had been unfaithful, but, then again, Spike had done horrific things without such provocation. They all were guilty of that within their little vampiric family. However, both he and Spike had souls now, and Angel wondered even more what that meant. Ever since Spike had moved into his home, he had searched out any sign of the brash hellion he had once mentored. Spike retained his deviant attitude and general brattish nature, but there was something- dare he say it- softer about him, something akin to the unsure yet eager young man that Drusilla brought to him all those years ago.
With a quick mental correction to his own thoughts, Angel knew that William had never been too far from the surface even before Spike regained his soul. Angel had to admit that he attempted to beat that out of the younger vampire enough times to know that it was impossible for William's romantic sentiments to be completely destroyed. For a brief moment, Angel regretted the hurt he inflicted on Spike during his first years as a vampire, regretted trying to turn the boy into his own image and not bothering to get to know him. Perhaps if he had been kinder, William would not have turned into the unholy guttersnipe that was Spike. Angel pushed those thoughts away, reassuring himself that his harshness as a sire had only been to toughen the boy up, turn him into a proper vampire who would be able to survive the centuries. And Spike had definitely been able to do that, adapting better to the change in social climates along with new technologies and fashions than Angel ever could. Angel felt a swell of what could be described as a cocktail of both jealousy and pride.
The tension was palpable as the silence continued between the two vampires. Spike's jaw ticked in frustration. He had steeled himself for any barb or insult that Angel could lobby at him. If it was an attack on his intelligence, he had a quick-witted retort at the ready. If it was a question of if he truly were a champion of good, Spike had a few rude hand gestures he was prepared to use. Fists and fangs were Spike's style even if said fists and fangs were on a tighter leash these days. But there was no question that Spike could not reign in his temper forever, and if Angel crossed him too far, the older vampire would be on the receiving end of a swift kick to the nether-regions.
Angel pondered how to explain himself. Spike was giving him a look that could melt a glacier; his blue eyes flickering like fire and ice. Spike started a bit when he felt Angel's hand suddenly on his shoulder, a little too close to his neck wound.
"Do you remember when we were outside of Calais? In that little convent?" Angel said trying to sound a little less authoritarian in his manner of speaking, talking to Spike more as he would to his friends and less like a least favourite younger sibling.
Spike appeared confused momentarily from Angel's sudden shift in demeanor, but after a moment's pause, he recollected, "You mean when I kept warning you that the locals talked of an unusually strong nun who spent her nights keeping watch over the graveyards rather than in prayer?"
Angel nodded, "Yes, that would be-"
"And you gave me a good cuff on the head for questioning you, and then you found out that not only was that particular nun a Slayer, but that she had battle-trained the rest of the convent against vampiric attack-"
"Yes, Spike. That's not exactly the point of what-" but Angel was interrupted yet again.
"And you were chased all through the night by Sister Mary Slayer and the whole convent including the Mother Superior!" Spike grinned.
"William!" Angel raised his voice but quickly lowered it, regaining his determination to have a better temper with Spike. Even though it was somewhat painful to recall, Angel remembered how his younger sister had goaded him at times when he was a human boy, and how it irritated him until he finally realized she was only trying to be playful and amusing rather than spiteful.
"I was going to say," he continued, "in that particular instance, you had my best interest in mind even though I did not appreciate that at the time."
Spike felt a slight rush of pride in that statement. What he would have given as a fledgling vampire to hear those words from Angelus's lips! He tried so desperately to please his grand-sire, to emulate him. There was, of course, a flash of anger that accompanied the feelings of pride, remembering how Angelus had demeaned him, humiliated him, treated him like a burden. Why couldn't these words of thanks have been said a hundred years prior? Spike swallowed down his hurt, a small voice in his head reminding him that just as he himself was a different person than he was when he was a fledging vampire, allowances should be made for the changes that Angel had undertaken in his character.
There was another pause between them. Whether or not each vampire wanted to admit it, they both were coming to an understanding with one another. After being at odds for so many years, a mutual respect was building though they were unlikely to give up the daily annoyances they provided to one another over the dissimiliarities in their personalities.
Angel journeyed forward in the conversation, hoping to extend a metaphoric olive branch, "So, in the same way that you watched out for my well-being, I would like to extend to you the same courtesy, so I hope you don't take offense to why I brought you in here to discuss this business with Fred."
"Well, all right, then," Spike said, looking pleased at Angel's sudden turn in attitude though he did reserve a small bit of apprehension. He remembered how often Angelus would love to dabble in such games, dangling approval and other types of validation over his head just to snatch them away. "Well, before you become too sentimental, am I now free to tuck into my brunch before it gets cold?" Spike attempted to maintain a level of nonchalance as he headed out of the room.
Angel nodded in affirmation, setting his brandy on the tray, "Try not to rouse the whole house when you return tonight... and don't leave the Seville out on the street!" But Spike was already out of sight.
Leaning hard on the side table, Angel felt as though he was caught between an anvil and a falling hammer. He was confused by the feelings that had overcome his person. He had been over-protective yet ill-willed and demanding towards Spike, meeting every slight with strict punitiveness. Angel went to his desk, sitting down and unlocking the drawer filled with his case files, not feeling up to returning to dine with the rest of the household. He was weeks behind on the paperwork that needed to be returned to the Met. Picking up a file that was over a month past due, he opened the folder only to be met with his case notes covered sketches. He could not even remember making the drawings, but there seemed to be more of them than actual notations on the case. He turned the pages, looking over images of his friends and even a few less than flattering caricatures of Appleyard and Pleydell. One page, however, was a study in Spike as-it-were, filled with full sketches of his face while others were more detailed studies of his individual features, particularly his eyes. He had often sketched Spike during the twenty years they had marauded across Europe, but he felt more awkward about it now. Resisting the urge to shove the pages away, Angel wondered what had possessed him to invite Spike into his life again. He silently cursed the Powers That Be for dropping the infuriating boy literally on his doorstep. Yet, no matter how much Spike irritated him, it felt correct for him to be in the house; it was like growing accustomed to a pebble in one's shoe, trying to ignore it while it is there but somehow missing it when it is gone.
Angel rifled through the papers, realizing that he would have to rewrite the report entirely to make it passable by Scotland Yard's standards. A page slipped from his grasp and wafted to the the floor. Stopping as he went to pick it up, Angel saw a very rough sketch in the corner of the page of a young man, no older than twenty with shoulder length hair and bright eyes- Connor, his son. Since Connor had been accepted to university and moved to the dormitories, Angel had missed him terribly. It was better for Connor to attempt to have a normal life with other people his age and away from any supernatural elements. However, it did not stop Angel from having a father's desire to have his son close to home. Angel pondered if he was merely transferring his wish for Connor to return home onto Spike. Perhaps it was just as likely that Angel had put away his brandy prematurely.
Feeling a little necessary brooding creeping over him, Angel returned his paperwork to its folder and tossed it onto the desk. He needed to focus on the case at hand rather than dwelling on the happenstances of his personal life.
*****
After a rather uncomfortably silent breakfast, Fred had asked Lorne to accompany her to Bertin Et Champollion to purchase a new ensemble for her evening out. Most of the clothing she owned was functional, practical, and durable- wonderful for the laboratory, not fashionable enough for the theatre. She had hoped Lorne would be able to assist her in finding an outfit that kept with the current styles. If one were to inquire about the latest in tesla technology, Fred could elucidate for hours about the positives and negatives of various filaments, but when it came to ribbons and frills she was at a loss.
As she perused the cabinets of ready-made dresses in the shop, each laid out flat in a drawer on tissue paper, Fred turned to Lorne and asked, "Do you think that everyone is upset over my plans for tonight?"
"That's not a possibility, kitten," Lorne replied, flipping through a book of the shop's fabric samples. Just as Fred was about to express her relief, he added, "I'm sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Angel felt the need to shut himself up in his study, and why Gunn agreed to watch Norman without any fuss, and why Wesley found it necessary to take an entire bottle of scotch with him while he was transcribing more of Dr. Breedlove's notes."
"That's what I was afraid of," Fred said flatly, shutting the drawer of one dress and opening another.
While feeling partially disheartened by her friends' disapproval, Fred also felt quite irritated. Angel's brotherly protectiveness at pulling Spike aside surprised her as he did not react in such a manner when she and Gunn had courted. She had honestly expected Gunn to have a less relaxed attitude, but she was pleased he was either keeping his opinions close to the breast or taking it in stride. Wesley's reaction, however, was disappointing; she had had inklings that he garnered some romantic leanings towards her though he had never voiced them. Fred was a bit affronted that her decisions would cause anyone distress, especially when it came to her personal attachments. She was truly looking forward to spending time with Spike away from work-related instances. Spike made her laugh and was interested in her experiments even if he did not understand them fully, though Fred did suspect that he was far more intelligent than he made himself out to be. After all, Spike was the one who pointed out that largest book of the three stolen from the British Museum was not written in Arcado-Cypriot but in a combination of ancient and modern Greek.
Mulling over the implications of a book containing two known languages jumbled together in an attempt to be another known language, something that the experts at the British Museum should have been able to discern without difficulty, Fred stared at a geometric pattern of swirls and flora on the fabric of the dress in front of her, wondering at the same time if the person who designed this particular fabric was aware that the clusters of flowers went up the each delicate spiral in descending order of a prime number of blooms. Number puzzles were more her forte; however, the thought occurred to her that there was no reason that the key to solving the unusual pseudo-language from Dr. Breedlove's documentation could not be approached in the same manner as a mathematical quandary. After all, if there was a randomness to the usage of the ancient Greek as opposed to the modern without rhyme or reason, as Wesley confirmed, then perhaps the absence of a concrete pattern was in fact a pattern in itself.
What if the key to decrypting the so-called Arcado-Cypriot book laid not within the meaning of the words but in the words themselves? The very syllables of the words could be the solution. Taking in consideration that some of the antiquities in the Northead collection were far too pristine to been genuine articles and given that Wesley had talked about the book discussing "utopia" which was a concept not in use until 1200 AD, then one could also suppose a few other things when making a hypothesis. If the language within the largest book of the three was actually some type of code, then one could suppose that the unknown language within the two smaller books was not a language at all but rather messages which the larger book was meant to decrypt. The possibilities were tantalizing. She grew very excited about being able to her theories to Wesley to see if there was anything factual about her assumptions. How she wished she could read Greek so that she might offer more assistance!
"I hope you're not considering that dress, sugar plum," Lorne said with a quizzical look.
Fred snapped out of her thoughts with a start, "Oh! No, I wasn't-"
"Well, that's good news!" Lorne chortled, shutting the drawer with a look of disgust. "No offense but that dress could have made you look broad-hipped, and I did not think that was possible."
With a little snort through her nose, she took a seat near the shop window, "I think I'm going to let you do the shopping. My head is sort of elsewhere right now."
"Mm-hmm," Lorne gave her a knowing smile, "Your adorable brain is probably just swimmy over thoughts of a delicious slice of blonde crumb cake that you'll be sharing a table with tonight."
Fred giggled, watching Lorne expediently looking over dresses in the continuing search for her evening attire, "I was actually thinking about the possibility of decrypting a secret messages based on syllable patterns hidden within a larger message."
Lorne turned to her and winked, "Is that what the young people are calling it these days?" He then went to the shopkeeper and began to speak quietly to him. Returning a few moments later, he said, "I inquired to see if Monsieur Bertin and Monsieur Champollion had anything in the back that would be more fitting."
"I cannot thank you enough for accompanying me today," Fred smiled, genuinely grateful for Lorne's assistance.
"Nonsense," he replied with a flutter of his hands, "Watching Spike's jaw drop when he sees you will be thanks enough." He then added, "Besides, I needed to pick up a few items for Norman. He may be a demon but there's no reason he shouldn't be stylish."
Lorne's sudden attachment to the young demon intrigued Fred. "So you're intending to keep him then?" she inquired.
"Until the government starts opening demonic orphanages, I don't see another option. We couldn't just leave him out on the street to fend for himself. He's just like a human baby," Lorne replied, his voice filled with sympathy.
Fred agreed and added with a smile, "He is an awfully cute baby at that."
"I just wish he could explain to us why he was at that crime scene. I was able to catch a few glimpses into his aura when we first found him, but I could not see anything that could really help us. The coos and chirrups he makes don't really allow for me to get a full reading," Lorne said. "For a Valkren'nesh demon his approximate age, he won't develop the verbal skills necessary to physically tells us what has happened to him for several months yet."
"And by then it is unlikely that he will remember-"
"Monsieur Lorne!" a young, lanky foppishly dressed man called out as he entered the room from the back of the shop. He was accompanied by a similarly dressed middle-aged fellow and the shop keep who was carrying several very large dress boxes with obvious difficulty.
Lorne introduced Fred to Monsieur Bertin and his business partner Monsieur Champollion, explaining that no one in all of London could make a person, or demon, look more fabulous.
"I don't want anything too over-the-top," Fred said somewhat self-consciously.
"Over-the-top?" Oh, Mademoiselle!" Champollion chuckled good-naturedly. "Bertin et Champollion do not do "over-the-top!" We only do magnifique!" He then ushered their young shopkeep to bring the boxes forward, and he and his partner began picking through the dresses housed within the tissue paper, discarding each equally beautiful gown for being the wrong colour or wrong cut for Fred. The two men stopped suddenly, both looking at each other knowingly as they came to the final dress.
"Oui! And I think we have found the perfect one!" Monsieur Bertin said in triumph. He held up the gown for Fred's approval.
Monsieur Champollion pulled the dress out of its box and held it up to Fred as Monsieur Bertin turned her to face one of the floor length mirrors in the shop. Fred instantly fell in love with the dress. Her fingers gingerly touched the silk faille fabric, feeling the silk damask woven over it, but also unfortunately caught sight of the small tag with the price labelled.
Fred sighed, "It's beautiful, but I don't think I could afford it."
"I think we might be able to provide a discount on the price for a friend of our best customer Monsieur Lorne," Bertin said, eyeing the stack of shirts and fabric samples Lorne had acquired for his own purchases.
"Especially if it meant one of our humble creations could be worn by such a lovely lady," Champollion added in a way that would sound smarmy if said by anyone other than a Frenchman.
Looking over her shoulder, she smiled brightly, "What do you think, Lorne?"
Lorne returned the smile and said, "I think we're going to have to buy a throw rug to cover the dent in the parquet that Spike's jaw is going to make when it hits the floor."
*****
After his earlier conversation with Spike, Angel had brooded in his darkened study for several hours, listening as the rest of the house carried on without him. When he could stand it no longer, he took his leave of the townhouse entirely through the backdoor in the kitchen. After a quick hop over the garden wall, he was in the cramped alleyways of London, in narrow passages between the taller buildings, making it possible for any sunlight to penetrate.
Meandering carefully across the vast city, Angel found himself at the University of London. The sun was beginning to set, and a group of students were picnicking for supper on the grass of one of the university's perfectly manicured little parks near the lecture halls. Connor was amongst them and seemed to be participating in a lively and friendly debate on one topic or another.
Angel smiled seeing his son adjusting so well to academic life. Connor looked so at ease and happy. Angel felt a stab of guilt that came from the sadness of knowing his child was growing up and would inevitably become more distant from him as children often do from their parents as they have their own experiences in the world.
"Somehow I doubt that those boys have anything to do with the robbery and murders at the museum," Kate Lockley said suddenly from behind him.
"You've gotten very good at sneaking up on people, haven't you?" Angel spoke quietly.
"I learned from the best," she replied in a rather dry tone. She then implored yet again, "May I ask what is so important that you would risk setting out before the sun has even set?"
Angel gestured to Connor, "Do you see the boy with the longish hair?" When Kate nodded in the affirmative, he continued, "That is my son." The pride rose in his voice, being freer than ever before to talk about his child so casually.
"I was almost certain that a vampire fathering a child was an impossibility," Kate said, her expression softening. Her body language shifted, and the tension between herself and Angel lessened slightly.
"It should have been, and yet there he is," Angel answered. He went on to explain about Connor's miraculous birth and tragic kidnapping to Quor-Toth, the darkest of the other worldly realms. He left out certain specifics that were far too private, such as Connor accidental assistance in bringing forth an all-power entity that attempted to take control of the entire world. The boy had been manipulated, which could not have helped the confused state he was already in after returning from a literal Hell. Connor had really rallied in the last year, wanting to go to university and learn about living a life outside of hunting and killing.
"I suppose congratulations are in order," Kate said with a small smile. "From what you've said, your son may be the youngest person in the country to be accepted to university."
"Believe me when I say that he's been through enough for ten life times," Angel spoke sadly. "I'm afraid that I couldn't protect him from that, and I can't protect him now."
"Does he want your protection? He appears hearty enough though a touch on the thin side."
"He's very strong, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to make sure he's all right," Angel replied, watching as the students began packing up their picnic when the tesla lights on the lamp-posts flickered to life when the sun had set.
Kate pulled her coat around herself as the air grew chillier, "The problem with protecting people without their consent is that they inevitably come to resent it... especially when they are able to take care of themselves."
*****
After the sun was lazily swallowed up by the horizon, Spike was out to the Mews to retrieve the Seville. He was incredibly nervous after spending the day doing laundry, pressing his good trousers, and polishing his favourite boots. He had had quite a bit of trouble buffing his leather duster after finding it stuffed at the bottom of his trunk. He settled himself with thoughts of proving to Fred that his domestic skills were lacking after all, though she was still free to educate him further if she pleased.
Pulling the Seville up to the townhouse at Fairfax Street, Spike practically flew into the house to clean himself up. Less than an hour later, he was bathed and dressed for the evening. His two-toned hair was pulled back into a ponytail, still slightly damp. He waited for Fred in the foyer, fixing his cuffs with his duster over one arm, just as Lorne entered from the parlor with a cup of tea.
"My, my, you clean up rather well," Lorne said, sipping his Earl Grey.
"I do what I can," Spike smirked, putting on his duster. He hoped Fred would have an enjoyable time wth him. For the first time in years, his heart felt lighter, and thoughts of a new romantic attachment were not met with memories of the pain and anguish caused by his previous relationships. He then reminded himself that perhaps he and Fred might only be friends and that he might be getting ahead of himself. Still, there's no reason he couldn't provide her with a fair amount of entertainment and a good meal.
The sound of someone at the top of the stairs drew his attention away from his own thoughts. Fred descended the staircase in a rustle of scarlet silk and satin. Her hair was up and draped over one shoulder, a cascade of chestnut brown curls, the hair pin Spke had given her the night prior glinting in the light from the foyer lamps.
"You look stunning," Spike said almost breathlessly as he watched in fascination as she gracefully took the steps down to the landing.
Fred practically glowed from the compliment, smoothing her silk gloved hands over her gown self-consciously, "You really think so? You look wonderful too." She was not merely returning his compliment in kind as she took in the sight of him; she truly meant it.
Spike's smile exuded nonchalant confidence to the world, but to those that cared to look closer, the gleam in his blue eyes at the slightest praise belied his unassuredness in even the most obvious of his positive personal attributes.
Helping Fred slip into her velvet shawl, he said, "Well, we best be off. They won't hold my table all night."
Saying their good-byes to Lorne, they departed for the Jolly Dogs' Theatre. The streets were crowded with fresh-faced youths and other assorted merriment-seekers as Spike and Fred approached their destination. While most clubs had their own private spaces in which to operate, Spike's did not. The Slap Bang Club had taken the Jolly Dogs' as its semi-permanent home. The theatre was no theatre on its own account; it was a music and dance hall located in the rear of an actual theatre at the junction of New Castle, Alwych, and Drury Lane. It was cramped and poorly-lit, frequented by demons, humans, and magical practitioners alike, which is what drew Spike and his friends to the establishment. It featured musical performances along with Burlesque shows and vaudeville acts.
After being greeted by the doorman and checking their coats, they were quickly shown to Spike's table, a booth in a darkened corner, partially obscured by a hanging tapestry, with a decent view of the stage and the crowd. As Fred slid into her seat, Spike offered to get her a drink from the bar.
"What's your pleasure?" he asked.
Fred tucked a stray curl behind her ear, "Surprise me."
Smirking playfully, he replied, "I like a lady who's adventurous," and he was off into the sea of revelers in search of libations.
The interior of the Jolly Dogs' was an eclectic mix of theatre property, second-hand goods, and fire-sale fodder. Etruscan and Ionic columns lined the walls, though Fred was fairly certain that they were made of paper-mache and plaster and would probably be hauled away when the actual theatre held their next production of Coriolanus or Julius Caesar. Cheap, poorly-done reproductions of famous tapestries and paintings were hung haphazardly, even layered in some areas, to hide the cracked, peeling paint. Demons and humans fraternized together, laughing and conversing in the gaslight, a refreshing, if noisy, compliment to Fairfax Street.
Spike returned to the booth, setting her drink down on the chipped table. Fred gave a quizzical look at the strange-looking cocktail before her. It held a variety of different coloured liquids commingling without blending together.
"It's a Bijoux," Spike explained. "It's supposed to resemble a glass full of jewels. The gin's the diamonds, the vermouth's the rubies, and the chartreuse's the emeralds."
"That's delightful," Fred smiled, and then she looked down at the bright pink cocktail Spike was drinking, "Yours is quite pretty too."
"It's the house specialty- a Ragdoll," Spike laughed, catching her expression. "It's rhubarb, gooseberry, and vanilla." He assured her it was rather delicious, but she still appeared rather dubious.
As they sat chatting and having their drinks, the night's musical act was taking to the stage. Their instruments were kitted out with tesla coils and electro-accoustical transducers, which instantly captured Fred's interest. Acrobatic performers tumbled and contorted to the pulsing rhythm in brightly coloured costumes while the female and male singers crooned, creating an almost hypnotic atmosphere.
Over the noise of the music and the crowd, Fred said, "I must admit that I pictured most clubs as being a little more... reserved."
"You mean, a bunch of pompous ponces sitting around smoking pipes in overstuffed armchairs and talking about the weather, politics, or the price of sugar in February and what all?" Spike shrugged. "I'd rather be hung by the neck than spend an hour in one of those. I'll leave those establishments for the Wyndam-Pryces of the world, thank you."
"Don't be so harsh on Wesley," Fred chided. "I think you two are more alike than you think. Perhaps if you put your heads together, we could glean clues faster in our cases, like back at the museum. You noted something no one else did."
Spike shifted in his seat, uncomfortable and hoping to switch the topic of the conversation, "I was hoping to introduce you to the rest of the Slap Bang Club, but I must admit the crowds have been a bit thin as of late."
Gazing out over the thick mass of bodies dancing, Fred marveled at the notion that it was smallish for such an already cramped space. Throwing back the rest of his drink, Spike held out his hand and asked Fred to dance with him. She nodded and edged into the center of the swell, her hand tightly holding on to his. The closeness to him, the press of other bodies, and the heat of the room instantly made her face flush. She tried to talk above the roar, making conversation as a comfort mechanism, trying to convey her earlier theorems about syllable codes in the books stolen from the British Museum. Even with his vampiric hearing, Spike found it hard to focus on all of what she was saying in combination with the background noise, though he had a sneaking suspicion he probably would not have understood it anyway with words like "linguistic computation algorithms" and "polynomial syntactic pattern recognition" being bandied about.
Fred felt Spike's hands tighten on her waist as he lifted her up and twirled her around as though she weighed nothing. As her shoes clacked on the dance floor as she was brought back down to earth, Fred felt light-headed, pressing herself to Spike's body for balance. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and let his lips linger there. She searched for something to say, but watched as Spike's eyes flicked over her head, distracted by something in the distance.
"There's George!" Spike said as Fred turned to see what appeared to be a large, floating purple fish near the back exit of the theatre.
Navigating through the crowd, Spike attempted to get George's attention, even going so far as to try to call out telepathically to the Splendeen demon, to no avail. With the whirlwind of dancing demons and humans crashing into him from all sides, Spike could not keep his gaze on George and soon he seemed to vanish before they reached the location where he had been. However, the exit door was ajar, and it gave Spike a strange, suspiciously ominous feeling. It wasn't like George to ignore him and run- or float- off.
"Would it be a mistake to ask you to wait here?" he said.
Fred replied rather dryly, "Only if you actually ask."
"Right then," Spike said giving her hand a kiss. "To be honest, I feel a little safer knowing you're watching my back than if it were Angel."
Cautiously, he pushed the door open and exited the Jolly Dogs' into a sparsely lit alley way between it and a larger theatre, a crescendo of trumpets could be heard from within during some play or another. Fred's hand stayed on his shoulder, which was comforting. Spike tried to sense where George had gotten to, but discerning a single scent, even one of an enormous fish, was difficult with all the Londoners milling about in the streets. Just as a thunderous round of applause signaled the end of the play in the adjacent theatre, Fred's hand was violently wrenched from his shoulder. Before Spike could react, his head was slammed with inhuman force into the brick wall next to the exit door. His eyesight became fuzzy, and he struggled to keep his balance, forced to take a knee.
Through the haziness, Spike could barely see as Fred struggled with a cloaked figure. She was able to deliver a particularly strong blow to her captor's face with her elbow, momentarily escaping his grasp while he attempted to staunch the bleeding from his injured nose. As the shadow of his hulking attacker loomed closer, Spike launched himself at him, knocking the behemoth to the ground and landing a volley of punches. The double-vision he was experiencing would not allow him to see exactly what he was fighting, feeling the blood ooze down the side of his face. Spike mentally slapped himself for not remembering to bring his gatling wrist-strap or any weapons for that matter. He had been more concerned with creating a perfect evening for Fred than reminding himself of the simple fact that things seldom, if ever, turned out perfectly for him or his associates.
While for a few moments he had bested the demon that attacked him, Spike soon found himself pinned to the pavement, taking a barrage of blows to the face. He saw Fred had not been able to escape her assailant either as she was dragged down the alley to a green cab where a few reinforcements waited, using their vehicle to hide the goings-on from any passerbys out in the street. Spike scrambled to get to her aid, growling as he struggled. However, the back of his head was gripped tightly by his attacker before he could even get to his feet. Spike's face was smashed into cobblestones, his skin instantly splashed with his own blood as he felt his nose break. The last thing he heard as his vision grew darker and he fell into unconsciousness was Fred screaming his name before her voice was lost in the din and commotion of the busy urban night.
To be continued...
Previous Chapters :: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five.
x-posted @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
nekid_spike and darker_spike.
Author:
fenderloveRating: This chapter is rated PG-13 though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
If you would like to watch the musical act Fred and Spike see during this chapter, please view this YouTube video of Abney Park performing their song "Sleep Isabella."
Pairings: Spike/Fred, Spike/Angel.
(Click for full-sized banner.)
Automated Utopia :: Chapter Six.
The sound of twangling bells roused the entire Angel Investigations staff promptly at noon. Fred had installed the small clocks throughout the house at Angel's insistence that they function with the rest of the world at a relatively decent hour. With the strange hours of operation that they kept in investigating otherworldly criminals, everyone except Angel would have preferred to sleep quite later in the day.
Spike groaned as the clock outside his room began clanging its bells. He pulled one of his pillows over his head in a feeble attempt to stifle the noise. His neck was still aching from the previous night, a fact which was not helped by the amount of port he had consumed afterwards. Spike absently wondered if Fred was suffering from the muzzy feeling associated with consuming slightly too much liquor. Not remembering Fred leaving his room, Spike quickly sat up in bed, the blankets covering him falling away. He was dressed only in a pair of drawers, which disturbed him greatly since he had not being wearing any under his trousers the night before. Fred lay next to him on her side, clad only in his well-worn blue shirt. Her clothing, including her corset, was draped over the chair at his desk. Spike's mind reeled, and he felt flushed; he definitely did not remember anything untoward happening before he fell asleep. He could barely tear his gaze away from her long, pale legs sticking out from beneath his blue dress shirt. His fingers itched to run along that creamy, smooth skin.
Pulling himself together and giving her shoulder a gentle shake, he whispered, "Fred, love?"
Waking up slowly, Fred lifted her head from the pillow, her curls falling cutely into her face. "Hmm?" she murmured, blinking several times and yawning.
"It's noon, and I really don't remember getting undressed or even you getting undressed-" he rambled a bit, obviously flustered, raking his hand through his wavy blonde hair.
Fred smiled, giving a playful tug on the waist of his underclothes, "Well, you feel asleep with your trousers still on, so I thought you'd be more comfortable like this."
"You undressed me?" he said, sounding scandalized.
"Don't worry, I averted my eyes," she laughed followed by another yawn.
Overcoming his initial shock, Spike felt nearly liberated by her frankness and joviality. He laid back down and wrapped his arm around her slender waist. He smirked, "And I see that you commandeered my only dress shirt."
Fred kissed the tip of his nose and replied, "It was the only thing I could find that I was sure did not have blood on it."
"My domestic skills are quite lacking," Spike said, pulling her closer to him.
"I don't think that you're completely lacking," she responded, cupping the side of his face, running her thumb along his cheekbone. "You've managed to do quite a bit with your room. You just need to reform your laundry habits."
Spike grinned wickedly, "Are you going to reform me, Miss Fred?"
"I believe I can handle such a challenge," she answered, pulling him into a kiss. Their lips pressed together, his hand threading gently through her hair before stroking down her back and then her thigh.
When they broke for a breath, Spike quirked an eyebrow, "I have to warn you that I am extremely stubborn and slow to learn. You might have to punish me."
"Now that," Fred said as she nuzzled him, her forehead pressed to his, "would be my pleasure." Her hand snaked over his waist before landing a playful smack to his backside.
Spike growled softly, rolling Fred onto her back, "Is that so, love?"
Fred's response was to give him another spank. He leaned down to kiss and playfully nip at her neck and jawline.
"But I don't think I will reform you too much," she giggled, stroking his blonde curls.
The bustling footfalls that could be heard from the floor above interrupted their cheerful repartee.
Knowing that they would soon be missed if they did not dress and head up, Fred said softly, "Perhaps, if you were feeling so inclined, we could pick this up after our evening at your club."
"I think we could definitely negotiate something," Spike replied, giving her one last kiss.
They dressed quickly. Helping her draw her laces while she washed her face, Spike pondered if anyone would notice that she was wearing the same clothes as the previous night. Fred did not express any worry about it and continued putting up her hair. Once they were suitably presentable, they went up to the dining room where everyone was already seated.
When they entered the dining room, they were greeted with the sights and smells of a feast fit for the Queen. Lorne had cooked a lavish brunch as was his custom. Cooking and cleaning responsibilities often rotated amongst the residents as housekeepers, butlers, and cooks rarely stayed employed longer than two weeks. Those that did not immediately flee at the sight of the green-skinned demon that lived on the ground floor quit soon after seeing the various supernatural fluids that wound up in the laundry bin or the glass jars of blood in the icebox. Even with six members in the household, daily chores could be cumbersome if everyone did not do their part. Lorne was definitely the most adept at cooking, and while they held the days in which Angel was in the kitchen with strained smiles and forced compliments for burned puddings and toast, they adored the culinary miracles that Lorne managed to whip up.
Spike and Fred discretely sat down at the round dining table. Gunn and Wesley were tucking into their brunch while Angel was reading the morning edition of the Times. Lorne was attempting to feed Norman, who was definitely wearing more food than he was eating. Somehow Lorne had managed to dress Norman, making the demon look like a bald grey-skinned toddler.
Lorne passed Spike the warmed decanter of blood with a small smile, "You two are up late."
Angel looked up from his periodical at the pair. Noticing that Fred was wearing the same clothes as the night before, he said casually, "Fred, you really shouldn't stay up all night in the workroom. It can't be good for your lungs to stay down there with the boiler and all that smoke."
"I wasn't in the basement," Fred replied with a shrug, buttering a crumpet, "I spent the night in Spike's room."
There was a small clattering as Wesley choked on his tea and hastily sat the cup down a little too hard, and then there was an awkward silence. Gunn looked rather nonplussed and continued to eat his meal while Wesley paled, recovering from his shock, though he said nothing. Spike stopped mid-drink waiting for someone to say something, throwing a careful glance to Angel who was sitting eerily still with his paper. Fred continued quietly eating her crumpet before asking Spike to pass her the teapot.
"I think we might have to invest in decorating a nursery now that there's a possibility of curly-haired vamplings," Lorne remarked good-naturedly, watching as Norman devoured four scones in under a minute.
Spike gave a little chuckle, "Vamplings? Even if it were possible for me to procreate, I don't think I would call my offspring 'vamplings,' really."
"What about 'Spikelets?'" Fred laughed. "And 'Spikettes' for the girls."
Spike gave a slightly bemused expression, "How many do you want? A litter?"
"That's enough," Angel said coldly, folding up his paper and setting it on the table.
"Oh, I'm only teasing," Fred replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "It's not as though everyone here isn't well acquainted with everyone else's romantic life."
"Or lack thereof," Spike added giving a pointed glare at Angel.
"Can I have a word with you in the study, William?" Angel said, trying to keep his tone level.
Spike huffed annoyedly, "Fine, but let's make it quick. I don't want my brekkie to get cold."
Fred sighed discontentedly as the two vampires exited the dining room. She looked at the others at the table. Wesley pushed his plate away from himself and had an expression as though he might become sick on himself. Gunn had continued to pile food on his plate, seemingly in an attempt to distance himself from the conversation entirely.
"Don't worry," Lorne said, giving her hand a pat, "I'm sure Mr. Broody-britches is just in there warning Spike to not impune your honour."
"My honour should be none of his concern. I'd feel better if he worried less about my honour and more about my feelings on the matter," Fred replied, no longer feeling very hungry.
"And what," Wesley paused, and then ventured on, "are your feelings on the matter?"
Fred smiled softly, "Spike's going to take me to his club tonight, and I'm feeling that I'm going to have a wonderful time."
Gunn chuckled, knowingly, "Then you most likely will. You have excellent taste, I seem to recall."
"Thank you, Charles," she responded.
"I wasn't aware that Spike belonged to any club," Wesley said, somewhat concerned with what kind of club would have Spike as a member.
As the conversation in the dining room continued, Spike and Angel were having their own behind the closed doors of the study. When the heavy doors closed behind them, Spike was ready with a bevy of sharp tongued comments aimed at the older vampire.
"You can order me about and call me ignorant, Angel, but do not presume to think that Fred is incapable of intelligent thought by questioning her choices," Spike said in his tirade. "I'll have you know that nothing improper has occurred. However, Fred is a grown woman and far more intelligent than either of us. She's got the right to decide what is best for her, and she's agreed to dine with me tonight so don't you dare tell me to break that invitation."
"I wasn't going to," Angel said when Spike finally took a breath.
"And another thing-" Spike paused. "What did you say?"
Angel repeated himself and added, "I would not do Fred the disservice."
Spike frowned, "Then why did you ask me in here?"
"Do you love her?"
"I like her," Spike answered, his was a little taken aback by such a direct question from Angel. "I am happy when I'm around her, and I think that I could come to love her, hence the traditional courting ritual of taking a lady out to supper for conversation outside of work." Hoping to hedge around what had gotten Angel's dander up if it wasn't specifically his newfound closer attachment to Fred, he continued, "Are you worried I might hurt her?"
"Far from it," Angel poured himself a brandy, noon be damned. "I'm afraid she might hurt you."
"Hurt me?" Spike scoffed incredulously.
"When you fall for a woman, you fall hard," Angel replied, taking a large draught from his glass.
Spike quirked an eyebrow, "So, you ask me in here because you're worried that I am going to have my heart broken?"
"It wouldn't be the first time."
"Well, you would know all about that, wouldn't you? Saw to it yourself," Spike's eyes flashed from stormy blue to gold in his anger. He felt furious that Angel would meddle with him in such a way- first dictating how he lived within the house and his comings and goings, and now to feign actual concern for his well-being was beyond condescending.
Angel was determined not to raise his voice though he was not entirely sure of his motives in asking Spike for this private chat. It was true that he worried how Spike would react to yet another failed relationship. The boy had done some truly horrific things to the general populus when he had found Drusilla had been unfaithful, but, then again, Spike had done horrific things without such provocation. They all were guilty of that within their little vampiric family. However, both he and Spike had souls now, and Angel wondered even more what that meant. Ever since Spike had moved into his home, he had searched out any sign of the brash hellion he had once mentored. Spike retained his deviant attitude and general brattish nature, but there was something- dare he say it- softer about him, something akin to the unsure yet eager young man that Drusilla brought to him all those years ago.
With a quick mental correction to his own thoughts, Angel knew that William had never been too far from the surface even before Spike regained his soul. Angel had to admit that he attempted to beat that out of the younger vampire enough times to know that it was impossible for William's romantic sentiments to be completely destroyed. For a brief moment, Angel regretted the hurt he inflicted on Spike during his first years as a vampire, regretted trying to turn the boy into his own image and not bothering to get to know him. Perhaps if he had been kinder, William would not have turned into the unholy guttersnipe that was Spike. Angel pushed those thoughts away, reassuring himself that his harshness as a sire had only been to toughen the boy up, turn him into a proper vampire who would be able to survive the centuries. And Spike had definitely been able to do that, adapting better to the change in social climates along with new technologies and fashions than Angel ever could. Angel felt a swell of what could be described as a cocktail of both jealousy and pride.
The tension was palpable as the silence continued between the two vampires. Spike's jaw ticked in frustration. He had steeled himself for any barb or insult that Angel could lobby at him. If it was an attack on his intelligence, he had a quick-witted retort at the ready. If it was a question of if he truly were a champion of good, Spike had a few rude hand gestures he was prepared to use. Fists and fangs were Spike's style even if said fists and fangs were on a tighter leash these days. But there was no question that Spike could not reign in his temper forever, and if Angel crossed him too far, the older vampire would be on the receiving end of a swift kick to the nether-regions.
Angel pondered how to explain himself. Spike was giving him a look that could melt a glacier; his blue eyes flickering like fire and ice. Spike started a bit when he felt Angel's hand suddenly on his shoulder, a little too close to his neck wound.
"Do you remember when we were outside of Calais? In that little convent?" Angel said trying to sound a little less authoritarian in his manner of speaking, talking to Spike more as he would to his friends and less like a least favourite younger sibling.
Spike appeared confused momentarily from Angel's sudden shift in demeanor, but after a moment's pause, he recollected, "You mean when I kept warning you that the locals talked of an unusually strong nun who spent her nights keeping watch over the graveyards rather than in prayer?"
Angel nodded, "Yes, that would be-"
"And you gave me a good cuff on the head for questioning you, and then you found out that not only was that particular nun a Slayer, but that she had battle-trained the rest of the convent against vampiric attack-"
"Yes, Spike. That's not exactly the point of what-" but Angel was interrupted yet again.
"And you were chased all through the night by Sister Mary Slayer and the whole convent including the Mother Superior!" Spike grinned.
"William!" Angel raised his voice but quickly lowered it, regaining his determination to have a better temper with Spike. Even though it was somewhat painful to recall, Angel remembered how his younger sister had goaded him at times when he was a human boy, and how it irritated him until he finally realized she was only trying to be playful and amusing rather than spiteful.
"I was going to say," he continued, "in that particular instance, you had my best interest in mind even though I did not appreciate that at the time."
Spike felt a slight rush of pride in that statement. What he would have given as a fledgling vampire to hear those words from Angelus's lips! He tried so desperately to please his grand-sire, to emulate him. There was, of course, a flash of anger that accompanied the feelings of pride, remembering how Angelus had demeaned him, humiliated him, treated him like a burden. Why couldn't these words of thanks have been said a hundred years prior? Spike swallowed down his hurt, a small voice in his head reminding him that just as he himself was a different person than he was when he was a fledging vampire, allowances should be made for the changes that Angel had undertaken in his character.
There was another pause between them. Whether or not each vampire wanted to admit it, they both were coming to an understanding with one another. After being at odds for so many years, a mutual respect was building though they were unlikely to give up the daily annoyances they provided to one another over the dissimiliarities in their personalities.
Angel journeyed forward in the conversation, hoping to extend a metaphoric olive branch, "So, in the same way that you watched out for my well-being, I would like to extend to you the same courtesy, so I hope you don't take offense to why I brought you in here to discuss this business with Fred."
"Well, all right, then," Spike said, looking pleased at Angel's sudden turn in attitude though he did reserve a small bit of apprehension. He remembered how often Angelus would love to dabble in such games, dangling approval and other types of validation over his head just to snatch them away. "Well, before you become too sentimental, am I now free to tuck into my brunch before it gets cold?" Spike attempted to maintain a level of nonchalance as he headed out of the room.
Angel nodded in affirmation, setting his brandy on the tray, "Try not to rouse the whole house when you return tonight... and don't leave the Seville out on the street!" But Spike was already out of sight.
Leaning hard on the side table, Angel felt as though he was caught between an anvil and a falling hammer. He was confused by the feelings that had overcome his person. He had been over-protective yet ill-willed and demanding towards Spike, meeting every slight with strict punitiveness. Angel went to his desk, sitting down and unlocking the drawer filled with his case files, not feeling up to returning to dine with the rest of the household. He was weeks behind on the paperwork that needed to be returned to the Met. Picking up a file that was over a month past due, he opened the folder only to be met with his case notes covered sketches. He could not even remember making the drawings, but there seemed to be more of them than actual notations on the case. He turned the pages, looking over images of his friends and even a few less than flattering caricatures of Appleyard and Pleydell. One page, however, was a study in Spike as-it-were, filled with full sketches of his face while others were more detailed studies of his individual features, particularly his eyes. He had often sketched Spike during the twenty years they had marauded across Europe, but he felt more awkward about it now. Resisting the urge to shove the pages away, Angel wondered what had possessed him to invite Spike into his life again. He silently cursed the Powers That Be for dropping the infuriating boy literally on his doorstep. Yet, no matter how much Spike irritated him, it felt correct for him to be in the house; it was like growing accustomed to a pebble in one's shoe, trying to ignore it while it is there but somehow missing it when it is gone.
Angel rifled through the papers, realizing that he would have to rewrite the report entirely to make it passable by Scotland Yard's standards. A page slipped from his grasp and wafted to the the floor. Stopping as he went to pick it up, Angel saw a very rough sketch in the corner of the page of a young man, no older than twenty with shoulder length hair and bright eyes- Connor, his son. Since Connor had been accepted to university and moved to the dormitories, Angel had missed him terribly. It was better for Connor to attempt to have a normal life with other people his age and away from any supernatural elements. However, it did not stop Angel from having a father's desire to have his son close to home. Angel pondered if he was merely transferring his wish for Connor to return home onto Spike. Perhaps it was just as likely that Angel had put away his brandy prematurely.
Feeling a little necessary brooding creeping over him, Angel returned his paperwork to its folder and tossed it onto the desk. He needed to focus on the case at hand rather than dwelling on the happenstances of his personal life.
*****
After a rather uncomfortably silent breakfast, Fred had asked Lorne to accompany her to Bertin Et Champollion to purchase a new ensemble for her evening out. Most of the clothing she owned was functional, practical, and durable- wonderful for the laboratory, not fashionable enough for the theatre. She had hoped Lorne would be able to assist her in finding an outfit that kept with the current styles. If one were to inquire about the latest in tesla technology, Fred could elucidate for hours about the positives and negatives of various filaments, but when it came to ribbons and frills she was at a loss.
As she perused the cabinets of ready-made dresses in the shop, each laid out flat in a drawer on tissue paper, Fred turned to Lorne and asked, "Do you think that everyone is upset over my plans for tonight?"
"That's not a possibility, kitten," Lorne replied, flipping through a book of the shop's fabric samples. Just as Fred was about to express her relief, he added, "I'm sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Angel felt the need to shut himself up in his study, and why Gunn agreed to watch Norman without any fuss, and why Wesley found it necessary to take an entire bottle of scotch with him while he was transcribing more of Dr. Breedlove's notes."
"That's what I was afraid of," Fred said flatly, shutting the drawer of one dress and opening another.
While feeling partially disheartened by her friends' disapproval, Fred also felt quite irritated. Angel's brotherly protectiveness at pulling Spike aside surprised her as he did not react in such a manner when she and Gunn had courted. She had honestly expected Gunn to have a less relaxed attitude, but she was pleased he was either keeping his opinions close to the breast or taking it in stride. Wesley's reaction, however, was disappointing; she had had inklings that he garnered some romantic leanings towards her though he had never voiced them. Fred was a bit affronted that her decisions would cause anyone distress, especially when it came to her personal attachments. She was truly looking forward to spending time with Spike away from work-related instances. Spike made her laugh and was interested in her experiments even if he did not understand them fully, though Fred did suspect that he was far more intelligent than he made himself out to be. After all, Spike was the one who pointed out that largest book of the three stolen from the British Museum was not written in Arcado-Cypriot but in a combination of ancient and modern Greek.
Mulling over the implications of a book containing two known languages jumbled together in an attempt to be another known language, something that the experts at the British Museum should have been able to discern without difficulty, Fred stared at a geometric pattern of swirls and flora on the fabric of the dress in front of her, wondering at the same time if the person who designed this particular fabric was aware that the clusters of flowers went up the each delicate spiral in descending order of a prime number of blooms. Number puzzles were more her forte; however, the thought occurred to her that there was no reason that the key to solving the unusual pseudo-language from Dr. Breedlove's documentation could not be approached in the same manner as a mathematical quandary. After all, if there was a randomness to the usage of the ancient Greek as opposed to the modern without rhyme or reason, as Wesley confirmed, then perhaps the absence of a concrete pattern was in fact a pattern in itself.
What if the key to decrypting the so-called Arcado-Cypriot book laid not within the meaning of the words but in the words themselves? The very syllables of the words could be the solution. Taking in consideration that some of the antiquities in the Northead collection were far too pristine to been genuine articles and given that Wesley had talked about the book discussing "utopia" which was a concept not in use until 1200 AD, then one could also suppose a few other things when making a hypothesis. If the language within the largest book of the three was actually some type of code, then one could suppose that the unknown language within the two smaller books was not a language at all but rather messages which the larger book was meant to decrypt. The possibilities were tantalizing. She grew very excited about being able to her theories to Wesley to see if there was anything factual about her assumptions. How she wished she could read Greek so that she might offer more assistance!
"I hope you're not considering that dress, sugar plum," Lorne said with a quizzical look.
Fred snapped out of her thoughts with a start, "Oh! No, I wasn't-"
"Well, that's good news!" Lorne chortled, shutting the drawer with a look of disgust. "No offense but that dress could have made you look broad-hipped, and I did not think that was possible."
With a little snort through her nose, she took a seat near the shop window, "I think I'm going to let you do the shopping. My head is sort of elsewhere right now."
"Mm-hmm," Lorne gave her a knowing smile, "Your adorable brain is probably just swimmy over thoughts of a delicious slice of blonde crumb cake that you'll be sharing a table with tonight."
Fred giggled, watching Lorne expediently looking over dresses in the continuing search for her evening attire, "I was actually thinking about the possibility of decrypting a secret messages based on syllable patterns hidden within a larger message."
Lorne turned to her and winked, "Is that what the young people are calling it these days?" He then went to the shopkeeper and began to speak quietly to him. Returning a few moments later, he said, "I inquired to see if Monsieur Bertin and Monsieur Champollion had anything in the back that would be more fitting."
"I cannot thank you enough for accompanying me today," Fred smiled, genuinely grateful for Lorne's assistance.
"Nonsense," he replied with a flutter of his hands, "Watching Spike's jaw drop when he sees you will be thanks enough." He then added, "Besides, I needed to pick up a few items for Norman. He may be a demon but there's no reason he shouldn't be stylish."
Lorne's sudden attachment to the young demon intrigued Fred. "So you're intending to keep him then?" she inquired.
"Until the government starts opening demonic orphanages, I don't see another option. We couldn't just leave him out on the street to fend for himself. He's just like a human baby," Lorne replied, his voice filled with sympathy.
Fred agreed and added with a smile, "He is an awfully cute baby at that."
"I just wish he could explain to us why he was at that crime scene. I was able to catch a few glimpses into his aura when we first found him, but I could not see anything that could really help us. The coos and chirrups he makes don't really allow for me to get a full reading," Lorne said. "For a Valkren'nesh demon his approximate age, he won't develop the verbal skills necessary to physically tells us what has happened to him for several months yet."
"And by then it is unlikely that he will remember-"
"Monsieur Lorne!" a young, lanky foppishly dressed man called out as he entered the room from the back of the shop. He was accompanied by a similarly dressed middle-aged fellow and the shop keep who was carrying several very large dress boxes with obvious difficulty.
Lorne introduced Fred to Monsieur Bertin and his business partner Monsieur Champollion, explaining that no one in all of London could make a person, or demon, look more fabulous.
"I don't want anything too over-the-top," Fred said somewhat self-consciously.
"Over-the-top?" Oh, Mademoiselle!" Champollion chuckled good-naturedly. "Bertin et Champollion do not do "over-the-top!" We only do magnifique!" He then ushered their young shopkeep to bring the boxes forward, and he and his partner began picking through the dresses housed within the tissue paper, discarding each equally beautiful gown for being the wrong colour or wrong cut for Fred. The two men stopped suddenly, both looking at each other knowingly as they came to the final dress.
"Oui! And I think we have found the perfect one!" Monsieur Bertin said in triumph. He held up the gown for Fred's approval.
Monsieur Champollion pulled the dress out of its box and held it up to Fred as Monsieur Bertin turned her to face one of the floor length mirrors in the shop. Fred instantly fell in love with the dress. Her fingers gingerly touched the silk faille fabric, feeling the silk damask woven over it, but also unfortunately caught sight of the small tag with the price labelled.
Fred sighed, "It's beautiful, but I don't think I could afford it."
"I think we might be able to provide a discount on the price for a friend of our best customer Monsieur Lorne," Bertin said, eyeing the stack of shirts and fabric samples Lorne had acquired for his own purchases.
"Especially if it meant one of our humble creations could be worn by such a lovely lady," Champollion added in a way that would sound smarmy if said by anyone other than a Frenchman.
Looking over her shoulder, she smiled brightly, "What do you think, Lorne?"
Lorne returned the smile and said, "I think we're going to have to buy a throw rug to cover the dent in the parquet that Spike's jaw is going to make when it hits the floor."
*****
After his earlier conversation with Spike, Angel had brooded in his darkened study for several hours, listening as the rest of the house carried on without him. When he could stand it no longer, he took his leave of the townhouse entirely through the backdoor in the kitchen. After a quick hop over the garden wall, he was in the cramped alleyways of London, in narrow passages between the taller buildings, making it possible for any sunlight to penetrate.
Meandering carefully across the vast city, Angel found himself at the University of London. The sun was beginning to set, and a group of students were picnicking for supper on the grass of one of the university's perfectly manicured little parks near the lecture halls. Connor was amongst them and seemed to be participating in a lively and friendly debate on one topic or another.
Angel smiled seeing his son adjusting so well to academic life. Connor looked so at ease and happy. Angel felt a stab of guilt that came from the sadness of knowing his child was growing up and would inevitably become more distant from him as children often do from their parents as they have their own experiences in the world.
"Somehow I doubt that those boys have anything to do with the robbery and murders at the museum," Kate Lockley said suddenly from behind him.
"You've gotten very good at sneaking up on people, haven't you?" Angel spoke quietly.
"I learned from the best," she replied in a rather dry tone. She then implored yet again, "May I ask what is so important that you would risk setting out before the sun has even set?"
Angel gestured to Connor, "Do you see the boy with the longish hair?" When Kate nodded in the affirmative, he continued, "That is my son." The pride rose in his voice, being freer than ever before to talk about his child so casually.
"I was almost certain that a vampire fathering a child was an impossibility," Kate said, her expression softening. Her body language shifted, and the tension between herself and Angel lessened slightly.
"It should have been, and yet there he is," Angel answered. He went on to explain about Connor's miraculous birth and tragic kidnapping to Quor-Toth, the darkest of the other worldly realms. He left out certain specifics that were far too private, such as Connor accidental assistance in bringing forth an all-power entity that attempted to take control of the entire world. The boy had been manipulated, which could not have helped the confused state he was already in after returning from a literal Hell. Connor had really rallied in the last year, wanting to go to university and learn about living a life outside of hunting and killing.
"I suppose congratulations are in order," Kate said with a small smile. "From what you've said, your son may be the youngest person in the country to be accepted to university."
"Believe me when I say that he's been through enough for ten life times," Angel spoke sadly. "I'm afraid that I couldn't protect him from that, and I can't protect him now."
"Does he want your protection? He appears hearty enough though a touch on the thin side."
"He's very strong, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to make sure he's all right," Angel replied, watching as the students began packing up their picnic when the tesla lights on the lamp-posts flickered to life when the sun had set.
Kate pulled her coat around herself as the air grew chillier, "The problem with protecting people without their consent is that they inevitably come to resent it... especially when they are able to take care of themselves."
*****
After the sun was lazily swallowed up by the horizon, Spike was out to the Mews to retrieve the Seville. He was incredibly nervous after spending the day doing laundry, pressing his good trousers, and polishing his favourite boots. He had had quite a bit of trouble buffing his leather duster after finding it stuffed at the bottom of his trunk. He settled himself with thoughts of proving to Fred that his domestic skills were lacking after all, though she was still free to educate him further if she pleased.
Pulling the Seville up to the townhouse at Fairfax Street, Spike practically flew into the house to clean himself up. Less than an hour later, he was bathed and dressed for the evening. His two-toned hair was pulled back into a ponytail, still slightly damp. He waited for Fred in the foyer, fixing his cuffs with his duster over one arm, just as Lorne entered from the parlor with a cup of tea.
"My, my, you clean up rather well," Lorne said, sipping his Earl Grey.
"I do what I can," Spike smirked, putting on his duster. He hoped Fred would have an enjoyable time wth him. For the first time in years, his heart felt lighter, and thoughts of a new romantic attachment were not met with memories of the pain and anguish caused by his previous relationships. He then reminded himself that perhaps he and Fred might only be friends and that he might be getting ahead of himself. Still, there's no reason he couldn't provide her with a fair amount of entertainment and a good meal.
The sound of someone at the top of the stairs drew his attention away from his own thoughts. Fred descended the staircase in a rustle of scarlet silk and satin. Her hair was up and draped over one shoulder, a cascade of chestnut brown curls, the hair pin Spke had given her the night prior glinting in the light from the foyer lamps.
"You look stunning," Spike said almost breathlessly as he watched in fascination as she gracefully took the steps down to the landing.
Fred practically glowed from the compliment, smoothing her silk gloved hands over her gown self-consciously, "You really think so? You look wonderful too." She was not merely returning his compliment in kind as she took in the sight of him; she truly meant it.
Spike's smile exuded nonchalant confidence to the world, but to those that cared to look closer, the gleam in his blue eyes at the slightest praise belied his unassuredness in even the most obvious of his positive personal attributes.
Helping Fred slip into her velvet shawl, he said, "Well, we best be off. They won't hold my table all night."
Saying their good-byes to Lorne, they departed for the Jolly Dogs' Theatre. The streets were crowded with fresh-faced youths and other assorted merriment-seekers as Spike and Fred approached their destination. While most clubs had their own private spaces in which to operate, Spike's did not. The Slap Bang Club had taken the Jolly Dogs' as its semi-permanent home. The theatre was no theatre on its own account; it was a music and dance hall located in the rear of an actual theatre at the junction of New Castle, Alwych, and Drury Lane. It was cramped and poorly-lit, frequented by demons, humans, and magical practitioners alike, which is what drew Spike and his friends to the establishment. It featured musical performances along with Burlesque shows and vaudeville acts.
After being greeted by the doorman and checking their coats, they were quickly shown to Spike's table, a booth in a darkened corner, partially obscured by a hanging tapestry, with a decent view of the stage and the crowd. As Fred slid into her seat, Spike offered to get her a drink from the bar.
"What's your pleasure?" he asked.
Fred tucked a stray curl behind her ear, "Surprise me."
Smirking playfully, he replied, "I like a lady who's adventurous," and he was off into the sea of revelers in search of libations.
The interior of the Jolly Dogs' was an eclectic mix of theatre property, second-hand goods, and fire-sale fodder. Etruscan and Ionic columns lined the walls, though Fred was fairly certain that they were made of paper-mache and plaster and would probably be hauled away when the actual theatre held their next production of Coriolanus or Julius Caesar. Cheap, poorly-done reproductions of famous tapestries and paintings were hung haphazardly, even layered in some areas, to hide the cracked, peeling paint. Demons and humans fraternized together, laughing and conversing in the gaslight, a refreshing, if noisy, compliment to Fairfax Street.
Spike returned to the booth, setting her drink down on the chipped table. Fred gave a quizzical look at the strange-looking cocktail before her. It held a variety of different coloured liquids commingling without blending together.
"It's a Bijoux," Spike explained. "It's supposed to resemble a glass full of jewels. The gin's the diamonds, the vermouth's the rubies, and the chartreuse's the emeralds."
"That's delightful," Fred smiled, and then she looked down at the bright pink cocktail Spike was drinking, "Yours is quite pretty too."
"It's the house specialty- a Ragdoll," Spike laughed, catching her expression. "It's rhubarb, gooseberry, and vanilla." He assured her it was rather delicious, but she still appeared rather dubious.
As they sat chatting and having their drinks, the night's musical act was taking to the stage. Their instruments were kitted out with tesla coils and electro-accoustical transducers, which instantly captured Fred's interest. Acrobatic performers tumbled and contorted to the pulsing rhythm in brightly coloured costumes while the female and male singers crooned, creating an almost hypnotic atmosphere.
Over the noise of the music and the crowd, Fred said, "I must admit that I pictured most clubs as being a little more... reserved."
"You mean, a bunch of pompous ponces sitting around smoking pipes in overstuffed armchairs and talking about the weather, politics, or the price of sugar in February and what all?" Spike shrugged. "I'd rather be hung by the neck than spend an hour in one of those. I'll leave those establishments for the Wyndam-Pryces of the world, thank you."
"Don't be so harsh on Wesley," Fred chided. "I think you two are more alike than you think. Perhaps if you put your heads together, we could glean clues faster in our cases, like back at the museum. You noted something no one else did."
Spike shifted in his seat, uncomfortable and hoping to switch the topic of the conversation, "I was hoping to introduce you to the rest of the Slap Bang Club, but I must admit the crowds have been a bit thin as of late."
Gazing out over the thick mass of bodies dancing, Fred marveled at the notion that it was smallish for such an already cramped space. Throwing back the rest of his drink, Spike held out his hand and asked Fred to dance with him. She nodded and edged into the center of the swell, her hand tightly holding on to his. The closeness to him, the press of other bodies, and the heat of the room instantly made her face flush. She tried to talk above the roar, making conversation as a comfort mechanism, trying to convey her earlier theorems about syllable codes in the books stolen from the British Museum. Even with his vampiric hearing, Spike found it hard to focus on all of what she was saying in combination with the background noise, though he had a sneaking suspicion he probably would not have understood it anyway with words like "linguistic computation algorithms" and "polynomial syntactic pattern recognition" being bandied about.
Fred felt Spike's hands tighten on her waist as he lifted her up and twirled her around as though she weighed nothing. As her shoes clacked on the dance floor as she was brought back down to earth, Fred felt light-headed, pressing herself to Spike's body for balance. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and let his lips linger there. She searched for something to say, but watched as Spike's eyes flicked over her head, distracted by something in the distance.
"There's George!" Spike said as Fred turned to see what appeared to be a large, floating purple fish near the back exit of the theatre.
Navigating through the crowd, Spike attempted to get George's attention, even going so far as to try to call out telepathically to the Splendeen demon, to no avail. With the whirlwind of dancing demons and humans crashing into him from all sides, Spike could not keep his gaze on George and soon he seemed to vanish before they reached the location where he had been. However, the exit door was ajar, and it gave Spike a strange, suspiciously ominous feeling. It wasn't like George to ignore him and run- or float- off.
"Would it be a mistake to ask you to wait here?" he said.
Fred replied rather dryly, "Only if you actually ask."
"Right then," Spike said giving her hand a kiss. "To be honest, I feel a little safer knowing you're watching my back than if it were Angel."
Cautiously, he pushed the door open and exited the Jolly Dogs' into a sparsely lit alley way between it and a larger theatre, a crescendo of trumpets could be heard from within during some play or another. Fred's hand stayed on his shoulder, which was comforting. Spike tried to sense where George had gotten to, but discerning a single scent, even one of an enormous fish, was difficult with all the Londoners milling about in the streets. Just as a thunderous round of applause signaled the end of the play in the adjacent theatre, Fred's hand was violently wrenched from his shoulder. Before Spike could react, his head was slammed with inhuman force into the brick wall next to the exit door. His eyesight became fuzzy, and he struggled to keep his balance, forced to take a knee.
Through the haziness, Spike could barely see as Fred struggled with a cloaked figure. She was able to deliver a particularly strong blow to her captor's face with her elbow, momentarily escaping his grasp while he attempted to staunch the bleeding from his injured nose. As the shadow of his hulking attacker loomed closer, Spike launched himself at him, knocking the behemoth to the ground and landing a volley of punches. The double-vision he was experiencing would not allow him to see exactly what he was fighting, feeling the blood ooze down the side of his face. Spike mentally slapped himself for not remembering to bring his gatling wrist-strap or any weapons for that matter. He had been more concerned with creating a perfect evening for Fred than reminding himself of the simple fact that things seldom, if ever, turned out perfectly for him or his associates.
While for a few moments he had bested the demon that attacked him, Spike soon found himself pinned to the pavement, taking a barrage of blows to the face. He saw Fred had not been able to escape her assailant either as she was dragged down the alley to a green cab where a few reinforcements waited, using their vehicle to hide the goings-on from any passerbys out in the street. Spike scrambled to get to her aid, growling as he struggled. However, the back of his head was gripped tightly by his attacker before he could even get to his feet. Spike's face was smashed into cobblestones, his skin instantly splashed with his own blood as he felt his nose break. The last thing he heard as his vision grew darker and he fell into unconsciousness was Fred screaming his name before her voice was lost in the din and commotion of the busy urban night.
To be continued...
Previous Chapters :: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five.
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As far as the rest of the story is concerned. I just think the following is adorable:
Although I'm sad that their date was ruined I am glad some more action has happened and can't wait for the next chapters.
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Thanks for reading! I hope to have the new chapters up soon! :D
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Watched the vid that was attached to this a while ago and favorited it I liked it so much.