Paper Pusher :: Chapter 3 of ?

[fenderlove]

Title: Paper Pusher
Author: fenderlove
Pairing: Spike/Fred
Rating: PG for language in this chapter.
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 as well as Angel: Almost Human. 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 Three

Saturday was supposed to be Spike’s day to relax, catch up on any investigative gigs he managed to land and take his frustrations out on any baddies he came across while on patrol. However, he spent most of Friday night tossing and turning, unable to stay asleep for more than an hour or so at a time. Every time he closed his eyes, Spike could see visions of Fred. One minute, she would be a glowing Heavenly vision emanating pure warmth and assuring him to let her go, that she was safe. Alternatively, she also appeared dirty and disheveled, hair matted and face tear-streaked, reaching out to him with naked arms raked by thorns, screaming for him to save her from the darkness that trapped her.

Spike sat up in bed, the sheet pooled around his waist. He moved to rub his face with his hands only to discover his skin was damp. Was he sweating or crying? Or possibly both?

Unsteadily, he threw the sheets off his legs and got up, bare feet padding on the floor as he went to the window. Drawing back the heavy black-out curtain slowly, he could see the faintest pink bleeding through the horizon between the buildings. Daybreak was quickly approaching, the tail-lights of cars becoming less visible as the sun rose. Spike sat on the edge of his bed and began to think. He was very clear with himself that he was thinking and not brooding. In fact, he was so sure of the fact that he felt the need to clarify it with himself out loud.

Minutes ticked by tediously, and Spike seemed incapable of finding any employment to keep his mind off his visit from Gunn or the meeting that awaited him later that night. He tried watching television, but the early morning news shows didn’t hold much interest for him. A pint and a half of blood, three beers, two packs of cigarettes, the rest of the Doc’s red velvet cake squares, a bowl of Weetabix, and all of the leftover Chinese food in the fridge later, Spike was stretched out on the couch, still flipping through the channels for the three hundred and forty-fifth time. Not that he was counting.

“S’pose, I could get dressed,” he signed, “Yeah, I’ll get up, take a shower, and get dressed. I guess I could do my hair. The Doc said my roots were showing. Called me a hedgehog, but I don’t think she meant it in a bad way. Girls think hedgehogs are cute, right? I have got to stop talking to myself.”

Without a reflection, Spike cut his own hair by feel alone. After a hundred years of practice, he’d gotten quite good at it. The sink and surrounding counter were littered with the tips of little white-blonde curls. After returning the scissors to the drawer, Spike ran a hand over his hair, shaking out any loose locks. Popping up the box to a new bleaching kit, Spike silently thanked the gods for Herbal Essences Bleach Bum, despite its pink box and fruity name… and the picture of the equally fruity boy-model on the box.

After a quick application of bleaching gel, developer, and conditioner, Spike was once again brunette-free. The phone began to ring as he was toweling off from his shower. Not having caller I.D. or answering machine meant that he had to actual answer each call, even though 98% of the time it was a telemarketer (which meant he got to scream an odd mixture of Fyarl and French at the top of his lungs until they hung up). The other 2% of his calls were either work cancelling his shifts/wanting him to work overtime or Connor, who usually wanted a proofreader for whatever paper he was writing for one of his university classes or needed a partner for Trivia Night down at the pub nearest his dorm.

Taking a guess, Spike picked up the receiver and said, “You still owe me my half of the pub dollars from the last week, you little prick, ‘cause there’s no way you knew on your own that Kevin Bacon played T.J. Werner on Guiding Light!”

“I totally did know that,” came an all too female voice on the other end of the line, “but as to that other stuff, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Doc?” Spike almost dropped the phone. “Sorry, I thought you were my nephew calling.”

Saying Connor was his nephew was much easier than telling people that he was a teenage boy he liked to hang out with. The truth, of course, was out of the question. “Nephew” was close enough to “the dhampiric offspring of my grandsire and great-grandsire.” Connor often liked to remind him that technically, by vampire familial lines, Spike was his nephew. The Aurelian family tree doesn’t fork, Spike thought to himself.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Dr. Dominick said.

Spike laughed, glancing at the clock. It was only 11AM. “No, I crawled out of my coffin a little while ago.”

“So that’s how you keep your deathly pallor?” Dr. Dominick replied. She enjoyed morbid humor quite a bit. It’s what kept most M.E.s from losing their minds.

“Well, we can’t all have the lovely fluorescent bulb tan that you have, Salafia,” Spike smirked.

Spike heard a very unlady-like snort from the receiver. She responded, “Very funny, shortcake… Anyway, I wanted to ask if… Well, Dr. LaBianca had a fit this morning when she came in and saw that the autopsy table still hadn’t drained all the way-”

“I had a-” Spike paused for a millisecond. What kind of things did people say when they had to leave work suddenly? “I had a family emergency and had to come home early last night.”

“Oh,” Dr. Dominick’s voice was suddenly filled with concern, “I hope everything’s all right.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Spike felt a pang of guilt for lying to her.

“Are you sure? I could come over on my lunch break, if you wanted.”

Oh, boy. Spike mentally slapped himself for making the Doc worry. She had been really nice to him and had helped him from getting into some major scrapes at work, like when he accidentally locked Dr. LaBianca in the morgue refrigerator. It had been a complete accident, or at least that was the story he was sticking with.

“No, you don’t have to do that,” he said, trying to sound chipper. “I’m fine, really.”

Dr. Dominick did not sound convinced of the fact, but they continued with polite chit-chat for a few more minutes before the sounds of a large commotion in the background stopped her mid-sentence.

“Maybe we could see a movie tomorrow night. The Bellecourt is showing Clash of the Titans- What the? Oh, Will, I have to go! They’re bringing in the bodies from a four car pile-up! I have to scrub up!”

Spike stared at the receiver for a moment after hearing the click of the call being disconnected.

“She sounded way too happy about that…”


Sundown came at long last, and Spike was heading towards 1117 Langley Boulevard. He had spent the remainder of the afternoon rearranging and then re-rearranging the furniture in his apartment. The address Gunn had given him was located near the docks, but not the classier side of the docks, if docks could even have classy sides.

Spike stood in front of a decrepit-looking building that appeared to have been pulled off the lot of some Dickens-related movie. It was a tall, narrow structure wedged between a nondescript concrete building and a roughneck bar. Definitely not the place to order a peach and lime daiquiri.

There did not appear to be a door at all, just a placard crudely nailed to the wooden façade which read “#1117.”

Gunn stepped out from a small enclave and into the light of a nearby streetlamp, “The buzzer’s underneath the sign.” He walked up next to Spike and pointed to a small indentation beneath the placard.

Spike turned to him, one eyebrow quirked up, “Want me to ring your bell, do you, Charlie?”

“Hit the damn button,” Gunn frowned.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a grouse,” Spike replied, pressing the barely visible doorbell. A low ringing like an old fashioned fire alarm could faintly be heard from within the building.

A series of clangs, clanks, and creaks drew Spike’s attention. It might not have been the smartest thing to do, but he leaned his head a bit closer to the wall to get a better listen.

Gunn yanked him back by the collar of his duster, “I’d step back if I were you.”

“Bloody hell, Char-”

Before Spike could finish, the building appeared to literally shiver. The wood slats cracked and began shuffling. Windows and doors with unique grillwork began to appear from beneath the rotating slats, like an Art Nouveau slot machine. The slats folded themselves like origami, creating a menagerie of lifelike wooden animals across the front of the building. From the grimy pavement, golden tendrils sprouted, snaking up around the large door, curving and ever-more vines branching off. The branches, which seemed to glow with their own internal luminosity, entwined above the door, spelling out “Hargreaves & Sons.” Twin wooden peacocks that flanked the door gave a shrill cry, turning their creaking wooden heads towards Gunn and Spike.

“Now, that is classy,” Spike said in awe.

Gunn shook his head, but he too was fairly impressed with the display.

“So, we wait?” Spike asked.

“We wait.”

“I hate waiting.” Spike pulled his duster tighter around himself, crossing his arms over his chest. "So these blokes, are they more lawyers? Tailors? Tinkers?"

"Lawyers," Gunn responded curtly.

Spike glared at the other man, making a motion with his hand for him to continue.

"You could say that if Wolfram and Hart were the top rung on the evil lawyering ladder, then these guys would be the second," Gunn said, shifting from one foot to the other.

"I guess Wolfram and Hart's monopoly on the market hasn't sat well with them," Spike rolled his eyes. "So you're getting information on Evil Incorporated from those who just want to usurp them as the biggest baddest litigators in all the land? Brilliant plan, Charlie-boy."

Gunn turned to speak, but was interrupted as the ornate ironwork double-doors swung open.

"Enter," a croaking voice bellowed from deep within the darkened building.

Without hesitation, Gunn stepped inside, each step igniting a set of candelabra on either side of a narrow hallway. Spike quickly followed, his eyes darting about, instincts on high alert. The hallway was filled with a rank odor of mildew and mouldering paper. By the time they reached the end of the hall, the space was glowing with hundreds of fat tallow candles, which did nothing to help the smell.

"Enter, enter," the voice called out again, "we haven't got all evening."

Pushing open the heavy mahogany door which had halted their progress, Gunn and Spike entered a circular library, orange light reflected off every surface from thousands more candles. Wax dripped onto the floor, walls, books, and papers. Books were tumbling off one another in haphazard stacks and dangerously full shelves. In the midst of the clutter was a grand desk, the one bright, shining spot of organization in the whole place.

Seated in an enormously overstuffed armchair that almost overwhelmed his frail frame was an extremely elderly man who had the appearance of a withered crab apple made of tanned leather. Beside him was a youth, face like Adonis and body like Apollo, with a snow-white tan, shimmering golden curls, and an expression that told all that looked upon him that he was well-aware of his aesthetically-pleasingness. Sprawled out on the floor at the attractive man's feet was a gloriously fat pig dressed in the clothes of a Victorian gentleman, down to specially made boots for its hooves. When Spike and Gunn entered the room, the pig sat up like a dog, oinking away in an excited manner.

The elder man got up from his chair, or at least attempted to. After a few false starts, he was on his feet, gnarled bony hands clutching a walking stick as he hauled himself into each step. His back was so twisted and hunched over that he had to crane his twig-like neck to the side just to look up at them.

"Mr. Charles Gunn, it is indeed good to see you again," the man croaked with a wheeze and a cough. He had a voice like a porcupine trying to mate with sandpaper. He tried to remove one of his hand from his walking stick to shake Gunn's hand but had to refrain from doing so for fear of falling. "And you've brought the young Master vampire with you." His cataract-afflicted yellow eyes lolled in Spike's direction.

"Spike, these are the Messrs. Hargreaves. Mr. Djedefre Hargreaves," Gunn spoke quietly, indicated the rather skeletal old man in front of them, "and his sons Mr. Becker Hargreaves and Mr. Achilles Hargreaves." He motioned towards the handsome young man and the pig.

Hardly knowing what to say, Spike muttered, "Pleasure."

"Absolutely," Mr. Becker Hargreaves gave him the once-over, licking his pink-roses-touched-by-frost lips predatorily. Spike wasn't sure why, but it gave him a fearful chill down his spine like nothing he'd ever experienced before in his one hundred and twenty plus years.

Mr. Achilles Hargreaves gave a rather ill-tempered huff through his piggie snout before slumping back onto the floor in an ungainly heap.

"Please excuse my sons," the patriarchal Mr. Hargreaves stated with a heavy sigh, "We don't have company often." With a snap of his fingers, two armchairs slid in front of the desk from their resting places in opposite corners of the room, the odds-and-ends that covered them flying off as they did so. "Be seated, and we shall discuss business."

While Mr. Hargreaves was reseating himself with great difficulty, Gunn leaned over to Spike who seemed to be keeping his eyes on the waif-like Becker and explained with the wordiness of his lawyer self, "The Messrs. Hargreaves primarily represent clients in matters pertaining to mystical contracts and magical affairs, mostly inter-dimensional..."

"Underground stuff, yeah?" Spike's speech had slowed, each word carefully clipped. His blue eyes trained on Becker, who was teasingly pacing the back wall of the office, knocking books off their precarious perches, but never taking his gaze off Spike in return.

Gunn could have sworn that he saw flecks of gold bleeding into Spike's irises, but it could have been the reflection of the flickering flame of a nearby candle.

"Underground, above ground, beyond ground," Mr. Hargreaves chuckled darkly. Upon noting Spike's rising agitation, the old man slammed his cane down on Becker's foot, "For the love of St. Nicias, stop that foolishness, boy, and make yourself useful! Bring our guests some refreshments."

Becker yelped pitifully, but limped away without argument.

"You'll once again have to excuse Becker. He takes after his mother," Mr. Hargreaves lamented, his hand resting on a nearby book, stroking its leather cover lovingly. The book sighed.

Spike took a closer look at the its cover. The leather that bound the volume had freckles.

"Now, Mr. Gunn, when we spoke before, you said that you were interested in acquiring some paperwork left behind at your former place of employment, correct?" Mr. Hargreaves asked as Becker returned, holding a tray of tea in front of the two men.

Gunn took a cup from the tray but made no move to drink its contents. He once again took on the persona he wore in front of countless judges, "Yes, it is vitally important that I do so, not just for myself but for my acquaintances as well."

Spike glared at the smirking young man before him, ushering him away with a surly "No, thanks, mate."

Becker shrugged and tossed the tray onto the floor with a clatter. The unfortunate Achilles began slopping up the tea from the remaining cups and devouring the scones with gusto.

"You understand that Wolfram and Hart has a propensity for being extremely protective of its internal records, yes? That, even if you were to attain them, there might be a problem of retaining them," Mr. Hargreaves laced his bony fingers together and peered over them.

"That's why we'll need your expertise in the making and breaking of mystical contracts," Gunn replied.

"Making them is easy, young man. Breaking them is like trying to negotiate with a Drokken Beast and maintaining all your limbs," the old man laughed. "Any contract can be broken, and I am most certainly the man to do it, and it is the sort of assistance I am more than willing to provide."

Gunn began to thank him, but the eldest Hargreaves held up a crooked finger and interjected, "However, we've been discussing how I might help you, and before we get to the particulars, we must first find out how you may help me."

To be continued...

Previous Chapters: One :: Two.
x-posted on nekid_spike and darker_spike