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Title: Paper Pusher
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fenderlove
Pairing: Spike/Fred
Warnings: This chapter is rate PG for language.
Summary: This is a new ongoing series forsockmonkeyhere's Fantasy Island request on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
nekid_spike. The events of this story include plot points from Angel: After the Fall. Spike is working at a medical examiner's office to earn extra cash after being brought back from Hell. Gunn arrives with a proposition that Spike can't refuse.
Paper Pusher
Chapter Eight
The sun had disappeared behind the forest of concrete and steel that was the Los Angeles skyline, and for the vampires of the city, it was tangible. Spike heaved a sigh of relief as he waited for Sunday's newspapers to be brought to the loading dock. Even when he wasn't in direct sunlight, his skin prickled and itched constantly until night had fallen. It was particularly annoying when he had been stuck in Hell where day and night coexisted.
Spike nodded to Gary the forklift driver as a few palettes of newspapers were loaded into the back of the delivery truck. Gary was a Narbrach Beast and one of several demons on the payroll of the Arcane Press, a cheap tawdry rag of a paper that had sprung up in the months after Los Angeles had been restored to a less hellish reality. Surprisingly, sales were good as average folk were eager for any story that would reinforce that it wasn't just mass hysteria that made everyone believe that they had been enslaved in a dystopian nightmareland.
Perhaps it was years of running his own operations and acting on whims that made Spike blind to the fact that demons were out in the world, working "normal" jobs and supporting families just as humans did. He admired them for how easy they made it seem, but it probably wasn't as lackadaisical as it appeared. Narbrach Beasts typically were heart-reapers, so sipping coffee and looking at the receptionist's ultra-sound photos shouldn't have been in their nature, yet there was Gary who made it look so simple.
After signing off on the shipping manifest, Spike climbed into the delivery truck and headed off on the route he'd driven every Tuesday and Saturday evenings into the early morning hours before dawn. He idly wondered how long he could keep doing these jobs. To Spike, it felt like he spent more time doing Average Joe jobs than actual detective-ing or evil-fighting, which made him both apprehensive and disappointed. There was a worry that had been needling his brain that he was growing too comfortable in his routine. Maybe this was punishment for all those times he wished he could retire.
Dropping off the first bundle of papers at a small convenience store, Spike returned to his truck with fresh coffee. The little old lady who ran the store was always sure to have a cup ready for him, and it was much better stuff than what they offered out of the lime-scaled pot back at the loading dock. The traffic was lighter than usual as Spike drove block after block, filling news racks in shops and vending machines with papers emblazoned with the headline "Big Foot Spotted in Aisle Nine!" with a hazy cellphone-captured photo of a Big Foot-esque creature wearing a baseball cap looking at canned food at some mini-mart. It didn't matter to the writer of the story that "Big Foot" was actually a Ni'hishma'gow demon doing his grocery shopping; Big Foot sold more papers.
Spike sighed and felt off. He didn't feel right being so complacent and accepting of the turn his life had taken. Was this really how he wanted to spend all of eternity- Spike the paperboy, Spike the librarian, Spike the night-watchman, Spike the janitor? What happened to Spike the Champion? The vampire had to admit to himself that being "Spike the Champion" didn't pay his rent, and it certainly didn't keep the fridge stocked with fresh blood. Admittedly, uber-evil had been on the downslope of things after Los Angeles had returned from Hell; crime, in general, throughout the city had taken a nosedive. His supernatural detective agency wasn't really needed at the moment. The only job he'd had in weeks was to investigate a supposed haunting that turned out to be a very large infestation of rats. Taking all these odd jobs kept Spike comfortable and well-fed, but something about it was all wrong.
"Even though it's not one of my many virtues, maybe I just have to be patient. Things will pick up..." Spike nearly smacked himself in the head, "What the hell am I thinking? I just wished for evil so that I can play hero. I should be relieved that my services aren't needed. Some White Hat I am..."
Just as Spike was chiding himself for letting his frustration get the better of him, a flicker of purple in front of his truck caused him to slam on the brakes. The vampire's body went rigid, eyes clenched shut, waiting for an impending collision, listening to the tires squeal to a stop. Thankfully, there were no cars following behind the truck, and he did not feel an impact of hitting whatever leapt in front of the vehicle. Opening his eyes, Spike was surprised at the relatively empty street save for the seven foot tall figure in a billowing helmed cloak made of smoke and inky purple-black fire standing in the middle of it. For a century old vampire, nothing was shocking to him anymore, but this was new.
The figure raised a hand covered in a mail gauntlet that shimmered in the flickering firelight that surrounded it. It waved congenially at Spike as if greeting a favored neighbor.
"Hello!" came a rather girlish voice from inside the cloak of flame.
This was definitely new.
*****
Spike gripped the steering wheel of the truck as he continued on his delivery run, stealing glances at his unexpected passenger from the top of her lilac-colored hair to her owl-like taloned feet. Her cloak was no longer a-flame, and she sat in the passenger seat in full battle armor, humming and bouncing along to whatever song was on the radio, the top of her head brushing against the truck interior.
"I think the old lady slipped something in my coffee," Spike muttered to himself, not fully believing what he was seeing.
The she-demon pouted, looking rather disappointed, "You don't remember me?"
Spike's jaw ticked as he inhaled a sharp breath, "No, and I think I would, given that you look like a living Japanese cartoon."
And indeed, the female creature was a pixie-like tendril of a thing. Her appearance was humanoid, except that her yellow eyes were twice the proportional size they should have been and her nose was nearly non-existant.
"Not many people call upon me these days," she replied, tapping a chainmail-gloved finger on her breastplate, "but I thought that the guy whose girlfriend I saved would remember me."
The scent of frankincense wafted under Spike's nose and triggered a memory. "Eligor?" Spike's eyes widened as he got a better look at the engraving on her armor. It was the Cross of du Lac.
Eligor, Wretched Master of Decay, Bringer of War and Grand Obscenity, Finder of Hidden Things, Patron of Poisoners and Pariahs, giggled like a teenaged schoolgirl.
"I have to say," Spike said with a hint of nervousness in his voice, "I've never met so many strange people in such a short period of time."
"Surely you've met a great deal of strange and wondrous beings in all your years. What makes your new finds so different?"
Pulling over at another delivery stop, Spike turned to the ancient demon, "Well, I've never seen someone actually look like Sailor Moon before."
Eligor blinked blankly at him, "I would show you my true guise, but I fear it would cause your eyes to melt and your blood to congeal into maggots. And I like your blood," she leaned over, placing an armored hand heavily on his arm, "And I like your eyes. They are the same color as Snerd's."
Spike found himself pressed against the driver's side door, "Come again?"
"Snerd is my faithful steed. You would like him," the demon grinned, and Spike could see more than one row of crooked fangy teeth. She bounced back into her seat, playing with the passenger side visor and the glove compartment. "Does Illyria enjoy riding in here?"
Shaking his head, unsure if he had understood Eligor correctly, Spike started, "Illyria hasn't-"
"Doubt it," Eligor stuck her forked tongue out as she looked at herself in the visor mirror. "The God-King does not suffer such trifles. Of course, which one of us is stuck in the feeble body of a human vessel and which is able to take to take full advantage of our powers without any constraints?"
"You and Illyria... know one another?" This did not bode well in Spike's opinion.
Eligor sat up a little straighter, holding her head up in a haughty fashion, "We traversed realities in endless siege, battling for one another, against one another, occasionally at the same time, feared and loved by our armies in equal measure. My kingdom was located in modern day New Jersey-"
"I've been to Jersey once. Did it smell like BodMan body spray and disappointment in your time too?" Spike asked, but upon seeing the rather irritated expression on the Old One's face, he quickly added, "Please continue."
"After the Powers left for the Beyondspace, we were free to reign over the Primordium, loosely organized, but fiercely loyal when the mood struck us. Illyria and I were a few amongst many, watching as mortal beasts wriggling up from the muck, rendering demons useless and impure by the mingling of their bodies and blood," Eligor gave Spike a pointed stare, "Even the Turok-Han were no more. They had no choice but to exchange their essence with humans as they were no longer able to find mates of their own ilk and were forced underground."
"Yes, yes, I'm a terrible half-breed creature of darkness, not worthy to be in the presence of your pure-bloodedness," the vampire rolled his eyes, "I've heard it all from Illyria... and Voldemort."
Eligor fiddled with the door lock, a little pout appearing on her countenance, "There are days when I wish that I had found peace in the Deeper Well, but sadly it appears that not even eternal rest is sacred anymore."
"I don't think that Illyria is too disappointed about not being stuffed in a box until the end of days. She'd had a bit of trouble adjusting, but it's probably preferable to the alternative," Spike watched the ancient demon's movements, languid yet pensive. Having her in a confined space with him was not exactly cozy.
"Do you presume that you could ever understand what it is like to stand at the precipice between worlds to be worshipped by untold millions of demons at your command, and then to suddenly be forced into an unworthy vessel on a single plane of existence completely devoid of anything familiar? We are Gods and to be anything less is unacceptable," Eligor's voice took on a dangerous edge, her yellow eyes glowing slightly. It raised the hair on Spike's neck.
Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something vulgar at Eligor's reference to Fred being "unworthy," Spike replied, "I take it that you never invested in a stone timeshare in the center of the earth then?"
"I won't be used by inferior humans to Ascend to a level too far above their station," Eligor sniffed, but after a pause, she glanced at Spike, "Of course, it's not Illyria's fault that the Deeper Well became a funerary temple. Illyria had a fine death in battle, and I hope to one day be afforded the same opportunity."
"You want me to battle you?" Spike quirked an eyebrow, not really sure why the Old One had sought him out.
Eligor laughed loudly; it made her look more human, "Vampire, I could eviscerate you where you sit." Taking a deep breath to compose herself, the demon responded, "One of the first impurities to taint this world was the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart, and they waged battle against all they came across. It pains me to see how Illyria has been misused by lessers."
Spike tilted his head, "You're worried about Illyria."
"I know that you have had Illyria's interests at heart, and I warn you that there are far more things at play at present than you could possibly dream of."
"You may need to spell this out for me-" Spike began, but was cut short by a sudden crash above them. "The hell?"
There was a loud thud on the roof of the truck, followed by the clattering of hoof-beats and a leathery flapping noise. Eligor began to open the passenger side door, but Spike stopped her.
"Hey, where are you going? You can't just give me this whole cryptic routine and then bugger off," Spike reached over and grabbed her arm. Probably not the smartest idea, but Eligor merely seemed amused by his forcefulness.
"You're very concerned with helping bring your lost comrade back into your fold, but have you considered how this will effect Illyria?" the Old One said slowly, as if speaking to a small child.
"Gunn told me that Illyria was in on his plan..."
Realization dawned on him that he had not seen Illyria in months, never had direct confirmation that she even knew of what was going on with their plan to bring Fred back into her body. Spike shook his head, feeling that his worst fears were coming true.
"You should go to Illyria," Eligor spoke softly as a great skeletal steed dismounted from the top of the newspaper delivery truck. It looked like something out of the Musee Fragonard- flayed with all the muscle, bone, and sinew exposed. "This is Snerd," she petted it as if it were a normal horse, "He was a gift from my brother and Illyria." Reaching into her billowing cloak, Eligor pulled out what looked like a handful of bloody tissue and offered it to Snerd. "Would you like to ride him?"
"No thanks, he looks really... sticky," Spike answered, watching the beastly skinless horse lap at the bloodied mass like it was a sugar cube.
Once the blood was cleaned away, a small cross was revealed in the palm of Eligor's hand which she gently dropped into the passenger seat of the truck. "Consider it payment from one ferryman to another."
Eligor pulled herself onto Snerd's back, and they had soon taken to the skies, flying off into the night, leaving Spike horribly bewildered and confused. He looked at the small gold cross glinting on the seat next to him.
"When are things going to stop getting weird?" Spike muttered to himself as he licked the thumb and forefinger of his right hand in preparation to pick up the cross. He was surprised, however, to find that it did not burn him, and he slipped the trinket into his pocket after a moment of trepidation.
At least Spike had his own mission now instead of waiting around for someone else to call- he needed to find Illyria. How hard could it be to locate an ex-God-King in Los Angeles?
*****
Outside the city, along the highway connecting L.A. to Las Vegas, was a long and lonely stretch of desert with signs of civilization far and few for several miles. It was on that road that the Pair-A-Dice Motel was located, a throwback to another era. The motel was a kitschy offbeat rent-by-the-week affair, the "rooms" being individual wigwams set up in a row on an astroturfed lot. It was really very garish against its bleak desert setting along with being an unlikely place for a souled vampire to take up residence, but that's what made it perfect for Angel.
Back in the 1940's, Angel had actually stayed at the Pair-A-Dice while on his way to Los Angeles in the very same teepee-style hut that he was currently residing. It had been renovated to attract the same kind of novelty-seekers that it had originally. As far as he knew, the only other guests were a couple from Wichita, and Angel desired a little brooding time to himself; he'd earned it.
Connor was off at university, getting his life back together and reacquainting himself with the O'Reillys, his adoptive family. Spike was trying his hand at playing detective (and Angel secretly hoped that the little peroxided smartass was learning a lesson about responsibility somewhere along the way), and Lorne, Gunn, and Illyria had gone off to who-knows-where. It was as good a chance as any to curl up in a quiet, warm place with Sartre's L'âge de raison and contemplate his unlife morosely until his soul was content with a certain feeling of penance in the solitude.
A knock at the door interrupted his existential musings, and Angel got up from bed to answer it, checking the clock as he did. It was unusual for anyone to knock on the door at all let alone in the pre-dawn hours; even the cleaning lady had given up trying to get in after a few days.
"Gunn?" Angel was stunned to see the young man standing outside the wigwam, and immediately his thoughts turned to something catastrophic as he unlatched the chain on the door, "Is it Connor? Has something happened?"
"Everything's fine," Gunn said, forcing a small smile, "Better than fine actually."
Angel had a skeptical expression, allowing Gunn to enter his room, "So you tracked me down in the middle of nowhere to tell me that... everything's fine."
Gunn sat down in a small armchair in the corner of the hut, "I've been doing a lot of soul-searching ever since, you know, I got mine back. Had a lot of time to mull things over."
Shutting the door, Angel took a seat on the edge of his bed to hear the man out. He could understand what Gunn had gone through- the struggle being right and wrong, the reemergence of a soul after committing horrible acts, and having one's human body restored after being used to the strength and speed that a vampiric body afforded. However, while Angel had a century to become re-accustomed to his soul before he experienced a day of once again being human, Gunn had everything thrust back on him at once. The vampire did not envy what that must have been like.
"I can suggest some reading material, not pamphlets or anything, but there are a few books that have helped me cope with things over the years," Angel offered.
Gunn nodded curtly, "I have been thinking a lot about what you said when we were in Hell, about how a man isn't measured by his mistakes but by what actions he takes about them. I'm ready to take action. I want to fix things."
"You want to make amends?" Angel really wasn't prepared for this conversation. He always thought he'd be having it with Spike, but the bottle-blonde pest seemed to cope unfairly well by outward appearances.
"We both know that you can never make amends," Gunn sighed as he reached up to take off his eyepatch. He could see better than he had been able to months before, but he'd probably never have his sight back the way it was; in a way, it was tragically metaphorical. He gingerly touched the vertical scar on his brow, "But we keep trying, right? That's what heroes do- they try."
Angel smiled sadly, "I like to think that they do."
"Well, I'm ready to start, and I want you to know how sorry I am for you, for Connor, for everything that happened," Gunn's voice was sincere and genuine. "We all make choices in our lives that set things in motion that we never intend, and sometimes we deserve the blame for what happens, and sometimes we don't, but there's always blame." He continued, "I blamed you for me getting turned into a vampire, but even before that, I blamed you for Fred's death, for us even being in Wolfram and Hart, but it wasn't your fault. I made my decision to sign a contract, and I chose to let the bad guys into my brain so that I could feel more intelligent, and because of that, Fred died."
"You were being used," Angel replied quietly, but his eyes spoke volumes, "It won't lessen your guilt to think of it that way, and it shouldn't, but it's the truth. If they hadn't used you, they would have found another way to get Illyria's sarcophagus through Customs."
Gunn listened intently and sighed, "Do you worry about our contracts? If it wasn't for some holy intervention, Wesley would still be walking, or floating, around out there, tied to Wolfram and Hart forever."
"Honestly, I try not to think about it because if I do," he didn't really want to say it, "I start to wonder if what we saw was real, and maybe Wesley is trapped somewhere doing their bidding. Hell, there are times when I wake up afraid that they still might have control over Fred." Angel watched Gunn's body stiffen as he said that, "We all have thoughts that we want to believe aren't true, but it's just not feasible to know one hundred percent one way or another."
"If you could stop the doubts, make sure that that could never happen, you would," Gunn phrased this somewhere between a statement and question.
"Of course, I would," Angel said somewhat defensively. "I just don't see how that's in our realm of possibilities right now."
"I have the contracts."
Angel boggled for a moment, "You have- That's impossible."
"No, it's just improbable," Gunn leaned forward a little, "I have copies of the original contracts, and I've found a way to break them."
There was a millisecond of relief that washed over Angel's face before he returned to his earlier skepticism, "Break them? You do realize that no one's been able to do that besides the Senior Partners, right?"
"We found a way to free Lindsey from their prison dimension, and that was supposed to be impossible."
"I seem to recall that situation only resolving itself with you getting your heart cut out of your chest on a daily basis," Angel replied drily.
"But I got out too. I just needed Illyria taking out an unstoppable killing machine to do it," Gunn handed Angel a small business card, "And this is going to be much simpler."
"Hargreaves and Sons... Gunn, I've heard about these people, and none of it is good," Angel warned.
"Hear me out," the other man stated, "Wolfram and Hart never fired you, which means technically you are still CEO of the Los Angeles branch of the firm. The Senior Partners can't risk breaking their only tie to you by rescinding your contract. You have the power to fire people. The paperwork is being drawn up as we speak; all we'll need is your signature."
Angel got up from the bed and walked to his mini-fridge, putting a nervous hand on it. It was stocked with weeks old pigs' blood and cheap beer from a local gas station, the meals of a vampiric pilgrim. "When you said simple, I didn't think you meant ridiculously simple, emphasis on the ridiculous."
"You owe yourself to give it a shot, and if not for yourself, then for us. Give us all the pink slip. Even though the building is gone, Wolfram and Hart is still here, and the dimensional link between the Senior Partners and Los Angeles remains as active as ever. I've seen it."
Realizing that he had been staring blankly at the fridge, Angel turned, "You don't know what you've saw."
"Spike was there; he could-"
"You brought Spike in on this?" Angel grew angry, not knowing what Gunn was playing at.
"Don't sound so surprised," Gunn spat, "At least he can be found when someone needs him; he hasn't gone running off without a word so that he can have a vacation."
Angel glared at him, but didn't reply.
"Do you know who your son calls when he needs help with a term paper? Or when he wants to hang out? Or who he spars with at the gym? Take a wild guess," the vitriol in Gunn's implication was biting.
"You're not goading me," Angel responded, letting out a heavy breath. "If you want me to help investigate what you've got going on with these contracts before you proceed, I will, but I don't have a good feeling about this."
Gunn stood up suddenly, "Fine. We'll investigate, like the old days."
As he was about to leave the motel room, Gunn doubled over in pain, clutching his eye with a short groan. Angel leaned down to help him, placing a hand on the other man's bicep. Reaching into his pocket, Gunn flipped out a can of mace he had swiped from Anne's purse and sprayed Angel square in the face. Recoiling in pain, Angel crumpled to the floor, roaring as the chemicals burned his skin and eyes.
"You don't trust me. Can't blame you," Gunn took a few steps back so as not to be effected by the pepper-spray as well, "but this is for Fred."
Angel blindly swiped at Gunn's legs, attempting to gain his footing at the same time, lunging towards the sound of the his voice. His vampiric features had distended, and he growled like a caged animal.
"Whatever scheme you think is going to magically fix everything, Fred wouldn't want it this way," Angel's attempt at speechifying was cut short as Gunn rammed a stun gun into his throat. The vampire's body spasmed, and he let out a gurgling noise as his teeth clenched down. It took two more shocks before Angel lost consciousness and fell slack to the floor.
"I really am sorry," Gunn slipped the taser into his pocket as he stood over Angel's prone form, "but this is the only way."
After manacling his former boss, Gunn dragged Angel out to his truck, loading him into the passenger side and draping the comforter from the motel room bed over him to protect the vampire from the swiftly approaching sunrise. Angel would forgive him once he realized that the Hargreaves could really help them and Fred was back with them as she always should have been.
Back through the desert, Gunn drove towards Los Angeles, watching the sun appear in a pink and green sky between mounds of earth. By this time tomorrow, everything would be all right, and all the ugly dealings Gunn had bargained in to get this far would be worth it.
To be continued...
Previous Chapters: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six :: Seven.
x-posted onnekid_spike and darker_spike
Author:
fenderlovePairing: Spike/Fred
Warnings: This chapter is rate PG for language.
Summary: This is a new ongoing series for
sockmonkeyhere's Fantasy Island request on nekid_spike. The events of this story include plot points from Angel: After the Fall. Spike is working at a medical examiner's office to earn extra cash after being brought back from Hell. Gunn arrives with a proposition that Spike can't refuse.Paper Pusher
Chapter Eight
The sun had disappeared behind the forest of concrete and steel that was the Los Angeles skyline, and for the vampires of the city, it was tangible. Spike heaved a sigh of relief as he waited for Sunday's newspapers to be brought to the loading dock. Even when he wasn't in direct sunlight, his skin prickled and itched constantly until night had fallen. It was particularly annoying when he had been stuck in Hell where day and night coexisted.
Spike nodded to Gary the forklift driver as a few palettes of newspapers were loaded into the back of the delivery truck. Gary was a Narbrach Beast and one of several demons on the payroll of the Arcane Press, a cheap tawdry rag of a paper that had sprung up in the months after Los Angeles had been restored to a less hellish reality. Surprisingly, sales were good as average folk were eager for any story that would reinforce that it wasn't just mass hysteria that made everyone believe that they had been enslaved in a dystopian nightmareland.
Perhaps it was years of running his own operations and acting on whims that made Spike blind to the fact that demons were out in the world, working "normal" jobs and supporting families just as humans did. He admired them for how easy they made it seem, but it probably wasn't as lackadaisical as it appeared. Narbrach Beasts typically were heart-reapers, so sipping coffee and looking at the receptionist's ultra-sound photos shouldn't have been in their nature, yet there was Gary who made it look so simple.
After signing off on the shipping manifest, Spike climbed into the delivery truck and headed off on the route he'd driven every Tuesday and Saturday evenings into the early morning hours before dawn. He idly wondered how long he could keep doing these jobs. To Spike, it felt like he spent more time doing Average Joe jobs than actual detective-ing or evil-fighting, which made him both apprehensive and disappointed. There was a worry that had been needling his brain that he was growing too comfortable in his routine. Maybe this was punishment for all those times he wished he could retire.
Dropping off the first bundle of papers at a small convenience store, Spike returned to his truck with fresh coffee. The little old lady who ran the store was always sure to have a cup ready for him, and it was much better stuff than what they offered out of the lime-scaled pot back at the loading dock. The traffic was lighter than usual as Spike drove block after block, filling news racks in shops and vending machines with papers emblazoned with the headline "Big Foot Spotted in Aisle Nine!" with a hazy cellphone-captured photo of a Big Foot-esque creature wearing a baseball cap looking at canned food at some mini-mart. It didn't matter to the writer of the story that "Big Foot" was actually a Ni'hishma'gow demon doing his grocery shopping; Big Foot sold more papers.
Spike sighed and felt off. He didn't feel right being so complacent and accepting of the turn his life had taken. Was this really how he wanted to spend all of eternity- Spike the paperboy, Spike the librarian, Spike the night-watchman, Spike the janitor? What happened to Spike the Champion? The vampire had to admit to himself that being "Spike the Champion" didn't pay his rent, and it certainly didn't keep the fridge stocked with fresh blood. Admittedly, uber-evil had been on the downslope of things after Los Angeles had returned from Hell; crime, in general, throughout the city had taken a nosedive. His supernatural detective agency wasn't really needed at the moment. The only job he'd had in weeks was to investigate a supposed haunting that turned out to be a very large infestation of rats. Taking all these odd jobs kept Spike comfortable and well-fed, but something about it was all wrong.
"Even though it's not one of my many virtues, maybe I just have to be patient. Things will pick up..." Spike nearly smacked himself in the head, "What the hell am I thinking? I just wished for evil so that I can play hero. I should be relieved that my services aren't needed. Some White Hat I am..."
Just as Spike was chiding himself for letting his frustration get the better of him, a flicker of purple in front of his truck caused him to slam on the brakes. The vampire's body went rigid, eyes clenched shut, waiting for an impending collision, listening to the tires squeal to a stop. Thankfully, there were no cars following behind the truck, and he did not feel an impact of hitting whatever leapt in front of the vehicle. Opening his eyes, Spike was surprised at the relatively empty street save for the seven foot tall figure in a billowing helmed cloak made of smoke and inky purple-black fire standing in the middle of it. For a century old vampire, nothing was shocking to him anymore, but this was new.
The figure raised a hand covered in a mail gauntlet that shimmered in the flickering firelight that surrounded it. It waved congenially at Spike as if greeting a favored neighbor.
"Hello!" came a rather girlish voice from inside the cloak of flame.
This was definitely new.
*****
Spike gripped the steering wheel of the truck as he continued on his delivery run, stealing glances at his unexpected passenger from the top of her lilac-colored hair to her owl-like taloned feet. Her cloak was no longer a-flame, and she sat in the passenger seat in full battle armor, humming and bouncing along to whatever song was on the radio, the top of her head brushing against the truck interior.
"I think the old lady slipped something in my coffee," Spike muttered to himself, not fully believing what he was seeing.
The she-demon pouted, looking rather disappointed, "You don't remember me?"
Spike's jaw ticked as he inhaled a sharp breath, "No, and I think I would, given that you look like a living Japanese cartoon."
And indeed, the female creature was a pixie-like tendril of a thing. Her appearance was humanoid, except that her yellow eyes were twice the proportional size they should have been and her nose was nearly non-existant.
"Not many people call upon me these days," she replied, tapping a chainmail-gloved finger on her breastplate, "but I thought that the guy whose girlfriend I saved would remember me."
The scent of frankincense wafted under Spike's nose and triggered a memory. "Eligor?" Spike's eyes widened as he got a better look at the engraving on her armor. It was the Cross of du Lac.
Eligor, Wretched Master of Decay, Bringer of War and Grand Obscenity, Finder of Hidden Things, Patron of Poisoners and Pariahs, giggled like a teenaged schoolgirl.
"I have to say," Spike said with a hint of nervousness in his voice, "I've never met so many strange people in such a short period of time."
"Surely you've met a great deal of strange and wondrous beings in all your years. What makes your new finds so different?"
Pulling over at another delivery stop, Spike turned to the ancient demon, "Well, I've never seen someone actually look like Sailor Moon before."
Eligor blinked blankly at him, "I would show you my true guise, but I fear it would cause your eyes to melt and your blood to congeal into maggots. And I like your blood," she leaned over, placing an armored hand heavily on his arm, "And I like your eyes. They are the same color as Snerd's."
Spike found himself pressed against the driver's side door, "Come again?"
"Snerd is my faithful steed. You would like him," the demon grinned, and Spike could see more than one row of crooked fangy teeth. She bounced back into her seat, playing with the passenger side visor and the glove compartment. "Does Illyria enjoy riding in here?"
Shaking his head, unsure if he had understood Eligor correctly, Spike started, "Illyria hasn't-"
"Doubt it," Eligor stuck her forked tongue out as she looked at herself in the visor mirror. "The God-King does not suffer such trifles. Of course, which one of us is stuck in the feeble body of a human vessel and which is able to take to take full advantage of our powers without any constraints?"
"You and Illyria... know one another?" This did not bode well in Spike's opinion.
Eligor sat up a little straighter, holding her head up in a haughty fashion, "We traversed realities in endless siege, battling for one another, against one another, occasionally at the same time, feared and loved by our armies in equal measure. My kingdom was located in modern day New Jersey-"
"I've been to Jersey once. Did it smell like BodMan body spray and disappointment in your time too?" Spike asked, but upon seeing the rather irritated expression on the Old One's face, he quickly added, "Please continue."
"After the Powers left for the Beyondspace, we were free to reign over the Primordium, loosely organized, but fiercely loyal when the mood struck us. Illyria and I were a few amongst many, watching as mortal beasts wriggling up from the muck, rendering demons useless and impure by the mingling of their bodies and blood," Eligor gave Spike a pointed stare, "Even the Turok-Han were no more. They had no choice but to exchange their essence with humans as they were no longer able to find mates of their own ilk and were forced underground."
"Yes, yes, I'm a terrible half-breed creature of darkness, not worthy to be in the presence of your pure-bloodedness," the vampire rolled his eyes, "I've heard it all from Illyria... and Voldemort."
Eligor fiddled with the door lock, a little pout appearing on her countenance, "There are days when I wish that I had found peace in the Deeper Well, but sadly it appears that not even eternal rest is sacred anymore."
"I don't think that Illyria is too disappointed about not being stuffed in a box until the end of days. She'd had a bit of trouble adjusting, but it's probably preferable to the alternative," Spike watched the ancient demon's movements, languid yet pensive. Having her in a confined space with him was not exactly cozy.
"Do you presume that you could ever understand what it is like to stand at the precipice between worlds to be worshipped by untold millions of demons at your command, and then to suddenly be forced into an unworthy vessel on a single plane of existence completely devoid of anything familiar? We are Gods and to be anything less is unacceptable," Eligor's voice took on a dangerous edge, her yellow eyes glowing slightly. It raised the hair on Spike's neck.
Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something vulgar at Eligor's reference to Fred being "unworthy," Spike replied, "I take it that you never invested in a stone timeshare in the center of the earth then?"
"I won't be used by inferior humans to Ascend to a level too far above their station," Eligor sniffed, but after a pause, she glanced at Spike, "Of course, it's not Illyria's fault that the Deeper Well became a funerary temple. Illyria had a fine death in battle, and I hope to one day be afforded the same opportunity."
"You want me to battle you?" Spike quirked an eyebrow, not really sure why the Old One had sought him out.
Eligor laughed loudly; it made her look more human, "Vampire, I could eviscerate you where you sit." Taking a deep breath to compose herself, the demon responded, "One of the first impurities to taint this world was the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart, and they waged battle against all they came across. It pains me to see how Illyria has been misused by lessers."
Spike tilted his head, "You're worried about Illyria."
"I know that you have had Illyria's interests at heart, and I warn you that there are far more things at play at present than you could possibly dream of."
"You may need to spell this out for me-" Spike began, but was cut short by a sudden crash above them. "The hell?"
There was a loud thud on the roof of the truck, followed by the clattering of hoof-beats and a leathery flapping noise. Eligor began to open the passenger side door, but Spike stopped her.
"Hey, where are you going? You can't just give me this whole cryptic routine and then bugger off," Spike reached over and grabbed her arm. Probably not the smartest idea, but Eligor merely seemed amused by his forcefulness.
"You're very concerned with helping bring your lost comrade back into your fold, but have you considered how this will effect Illyria?" the Old One said slowly, as if speaking to a small child.
"Gunn told me that Illyria was in on his plan..."
Realization dawned on him that he had not seen Illyria in months, never had direct confirmation that she even knew of what was going on with their plan to bring Fred back into her body. Spike shook his head, feeling that his worst fears were coming true.
"You should go to Illyria," Eligor spoke softly as a great skeletal steed dismounted from the top of the newspaper delivery truck. It looked like something out of the Musee Fragonard- flayed with all the muscle, bone, and sinew exposed. "This is Snerd," she petted it as if it were a normal horse, "He was a gift from my brother and Illyria." Reaching into her billowing cloak, Eligor pulled out what looked like a handful of bloody tissue and offered it to Snerd. "Would you like to ride him?"
"No thanks, he looks really... sticky," Spike answered, watching the beastly skinless horse lap at the bloodied mass like it was a sugar cube.
Once the blood was cleaned away, a small cross was revealed in the palm of Eligor's hand which she gently dropped into the passenger seat of the truck. "Consider it payment from one ferryman to another."
Eligor pulled herself onto Snerd's back, and they had soon taken to the skies, flying off into the night, leaving Spike horribly bewildered and confused. He looked at the small gold cross glinting on the seat next to him.
"When are things going to stop getting weird?" Spike muttered to himself as he licked the thumb and forefinger of his right hand in preparation to pick up the cross. He was surprised, however, to find that it did not burn him, and he slipped the trinket into his pocket after a moment of trepidation.
At least Spike had his own mission now instead of waiting around for someone else to call- he needed to find Illyria. How hard could it be to locate an ex-God-King in Los Angeles?
*****
Outside the city, along the highway connecting L.A. to Las Vegas, was a long and lonely stretch of desert with signs of civilization far and few for several miles. It was on that road that the Pair-A-Dice Motel was located, a throwback to another era. The motel was a kitschy offbeat rent-by-the-week affair, the "rooms" being individual wigwams set up in a row on an astroturfed lot. It was really very garish against its bleak desert setting along with being an unlikely place for a souled vampire to take up residence, but that's what made it perfect for Angel.
Back in the 1940's, Angel had actually stayed at the Pair-A-Dice while on his way to Los Angeles in the very same teepee-style hut that he was currently residing. It had been renovated to attract the same kind of novelty-seekers that it had originally. As far as he knew, the only other guests were a couple from Wichita, and Angel desired a little brooding time to himself; he'd earned it.
Connor was off at university, getting his life back together and reacquainting himself with the O'Reillys, his adoptive family. Spike was trying his hand at playing detective (and Angel secretly hoped that the little peroxided smartass was learning a lesson about responsibility somewhere along the way), and Lorne, Gunn, and Illyria had gone off to who-knows-where. It was as good a chance as any to curl up in a quiet, warm place with Sartre's L'âge de raison and contemplate his unlife morosely until his soul was content with a certain feeling of penance in the solitude.
A knock at the door interrupted his existential musings, and Angel got up from bed to answer it, checking the clock as he did. It was unusual for anyone to knock on the door at all let alone in the pre-dawn hours; even the cleaning lady had given up trying to get in after a few days.
"Gunn?" Angel was stunned to see the young man standing outside the wigwam, and immediately his thoughts turned to something catastrophic as he unlatched the chain on the door, "Is it Connor? Has something happened?"
"Everything's fine," Gunn said, forcing a small smile, "Better than fine actually."
Angel had a skeptical expression, allowing Gunn to enter his room, "So you tracked me down in the middle of nowhere to tell me that... everything's fine."
Gunn sat down in a small armchair in the corner of the hut, "I've been doing a lot of soul-searching ever since, you know, I got mine back. Had a lot of time to mull things over."
Shutting the door, Angel took a seat on the edge of his bed to hear the man out. He could understand what Gunn had gone through- the struggle being right and wrong, the reemergence of a soul after committing horrible acts, and having one's human body restored after being used to the strength and speed that a vampiric body afforded. However, while Angel had a century to become re-accustomed to his soul before he experienced a day of once again being human, Gunn had everything thrust back on him at once. The vampire did not envy what that must have been like.
"I can suggest some reading material, not pamphlets or anything, but there are a few books that have helped me cope with things over the years," Angel offered.
Gunn nodded curtly, "I have been thinking a lot about what you said when we were in Hell, about how a man isn't measured by his mistakes but by what actions he takes about them. I'm ready to take action. I want to fix things."
"You want to make amends?" Angel really wasn't prepared for this conversation. He always thought he'd be having it with Spike, but the bottle-blonde pest seemed to cope unfairly well by outward appearances.
"We both know that you can never make amends," Gunn sighed as he reached up to take off his eyepatch. He could see better than he had been able to months before, but he'd probably never have his sight back the way it was; in a way, it was tragically metaphorical. He gingerly touched the vertical scar on his brow, "But we keep trying, right? That's what heroes do- they try."
Angel smiled sadly, "I like to think that they do."
"Well, I'm ready to start, and I want you to know how sorry I am for you, for Connor, for everything that happened," Gunn's voice was sincere and genuine. "We all make choices in our lives that set things in motion that we never intend, and sometimes we deserve the blame for what happens, and sometimes we don't, but there's always blame." He continued, "I blamed you for me getting turned into a vampire, but even before that, I blamed you for Fred's death, for us even being in Wolfram and Hart, but it wasn't your fault. I made my decision to sign a contract, and I chose to let the bad guys into my brain so that I could feel more intelligent, and because of that, Fred died."
"You were being used," Angel replied quietly, but his eyes spoke volumes, "It won't lessen your guilt to think of it that way, and it shouldn't, but it's the truth. If they hadn't used you, they would have found another way to get Illyria's sarcophagus through Customs."
Gunn listened intently and sighed, "Do you worry about our contracts? If it wasn't for some holy intervention, Wesley would still be walking, or floating, around out there, tied to Wolfram and Hart forever."
"Honestly, I try not to think about it because if I do," he didn't really want to say it, "I start to wonder if what we saw was real, and maybe Wesley is trapped somewhere doing their bidding. Hell, there are times when I wake up afraid that they still might have control over Fred." Angel watched Gunn's body stiffen as he said that, "We all have thoughts that we want to believe aren't true, but it's just not feasible to know one hundred percent one way or another."
"If you could stop the doubts, make sure that that could never happen, you would," Gunn phrased this somewhere between a statement and question.
"Of course, I would," Angel said somewhat defensively. "I just don't see how that's in our realm of possibilities right now."
"I have the contracts."
Angel boggled for a moment, "You have- That's impossible."
"No, it's just improbable," Gunn leaned forward a little, "I have copies of the original contracts, and I've found a way to break them."
There was a millisecond of relief that washed over Angel's face before he returned to his earlier skepticism, "Break them? You do realize that no one's been able to do that besides the Senior Partners, right?"
"We found a way to free Lindsey from their prison dimension, and that was supposed to be impossible."
"I seem to recall that situation only resolving itself with you getting your heart cut out of your chest on a daily basis," Angel replied drily.
"But I got out too. I just needed Illyria taking out an unstoppable killing machine to do it," Gunn handed Angel a small business card, "And this is going to be much simpler."
"Hargreaves and Sons... Gunn, I've heard about these people, and none of it is good," Angel warned.
"Hear me out," the other man stated, "Wolfram and Hart never fired you, which means technically you are still CEO of the Los Angeles branch of the firm. The Senior Partners can't risk breaking their only tie to you by rescinding your contract. You have the power to fire people. The paperwork is being drawn up as we speak; all we'll need is your signature."
Angel got up from the bed and walked to his mini-fridge, putting a nervous hand on it. It was stocked with weeks old pigs' blood and cheap beer from a local gas station, the meals of a vampiric pilgrim. "When you said simple, I didn't think you meant ridiculously simple, emphasis on the ridiculous."
"You owe yourself to give it a shot, and if not for yourself, then for us. Give us all the pink slip. Even though the building is gone, Wolfram and Hart is still here, and the dimensional link between the Senior Partners and Los Angeles remains as active as ever. I've seen it."
Realizing that he had been staring blankly at the fridge, Angel turned, "You don't know what you've saw."
"Spike was there; he could-"
"You brought Spike in on this?" Angel grew angry, not knowing what Gunn was playing at.
"Don't sound so surprised," Gunn spat, "At least he can be found when someone needs him; he hasn't gone running off without a word so that he can have a vacation."
Angel glared at him, but didn't reply.
"Do you know who your son calls when he needs help with a term paper? Or when he wants to hang out? Or who he spars with at the gym? Take a wild guess," the vitriol in Gunn's implication was biting.
"You're not goading me," Angel responded, letting out a heavy breath. "If you want me to help investigate what you've got going on with these contracts before you proceed, I will, but I don't have a good feeling about this."
Gunn stood up suddenly, "Fine. We'll investigate, like the old days."
As he was about to leave the motel room, Gunn doubled over in pain, clutching his eye with a short groan. Angel leaned down to help him, placing a hand on the other man's bicep. Reaching into his pocket, Gunn flipped out a can of mace he had swiped from Anne's purse and sprayed Angel square in the face. Recoiling in pain, Angel crumpled to the floor, roaring as the chemicals burned his skin and eyes.
"You don't trust me. Can't blame you," Gunn took a few steps back so as not to be effected by the pepper-spray as well, "but this is for Fred."
Angel blindly swiped at Gunn's legs, attempting to gain his footing at the same time, lunging towards the sound of the his voice. His vampiric features had distended, and he growled like a caged animal.
"Whatever scheme you think is going to magically fix everything, Fred wouldn't want it this way," Angel's attempt at speechifying was cut short as Gunn rammed a stun gun into his throat. The vampire's body spasmed, and he let out a gurgling noise as his teeth clenched down. It took two more shocks before Angel lost consciousness and fell slack to the floor.
"I really am sorry," Gunn slipped the taser into his pocket as he stood over Angel's prone form, "but this is the only way."
After manacling his former boss, Gunn dragged Angel out to his truck, loading him into the passenger side and draping the comforter from the motel room bed over him to protect the vampire from the swiftly approaching sunrise. Angel would forgive him once he realized that the Hargreaves could really help them and Fred was back with them as she always should have been.
Back through the desert, Gunn drove towards Los Angeles, watching the sun appear in a pink and green sky between mounds of earth. By this time tomorrow, everything would be all right, and all the ugly dealings Gunn had bargained in to get this far would be worth it.
To be continued...
Previous Chapters: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six :: Seven.
x-posted on
nekid_spike and darker_spike
Tags:
- angel,
- fanfic,
- fred,
- paper pusher,
- spike
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Thanks for reading! :D
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Okay, now that i have my inner 3 year old under control, this story is excellent! I love the plot twist--brilliant!! I cannot wait to finish your story!
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I'm glad you've enjoyed what you've read so far! :D
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Haven't read any of the comics, but I've really enjoyed it so far. :) I'm excited to see where you plot twists go, and the Gunn and Spike characterizations are tons of fun.
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Thanks for reading, and I'm really glad you've enjoyed the chapters thus far! :D
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Just out of curiosity, since I've gotten a few new comments today, did this get rec'd somewhere? :D
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These two bits made me laugh out loud:
It didn't matter to the writer of the story that "Big Foot" was actually a Ni'hishma'gow demon doing his grocery shopping; Big Foot sold more papers.
And:
"Surely you've met a great deal of strange and wondrous beings in all your years. What makes your new finds so different?"
Pulling over at another delivery stop, Spike turned to the ancient demon, "Well, I've never seen someone actually look like Sailor Moon before."
Spike licking his fingers in order to briefly pick up the cross is a neat trick; reminds me of when women used to lick their finger and briefly touch a flat iron with it to see if the iron would hiss, indicating that it was hot enough for ironing clothes.
Hee, "Pair-A-Dice Motel" is such a great name!
I love all the interaction you've got going with the canon characters -- and I can't wait to see the meet-up between Angel and the Family Hargreaves. :D
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