Headful of Ghosts by WesleysGirl Rating: NC-17 Many thanks to ChyldofEternity for the beta. Angel's back in the Hyperion, and it's dusty and broken. Cracks in the walls that weren't there before, and the thick smell of disinterest and abandonment. There's no more electricity. There's no hot water. Any shower he'd take would be cold, which would, he thinks, be okay, but he can't summon up the energy to bother. And there are people outside. He can smell them. The day before, or maybe it was the day before that, a guy came in through the front doors, blood streaking the side of his face and a wide eyed look of panic streaking through the air like lightning, like it was something separate, disconnected. Angel couldn't be bothered to talk to him -- just sat on the couch -- and after a minute the guy went away again. Just as well. Sometimes there are screams. Angel's hungry and the high-pitched ones lance through him, but he doesn't get up until the doors open again. He's on his feet without realizing it, moving toward a Xander Harris who's changed in a dozen ways and is holding the broken, lifeless body of Willow Rosenberg in his arms. Xander's panting, drawing air into his lungs with desperation. Somewhere along the way he's lost an eye, and the one that's left is frantic when it meets Angel's confused gaze. Slowly, blood drips from Willow's fingers and spatters onto the rug with a soft sound that Angel knows only he can hear. "She knew you'd be here," Xander says, voice cracking. "We came all this way, and..." He glances over his shoulder. "All this way." "Give her to me," Angel says, stepping forward. Girl's already dead -- no sense in wasting the blood. For some reason, Xander lets Angel take her, and Angel cradles her close. No heartbeat, no breathing, but still food. He slides into game face and sinks his fangs into the tender skin of her throat, ignoring Xander's outraged cries and the fact that Xander is hitting him until something tells him it's not a good idea to do that anymore. Angel lifts an arm to deflect the stake aimed toward his heart, snarling and letting Willow's body fall to the floor as the wood pierces his bicep. He grabs onto Xander's hand and squeezes, feeling the sharp snap crackle of bones. Xander's scream is loud in the empty hotel. Echoing. Tears streaming down his face, Xander cradles his hand to his chest and glares at Angel. "What the -- why did you -- how could -- " "She was already dead," Angel says. "I was hungry." He's not trying to explain; he just wants Xander to shut up. "I always knew I was right about you," Xander gasps. His pain smells delicious, and Angel swallows the taste of Willow's blood and licks his lips. "I can't believe you just -- " Angel can't take it anymore. He won't. He's hungry, and the scent of Xander's made him hard inside his trousers. He hits Xander, knocking him down, and flips him over onto his stomach. Can't see the look on his face, which is a shame, but the angle's better from behind and Angel wants to fuck and feed at the same time. Xander's blood is rich and hot, and his body is tight and hot, and the little mewling sounds he makes as Angel tears into him are enough to shove Angel over the edge a heck of a lot sooner than he would have expected. Angel kicks Xander over against the bottom of the stairs and leaves him there. Tucks himself back into his pants and sprawls out on the couch again, staring at the ceiling and half listening to Xander's hitched breaths and the rapid uneven skittering of his heartbeat. An hour later, Spike comes back and stops just inside the doorway, staring at Xander's crumpled body on the floor. "What the fuck is he doing here?" Spike asks. Angel frowns at Spike. Shouldn't it be obvious? "Bleeding," he says disinterestedly, and licks at the dried blood on his thumb. "For fuck's sake, Angel," Spike mutters, barely glancing at Willow before coming down the stairs. He crouches beside Xander, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder. Xander doesn't move or react in any way -- just keeps up with that same uneven breathing, same heartbeat. "What the bloody hell happened?" "I don't know," Angel says. He looks at Willow as if she's just fallen from the sky onto the landing and it's the first he's seen of it. Then remembers. "She was already dead," he offers. "Didn't stop you from snacking, I see." Spike's busy with Xander, turning him over gingerly and looking at his face. "Harris? Come on, mate." Angel can still smell the blood. He licks at his thumb again, even though it's clean, and swallows thoughtfully. A high-pitched sound from Xander, then a muffled one from Spike as he discovers Xander's hand. "Fucking hell, Angel." Spike's irritated. "Can't leave you alone for an hour, can I." "You were gone longer than that," Angel says. It's been days, he thinks, but he did know that Spike was coming back. "Had things to do, didn't I." Spike slaps Xander's face lightly. "Come on, Harris. Up." Xander whimpers and tries to curl up around his hand, and Spike sighs and picks him up. It looks stupid, Angel thinks. Xander's thinner than he remembers, but still bigger than Spike. Xander's good arm hangs down the way Willow's did, but without the blood. "I'm taking him upstairs," Spike says, and Angel doesn't even blink. It's not like he cares. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ Harris is heavier than he looks. Spike's glad to be able to lower him down onto a bed on the next floor up -- probably not a good idea to go higher than that. Lots of buildings have come down all over the city in the past couple of weeks, and there's no telling how much damage this one's sustained. Not enough, he doesn't think, but no point in taking chances. He's already dug himself out of the rubble once, and the ends of his fingers were torn up for two days. Doesn't want to do it again. He goes into the bathroom and grabs a towel, wets the end of it under the tap and goes out to where Harris is lying limp, trousers torn and falling off his hips. "Stupid wanker," Spike mutters, dabbing at the drying blood on Harris' throat where Angel fed. "Fuck you, too," Harris gasps, wincing away from the touch. Spike grimaces. "Didn't mean you," he says. He knew he shouldn't have left Angel alone, but there were things he'd needed to take care of, and it wasn't like he could take him with him. Prat was as likely to wander off as follow. "Spike?" Harris sounds confused. Opens his eye and looks up at Spike, blinking and frowning, lips stretched thin with pain as Spike cleans the wound. Harris lifts a hand and shoves Spike's away, and Spike shrugs. "Up to you. Starting to scab over, anyway. Might as well leave it." There's the scent of more blood, but not a lot of it. Poor bastard. Soul's no picnic, but enough's happened that Spike can move on without much thought. "You can't trust him," he says. "Get some rest for a couple of hours and then get the hell out of here. Far away as you can. He gets... fixated. Might decide to come after you, and I might not feel like trying to stop him." Not knowing what Harris will do, Spike turns and heads back downstairs. He's halfway down before he realizes he's still holding onto the bloodstained towel. Angel's back on the floor again, sitting against the wall with the side of his face pressed to it. There's more blood around his mouth and on his hands, and when Spike looks disbelieving at Red's lifeless body he sees a big fresh wound underneath her jaw, dark and clotted. "For fuck's sake." He goes over to Angel slowly, because he never knows when Angel's going to lose it completely, and hunkers down beside him. "Angel?" "I can taste her," Angel says, his eyes darting to Spike's, desperate and fearful. "You took a great bloody bite out of her, of course you can." Spike sighs. "Come on. Get up off the floor." Angel shakes his head, and Spike sighs again, a sound of long-suffering. How the hell did he manage to get saddled with this enormous wanker? "You want me to get her out of here, is that it?" Spike asks. Angel's eyes are closed, but he nods, just a bit, so Spike goes and gets rid of Red. Doesn't take long to put her body in an alley nearby, far enough away that Angel won't be able to smell her anymore. He feels a twinge of guilt at just leaving her but doesn't indulge it -- things are different now. When Spike gets back, Angel's got his arms wrapped around his knees and his face hidden, rocking back and forth like Dru used to sometimes. "Angel?" He has to say it two more times before he gets a reaction, and then it's one he wasn't counting on; Angel jerks away from the wall, hands batting at his own skin. "They're inside me!" Angel says, panicked, brushing at his arms and chest. "They're -- I can't get them out!" Spike gets down on the floor and grabs onto Angel's hands, stilling them. Or trying to; not like the git doesn't fight him. "There's nothing there, Angel. You were dreaming." He says it coaxingly, reassuring. "Nothing?" Angel looks at him, and after a second or two his eyes go from haunted to distant, and Spike knows he's gone all robotic again and lets go of his hands. "You hungry?" Spike asks, because he can now without it becoming an issue. "No." Angel responds calmly, like he did when Spike first got back and saw Harris lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. "Maybe I'll take a nap." "Yeah," Spike says, getting up and watching as Angel goes over to the couch and slouches down on it. Bloke sleeps sitting up these days, mostly. He hears a sound and looks up. Harris is standing at the top of the stairs, cradling his broken hand in his good one and swaying on his feet. Spike frowns at Harris and jerks his chin at him, trying to tell him to step back to where Angel won't be able to see him. Harris sways alarmingly, then goes, and Spike relaxes, the sense of relief sharp and disturbing. Angel's drowsy, half asleep already. Seems to run out of steam frequently, especially after one of his episodes, no matter how brief. Spike figures he can leave him again, for a while, at least, and goes to get the first aid kit he remembers seeing behind the desk. It's covered with plaster dust just like everything else, but there's bandages in it, and maybe if Spike can get Harris patched up he'll leave. Poor git couldn't even make it back to the room -- he's leaning against the wall like it's the only thing keeping him upright. He's pale as a freshly drained corpse and his hand reminds Spike of Giles' after Angelus got done with him back in Sunnydale. "Come on," he says, and gets an arm around Harris to help him across the hallway and over to the bed. "Did you not hear the part about Angel deciding to come after you?" "I don't care what he does," Harris says, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. "Then why the bloody hell are you here?" Spike sits down next to him and opens the first aid kit, then reaches for his hand. "We didn't know where else to go," Harris says. "Will -- " For a second, Spike stiffens, then he realizes the bloke meant Red. Two fingers are broken and there's no way Spike's going to set them straight again, but he does the best he can as fast as he can, splinting them together with an unbroken finger and wrapping it all up, then holding onto Harris in the bathroom as he throws up repeatedly. "Thanks," Harris says, sweaty and gasping, as Spike lowers him onto the bed again. Everything's so fucked up, but Spike can't let himself think about that. He concentrates on putting the first aid kit back together for a minute, then gives up and smacks it with his hand, watching as it flies off the bed and across the floor. "What happened?" Harris asks in the quiet that follows. "World ended," Spike says, even though he knows that's not what Harris is asking. Harris is glaring at him when he looks over. "To Angel," Harris says. Spike still knows what he's asking. "That's not Angelus," he says flatly. A long silence while Harris digests this. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure. You think I can't tell the difference?" Spike glances down and sees the white of Harris' thigh through a tear in his trousers. Bloke's a lot thinner than the last time Spike saw him, but then probably anyone who's still alive is by now. "Well I guess I can't." Harris sounds exhausted, his eye glassy and his voice starting to slur. "Get some sleep," Spike says. "I'll make sure he stays downstairs." Spike goes back to check on him a couple of hours later and Harris looks dead to the world, which is a pretty funny thought, considering. His head's propped up on his arm and he's drooling. He's still pale, but the sleep's probably doing him good, so Spike's about to leave again when Harris coughs and winces and opens his eye blearily. "What?" he says. "Is Angel on his way upstairs to eat me?" Spike tilts his head to the side and smiles. He'd forgotten about Harris' sense of humor. "No. He's asleep. Didn't mean to wake you." "It's okay." Harris sits up and winces again, moaning softly as he lifts his hand onto his thigh. "Fuck." "Don't think you're in any shape for it," Spike says. He takes the bottle he found downstairs in one of the desk drawers out and opens it. "Pain pills. You ought to take some." "Okay." Harris holds out his good hand and Spike gives him two of the tiny pills. He pops them into his mouth and then looks at Spike expectantly. "What?" Spike says. "Wah-er?" Harris says around the pills. It takes a few seconds for Spike's brain to translate. "Bloody hell, can't you just swallow them?" he says wearily, but he goes into the bathroom and gets some water in a glass and brings it back. Harris drinks and swallows and nods. "Thanks." "Yeah, no problem." Spike says it fairly grudgingly. He's exhausted; hasn't slept more than a few hours here and there for weeks -- he can't trust Angel not to get into trouble. He misses the time when it was the two of them together, neither of them holding the other back. "So I guess you still want me to get out of here, huh?" Harris asks. "Not until you've slept off these pills," Spike says. "But yeah. Be better all around if you left. Go on back to... wherever you were before." "Where I was before isn't there anymore," Harris says, squeezing his eye shut. "Where's Willow?" Fuck. If Spike admits he dumped her body in an alley, Harris is going to get all upset and shout at him, and Spike's sick of shouting. Never thought he'd feel that way, but he does. A life of peace and quiet sounds pretty good right about now. "I took care of her," he says, hoping that will be the end of it. "There's a place. Not like we could have a proper grave anymore, is there?" Harris swallows like it hurts. "Yeah. Yeah, I know." Only a few words, but acknowledgment of the world they're living in now, when most everyone's dead or on the way there. Spike doesn't know what he and Angel are going to do when all the humans are gone and there's no one left to eat. Won't be pretty, that's for sure. "Find somewhere else to go," he tells Harris, and leaves to check on Angel again. Spike waits for the right time to take Angel upstairs. He doesn't always bother -- easier to let Angel sleep sitting up on the couch sometimes, depending, but personally he prefers a bed to a chair. Angel's fitful in half-sleep, arms crossed over his chest in a way that ought to make him look tough but just emphasizes to Spike all the ways in which he's broken. Worst part is not even knowing exactly when it happened. The look on Angel's face when Blue had told them they'd lost Wesley had been bad; then Blue and Charlie had both gone down, followed by what seemed like half the buildings in the city as Angel and Spike fought on against the horde of demons and dragons. Battle went on for days, until the two of them were bloodied and barely able to stand, but there'd been no way they could win. The demons they'd seen had just been the tip of the iceberg, LA just one of a hundred cities eventually laid to waste in the weeks that followed. Angel's been different since then. He blinks and opens his eyes, which immediately fill with tears. "I can hear them," he says, face crumpling. "They're all... in my head. Screaming." "S'just a dream," Spike soothes, taking advantage of Angel's distraction to get him onto his feet and moving toward the stairs. "Come on -- you'll feel better after a proper night's sleep, right?" "They won't stop," Angel says as they start up. "It's all in your head, mate," Spike tells him. "None of it's real." "But I can hear them," Angel says, stopping. He's got that confused look on his face that always used to give Spike so much sadistic pleasure. "Angel. Move." There are times to coddle and times to be firm, and this is one of the latter. Spike knows it well. Angel starts walking again, but he won't shut up. At least it keeps him distracted as they turn right at the top of the stairs -- Harris is in a room off the corridor on the left -- and go into the room they sleep in, when they sleep in a bed at all. There's a thick layer of dust here just like everywhere. The smell of it reminds Spike of places they stayed at a hundred years ago when he was first beginning to realize that he was new and everything else was old but that he'd outlast it all. A heady feeling, and one he's lost recently but hasn't despaired of getting back, not yet. If he can just get Angel to shake this... whatever it is. Temporary madness, he hopes, even though in some ways mad Angel with a soul is less infuriating than sane Angelus. There are times Spike isn't sure what he wants. He just knows it isn't this. Hoping Harris has enough sense to keep quiet and stay in his room, Spike undresses Angel, who's weeping over something or someone long dead, probably, and gets him to crawl into bed. He strips off his own clothes and follows. "I can't sleep," Angel whispers. Spike knows it's a lie even if Angel doesn't. "They'll follow me. Into my dreams. And they'll take off their skin and peel away their faces and scream at me." "Feeling a bit like screaming at you, myself," Spike mumbles. "Will you just shut up and close your eyes?" Angel obeys, but he doesn't relax. "I can still hear them," he whispers again after an astonishing four seconds of silence. "I can still hear you," Spike says. "Shut it." "I can't." It's barely more than a breath. "Spike... don't let them scream at me. Don't let them... it hurts." Angel's hand finds Spike's beneath the covers and holds on. "M'not your bloody girlfriend," Spike complains, but then sighs and pulls Angel closer. "Stupid prat," he says fondly. "You're not just soft in the head, you're soft-hearted, too, you know that?" "I know," Angel says, with his face pressed to Spike's chest. His lips move over Spike's skin when he talks. "Just don't let them hurt me." "I won't," Spike says, hand rubbing Angel's arm gently. "I won't, Angel." He wakes up some time later with Angel's mouth on his cock. It's not the first time it's happened, so Spike's not surprised, but there's still that instant of realization when he goes from asleep to awake and everything's so real. Then he just grins and enjoys it, because there's not a hell of a lot to enjoy these days and he'll take the pleasure where he can get it. His stomach is wet with Angel's tears. "They won't go away," Angel murmurs to Spike's cock, licking, breathing. "I can't make them." "Can't say I care all that much at the moment," Spike says, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as Angel takes him in deep, sucking hard. "Fuck, yeah. Like that." Angel whimpers and sucks Spike until he comes in a glorious rush of heat. Even after Spike comes, Angel doesn't stop. Keeps sucking until he's hard again, then rolls him onto his side and gets behind him, arms around Spike's waist, face hidden in his neck. "They're coming," Angel says, voice cracking, erection between Spike's thighs. "I can hear them. Can you hear them?" "No. There's no one, Angel." Spike repeats the same things over and over again, even though he knows there's no point to it. Eventually some of it might sink in. "I need to hide," Angel says. His lips are wet on the back of Spike's neck and the sheets are as cool beneath them as if no one's been lying in the bed. Spike reaches a hand back and touches Angel's side. "Yeah, I know. Go ahead." He's resigned to it. Angel fucks him from behind, slow but frantic, mouthing his neck hard enough to bruise but never using teeth or breaking the skin. Spike's not sure why that is, when Angel's killed at least half a dozen times since things went bad. At the last minute, he grabs Angel's hand and wraps it around his own cock and uses it to bring himself off, in the same way Angel's using him to hide from reality. He'd feel sorry for Angel if it weren't so much effort. After, Angel's gone again. Not afraid, not guilty, not crazy. Well, all right, still crazy, but not-there at the same time. Dru almost never got like this, but Angel... he'll answer questions, but otherwise he just stares off into space. Thoughtful. Like he's got a lot on his mind, or maybe like he's got nothing at all. Spike watches him for a long time, wishing he could sleep instead. But when Angel's like this, he's never sure when it's going to end, and when it does is the time Angel's most likely to get up and really leave, go off into the streets outside and do things that he'll cry over later. And Spike is tired of cleaning up after his messes and mopping up his tears. He'd rather lose the sleep. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ The hallway is long and empty and the building echoes around him. Angel can hear it breathing. He can hear everything. People on the other side of the world, speaking languages he can barely recognize, let alone understand, and he can hear them. They're trying to tell him something and he doesn't know what it is. It's important, though -- he knows that much. So he listens, and tries to understand. He's surrounded by people. In this hallway, in his head, and all of them whispering secrets in his ears. He can't think, can't separate one voice from another. And they're all touching him, clawing at him with their fingers. Angel makes a sound like a whimper and leans against the wall, sliding down it until he's sitting on the floor. He puts his hands over his face. Rocks back and forth, chanting under his breath to block out the sounds of the voices as they whisper inside his head. The world tilts and spins. It's wrong that he can feel it rotating. He shouldn't be able to. A little girl pulls at Angel's arm, and he gasps and jerks away from her insubstantial fingers that are like ice, burning him with their cold. "I can't help you," Angel says softly. "Please. I'm sorry." He repeats the same things over and over again, even though he doesn't think it will do any good. He dares a glance at the girl -- she's a tiny thing with white hair and pale skin and eyes as black as spilled ink. She leaves bloody fingerprints where she touches him. "Please. I'm so sorry." Angel turns and crawls away from her, and when he looks back, she's gone, dissolved into the air like so much smoke. He can hear something new now. It's a steady pulsing, a soft thudding sound that creeps inside him like the ghosts and makes him feel something that's not there, something he's missing. It seems to take hours to walk, one hand braced against the wall, to the source of the sound, but Angel makes it. He pushes open a door. The room on the other side stretches out like a rubber band, an impossible distance that leaves him shaken. The base of his skull aches. Slowly, Angel crosses the room to the bed, where a man lies sleeping in a crumpled heap. His hand is white, wrapped, a bird with a broken wing, his breathing shallow. Angel watches as his own fingers brush over warm skin. He hears a gentle murmur that suddenly silences everything else in his head; the silence is so unexpected that it feels like going deaf, and the relief leaves Angel weak-kneed and dizzy. He sits on the bed, frowning and watching the sleeping man, trying to figure out why the man looks so familiar. Is this a dream? Has he dreamt it before? The smell of blood is faint, but Angel can't ignore it. He leans in and inhales, and the scent of it makes his mouth water. "Who are you?" he whispers, but the man on the bed doesn't answer. Angel doesn't know if this is real. The smell is wrong. It's needle-sharp, like chemicals, and Angel knows it's wrong. He touches the man's shoulder and waits for a reaction, but there's no response. He needs to touch skin. Without any effort, Angel tears the front of the man's shirt in two, baring pale skin interlaced with blue veins that look like they were painted on with watercolors, the edges feathery and broken by the texture of the skin. Angel's fingertips touch, and he watches as the man shivers. It's not enough. Angel needs more. When the sleeping man is naked and laid out bare, clothes nothing more than strips of fabric on the floor, Angel runs his hands over warm skin and sighs with pleasure. He doesn't know who this is or who he's here, but he loves the way the man murmurs in his sleep, head rolling to one side as nipples tighten into points. The man's cock is heavy, half full against his thigh, and Angel wants to taste it, so he lowers his mouth down and licks, a long, slow lick as the flavor sings on his tongue. For just a second, he worries that this might be real, but the thought floats away, fluttering and transparent. He feels safe here. He wants to see a flush on the skin, so Angel pinches a thigh and smiles at the reddened mark that appears. "Who are you?" he asks again, not expecting an answer, and the sleeping man shifts and murmurs a name that might be Angel's. Angel kneels up and touches his own cock, hard and ready, swollen with a desire that never seems to go away. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Spike's voice asks. Angel turns his head to look at him, standing solid in the doorway that looks miles away. He blinks and Spike is there, hand rough on his upper arm, shaking him. "Can't leave you alone for a second, can I," Spike says, fingers digging deep into the muscle and making Angel growl. The sound, unexpected, makes him cringe. "You've done enough, Angel. Leave him be." Angel looks, and the man sleeping on the bed is Xander Harris, older and changed but recognizable for the first time. It slams into him; the breathless memory of the taste of Xander's blood in his mouth, heat on his tongue and around his cock as he -- Xander opens his eye, drugged and glassy, and Angel gasps, "I'm sorry. I'm so -- " and bolts from the room and the memories. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ Harris wakes up and Angel stammers out an apology and runs off. Spike should follow him, he knows that, but a strange pang of guilt makes him stay, check to see if Harris is all right. "What the fuck is going on?" Harris asks, blinking and inhaling sharply when he tries to move his hand. The prettiest blush Spike's ever seen rises on his cheeks when he realizes he's naked. "Where the hell are my clothes?" "Relax," Spike says, as Harris fumbles a sheet up and over himself. "He got a bit carried away is all. Nothing happened." Harris shoves to a sitting position against the headboard of the bed, hand held awkwardly at his chest. "My ass says differently." His voice is hard and bitter. "That was my fault, too," Spike says, and there's part of him that believes it even though the rest of him doesn't want to. "Shouldn't have left him alone so long." "What happened?" Harris asks, good hand adjusting his eye patch. "He went stark raving mad is what happened," Spike tells him. Should be obvious, shouldn't it? "But why?" Harris is frowning like he's trying to get his head around it. It's an expression Spike's used to seeing on Angel's face during the minute or two a day that he's actually lucid. Stupid bugger never was all that bright. "I don't know." Spike's voice is sharper, raised. "If I did, maybe I could do something to change it." Harris looks at him steadily. "Why?" "Why what? Why would I do something to change it?" Spike runs a hand through his hair, mindful of the fact that Angel could be out of the hotel by now and it could take hours to track him down. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because I'm bloody sick of taking care of him?" "Yeah, I can tell you're doing a really good job with that," Harris says, licking his lips and swallowing. "More than welcome to take over for me if you think you could do better," Spike says, and he has to admit that he admires the way Harris glares at him. "Look, I've got to go get him before he fucks up someone else's life." "Yeah, yeah, go ahead." Harris flaps his good hand in Spike's direction and leans his head back. Spike hesitates. "You gonna be all right?" "Compared to what?" Harris asks. He gets up carefully, twisting a fold of the sheet in his fist to keep himself covered and looking around on the floor at his shredded clothes. He bends over and picks up part of his trousers, and Spike turns to go. "Spike?" He looks back. "Yeah?" Harris lets the trousers fall to the floor. In his good hand, along with the bunched up sheet, is a stake. "If he touches me again, he's dust." There's a long pause in which Spike waits to feel something about that statement. Then he shrugs and nods. "Yeah, all right," he says, and goes out to look for Angel. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ For once, Angel hasn't gone far. He's ten steps from the front door of the hotel, huddled in the shadow there and looking out at the sunshine. "Go away, Spike," he says as soon as Spike opens the door. "Wondered where you'd run off to," Spike says, leaning against the door frame and keeping his voice casual. "It's over," Angel says. "I'm going to end it." "Oh, please. Stop talking nonsense and come inside." Spike waits until Angel glances in his direction to roll his eyes. Angel shakes his head. "I can't do this anymore. I'm... something's wrong. In my head." "As if that's news," Spike says. "I'm just going to keep hurting people, and I can't -- you don't know what it's like." Angel looks longingly at the sunlight, trembling. Spike shifts toward Angel a bit. "I bloody well do. I know exactly what it's like. Work with me here, Angel. We'll find a way to stop it." "You don't want to help me," Angel says. "Well, no, I don't really want to, but I will." Spike knows from the look Angel gives him that this was the wrong thing to say, which is frustrating and maddening. "Come on." "No. You can't stop me when I get like that; you know it, and so do I. But I can stop myself. I can end it, right now." Angel looks out at the sunlight again, tensing like he's readying himself. Spike sighs like he doesn't care one way or the other. "Fine. Do whatever you want. Dust yourself if it makes you feel better." He starts to turn away, listening intently. "I just thought you were in this for the long haul. All those inspirational speeches about saving the world... thought you believed it." Angel's hesitating, thinking about it. "I did. I --" He gasps, and there's the sound of his head hitting the side of the building hard. "Oh God. I can feel... no. No." Taking advantage of the moment, Spike turns and goes to him, getting a hand between Angel's head and the wall. "Fucking hell," Spike says as his knuckles absorb the force of the next blow. "Angel?" "People," Angel whimpers, clawing at his head. "I don't know why they're showing me this. They're already dead, so why... there's nothing I can do. I can't help them." He claws at the wall, fingertips tearing open and leaving bloody prints on it. "It has to stop. It has to... stop. Make it stop." "Would if I could, mate," Spike says, sitting down next to him and leaving his hand on the side of Angel's head. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ After Spike gets Angel settled in bed again, he goes to check on Harris, still holding the bottle of whiskey he's been drinking from for the past half hour. From the doorway, he says, "Harris." The man sleeping on the bed doesn't move. Great, Spike thinks. Just my luck for the bloke to expire. Although on the other hand it would be one less thing to worry about. "Harris!" Louder this time. A muffled snort, and Harris blinks and rolls over. Winces. Sits up. "Jesus, Spike. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" "Was just checking to make sure you weren't dead," Spike explains. "Well, I'm not." Harris groans and swings his feet onto the floor, sheet puddled in his lap. "Any chance you could get me something to wear?" Spike considers it. "Suppose if I want you to leave I'll have to," he says grudgingly. There's boxes of clothes in one of the closets on this floor -- Spike found them one day when he was bored and looking for something to do. He backtracks and finds them, choosing a few things that might fit and taking them to Harris. "Here," he says, dumping the clothes onto the end of the bed and taking another swig from the bottle. "Oh, good, give me some of that," Harris says, gesturing. "Your funeral," Spike says, handing it over. "If I wanted to kill myself, I'd find a less painful way than alcohol poisoning." Harris tips the bottle up, swallows, and hands it back. Spike stands there. "I'm not going to get dressed in front of you," Harris says. "Please," Spike says, snorting. "I've already seen it, in case you've forgotten." Harris frowns. "So not the point. Out." "Fine." Spike goes out into the hallway, but doesn't shut the door. He smirks when Harris doesn't bother to come all the way across the room to close it and listens as the man gets dressed. "Can I have some more?" Harris asks, appearing in the doorway wearing clothes and looking at the bottle hopefully. His hand must hurt like hell, but he's not complaining. "Sure," Spike says. He hands the bottle over. "But I should go. You saw what happened last time when I left Angel on his own." "Twice," Harris says. He drinks more and doesn't give the bottle back. "And since when do you care what happens to him?" "I don't," Spike says, grabbing the whiskey back, ignoring Harris' startled 'Hey!' "Then why are you here? Why don't you just go off and do... whatever you'd do?" "He gives really good blow jobs," Spike says, and grins at the look on Harris' face. "What, you'd don't think I'd stick around just because I enjoy his company, do you?" He swigs from the bottle, lets his arm drop down at his side, and looks at the floor. Carpet's in rough shape. "Can't just leave him," he says quietly. "Bloody soul." "Yeah. Having a conscience is a bitch." Xander pats Spike's arm. "You just want my whiskey," Spike says, looking up at him suspiciously. "Yup," Xander says, cheerful. "Hand it over and I promise I won't tell anyone about the part where you feel too guilty to leave Angel." Spike holds out the bottle again without hesitation. "That's blackmail," he says with some admiration. "Uh-huh. Whatever works." Xander drinks some more, then sits down on the floor, leaning back against the wall. "Well, come on. If we sit here, you'll be able to hear him if he gets up, right?" The offer is so unexpected that Spike just stands there for a few seconds, gaping. Then he shuts his mouth and crouches down, taking the bottle and drinking from it before passing it back. "Sure you should be drinking this much?" he asks. "Not that I care, mind." "Drinking this much is the only thing keeping me from screaming," Xander says, gingerly resting his bandaged hand on his thigh. "Trust me, I'm a much better conversationalist when I'm not screaming." "No arguments there," Spike says. "So's Angel." They drink some more, then he says, "Sorry about Red." Xander nods, looking at the floor. He doesn't say anything for a long time. "Me, too," he says. Spike waits for him to say something else; to explain what happened, to cry. But none of those things happen, and eventually, Xander holds out his hand for the bottle, and Spike gives it to him. Xander takes a swallow and passes the bottle back. "That's it for me," Xander says ruefully, touching his head. "God, I have such a headache. I think I must have hit my head, before." "Here, let me take a look." Spike shifts and sits down, setting the whiskey bottle beside his thigh and pushing Xander's hand out of the way so he can slide his fingers through the thick hair. "Not much of a bump," he says softly, concentrating on the feel of the skin under his fingertips. "No blood. Think you're all right. Cool it with the whiskey and painkillers and you'll probably be all right." Xander turns his head and looks at Spike, who hasn't noticed until just then how close they're sitting. "Thanks." Spike nods and moves away. He doesn't want to think about anything right now. "You should go," he says. "Wait until morning, when the sun comes up again, and -- " There's a crash and a shout from Angel's room down the hallway, and Spike's on his feet and running before he even realizes it. Angel's on the floor, jerking like he's having some kind of fit and wailing, hands clawing at his face to the point where he's drawn blood. Spike flings himself down and grabs onto Angel's hands, trying to restrain him, and Angel struggles and gasps. "They're dead!" Angel's body arches so strongly that it lifts Spike half off the floor. Angel wails again, his scream loud enough that it must hurt his throat as much as it hurts Spike's ears, and drags both of them over toward the bed, where Angel proceeds to smash his head against the frame with enough force that it splinters. "Fuck." Spike pulls Angel into his lap and holds on. "What the hell is wrong with him?" Xander asks from the doorway. "Get the fuck out of here," Spike hisses. "I can... feel them," Angel says brokenly, turning and pressing his face against Spike's stomach, clutching at him. "Every time they die, and it won't... it won't stop." Spike strokes Angel's hair with more sympathy than he feels. "I know. It's all right." Angel stills. Draws a shaky breath, then pushes himself upright and rubs a hand over his eyes. "I can smell them," he says. "Who? The dead ones?" Spike asks. "No," Angel says. His voice is cold and hard, expressionless, his face stained with blood as he turns it to look at the doorway, where stupid fucking Harris is still standing. "Him." He stands up, seemingly unaware of Spike hanging off of him, trying to slow him down. "I can smell him." "Go!" Spike shouts at Xander, digging in his heels as Angel drags him inexorably across the carpet. But Xander doesn't move -- Spike thinks from the look on his face that he's frozen in disbelief. "Angel!" Spike growls it, kicking at the back of Angel's knee but missing the key spot. "Snap out of it!" Angel slows, turns, and backhands Spike across the face hard enough to knock him down. Feels like maybe his nose is broken, but Spike can't waste time thinking about that, because Angel's on Xander, has a hand fisted in the front of Xander's t-shirt. Struggling to his feet, Spike lurches toward Angel and grabs onto him, crawling half up Angel's back and hanging off him. "Get out!" Spike gets an arm around Angel's throat and tightens it -- won't knock him out, of course, but anything that might distract him is worth a shot -- and says it again. "Go!" "What about you?" Xander asks, struggling to get free. "Don't worry about me, I can handle him! I know what I--" He can't finish that part because somehow Angel's crushing his voice box with a meaty fist, glaring at Spike, but at least he's let go of Xander, who finally does what Spike told him to and runs. Spike can hear Xander's footsteps echoing and fading in the empty building, then the further away thump and click of the front door. Spike's relieved enough that he doesn't put as much of a fight as he could at first. Angel gets in a couple of lucky blows once he's realized that Xander's gone; there's a spark of anger in Angel's eyes and no one to direct that anger toward but Spike. By the time Spike collapses to the floor, unable to groan because of the damage to his throat, any fight left in him is gone. Angel tears off his jeans and fucks him, fast and careless. Spike lets it happen. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ Xander runs. Behind him, above him, he can hear the sounds of Spike and Angel fighting -- fists hitting flesh, growls. Then he bursts through the front door and he's outside, where the sun is slipping over the horizon, leaving most of the city a soft black that seems on first glance a lot more innocent than he knows it is. He doesn't stop running. Each slap of his soles on the pavement jars his entire body, his teeth rattling in his head so hard that he wouldn't be surprised if his fillings fell out, his hand throbbing with every step. It's been long enough since everything went to hell that he knows not to stop on the street. To do that would be suicide, so Xander keeps running. His breath rasps in his throat, his lungs burn and then his thigh muscles, starved for oxygen despite his whopping gasps for air, start to seize up. He scopes out a place to get inside, cursing that he lost his bag with his flashlight and other supplies when he and Willow were attacked. Slowing down, trying to be more quiet, he slips through a door to what looks like it used to be a warehouse, pressing himself to the inside wall and doing his best to listen through the fierce pounding of his heart in his ears. The building is dark and quiet. Leaning against the wall, Xander tries to think. Under other circumstances he wouldn't have felt bad about leaving Spike to deal with Angel -- if anyone should be stuck dealing with Angel, it's Spike -- but the thing is... he doesn't have anywhere to go. He doesn't have any reason to think that anyone else is still alive, and even if they were there wouldn't be any way to get to them. Giles and Dawn were in London, Buffy in Europe somewhere -- Rome, maybe, Xander thinks. It doesn't matter. There's no way to get to Europe. It was Willow's idea to come to LA, and that had been hard enough. They'd driven three cars into the ground and Willow had killed way more vamps and demons than Xander could count, but in the end they'd been attacked five blocks from the hotel that was the only place Willow knew for sure to try. Xander had carried her the last four, following the directions that were the last words she'd spoken. She'd stopped breathing two blocks from the hotel. He'd known it, but kept himself going by telling himself that it wasn't true, that any step now she'd take another breath. It was almost funny how relieved he'd felt when he'd stepped inside the hotel and seen Angel sitting there. He should have known better. Xander knows better now. It sucks that he needed the reminder, though. First things first. He waits, listening intently for anything suspicious, but there's nothing. Really nothing, which is... weird, and wrong, but at least it gives him time to catch his breath. He has to go back; he knows that. He's pretty sure he ran in a straight line, so he should be able to retrace his steps, but what the fuck is he going to do when he gets back there? He's no match for Angel and Angel knows it. He's pretty sure Angel knows it even when he's completely nuts. Xander takes a deep breath, slowly, and then another, trying to gear himself up for heading back. "Will," he whispers. "If you're up there... if you can hear me... I could really use a hand right now." He looks down at his bandaged hand, which hurts like hell, ruefully, blinking back tears. "And I guess you'd know meant that in a figurative way." He steps away from the wall, starting to turn, and there's a flash of light so bright that he stumbles backward and falls onto his ass in an instinctive attempt to get away from it. He holds up a hand to shield his vision, which is considerably less than perfect anyway, and scrambles to his feet, cursing at the pain in his busted hand, when he sees somebody lying on the floor of the warehouse less than twelve feet from him. "What the -- " The first thing that flits through his head is on his lips before it's even a conscious thought. "Willow?" But the body lying on the floor moves, groans, and Xander sees dark hair and a line of shoulder that seems distinctly masculine. Cautiously, he moves closer. The clothes are kind of out of date, including a leather jacket that's an ugly off shade of yellow, and Xander fumbles in his pocket for the stake he's been carrying for weeks, ready to use it. "Go ahead, buddy," he says. "Make any sudden moves and you're dust." The guy shoves himself up to a half sitting position and groans again, looking at Xander. "Look... I don't know who you are, but believe me when I say I'm not a vampire." His voice sounds rough, like it's been a long time since he used it. "It'd be a waste of a perfectly good stake to put it into me." "Well, sure, if you're telling the truth," Xander says. "But what if you're lying?" "I'm not," the guy says. "It's a little bit hard to give you proof, considering the obvious lack of sunlight for me to step into without bursting into flames, but if you can think of anything, I'm game." Xander lowers the stake without loosening his grip. "Where the hell did you come from?" The guy starts to get up, holding his hands out at his sides in the universal position of 'I'm innocent so please don't kill me' that, in the movies, is always followed by a gun being pulled out of some hidden pocket. He looks around. "That's kind of a long story." Remembering that he needs to get back, Xander shakes his head. "I don't have time. Good luck." It seems like the right thing to say. "Hey, hang on," the guy says as Xander backs up toward the door. "You can't just leave me here. Where are you going?" "It's a long story," Xander says. "There's these vampires, only they're not regular vampires. And one of them was good, only he's not anymore. Sort of. Anyway, I've got to get back before the used to be good one tears the used to be bad one into little pieces." "That's not just long, it's confusing," the man says. He has some kind of accent, only Xander's not sure what kind it is. "Let me come with you." Xander shakes his head again. "Trust me, you don't want to do that. I don't even want to go with me. With my luck, I'm already too late and Angel's -- " The man lunges forward and grabs onto Xander's good arm, his grip painfully tight, thumb digging into a sensitive spot and making Xander drop the stake. Xander's heart is pounding again as the guy says urgently, "Angel? You know where he is?" "Yeah, I know where he is. Unless he's not there anymore." Xander pulls his arm away. He can't even rub it because his other hand is so fucked up. Everything is so fucked up. "I'm going with you," the guy says. "If I let you come with me, will you promise not to do that Vulcan pressure point thing?" Xander asks plaintively. The guy nods. "Yeah, sure. Sorry about that, I was just... I need to see him." "Well, come on, let's go." Xander picks up the stake and the guy doesn't do anything to stop him. "Who the hell are you, anyway?" "Name's Doyle," the guy says. Doyle stops when they step outside and looks around with dismay. "What happened? Where is everyone?" "Dead," Xander says, his voice soft but flat. He shrugs like it doesn't matter. "I don't know. I mean, it was some kind of apocalypse thing, I guess, but it all happened so fast that there's no way to know for sure." That wasn't totally true -- Willow had managed to find out a few things with the help of some spells, but Xander hadn't really understood what she was saying when she'd tried to explain between gasps and hands clutching at his. He clenches his fists now, remembering, and chokes back a cry as his broken bones flare into fire. "But Angel's okay?" Doyle asks. Xander starts walking, and Doyle falls into step beside him. "Depends on your definition of okay." "He's why I'm back," Doyle says. "I don't know anything else, but I know that much. I can feel it." "Trust me, that's a mistake," Xander says. Off of Doyle's confused glance, he clarifies, "Feeling things. It's better if you don't." "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself." Doyle sounds determined, confident. Xander wonders how long he'll be able to stay like that. "So what's wrong with Angel? Is he hurt?" "Not exactly." Xander thinks about it. "Well, maybe. Kind of. In the head. He's kind of... crazy." "What about Cordelia?" Xander's rhythm doesn't falter; one foot in front of the other, just like in that animated Santa Claus movie with the penguin. And wow does his mind go to strange places sometimes. "She's dead," he says. "She died a couple of months ago." Doyle's response to that is complete silence, which is okay with Xander, because if they're quiet he can hear if there's anything trying to sneak up on them. "What do you mean, crazy?" Doyle asks finally. "Crazy," Xander says. "Raving lunatic, psychotic killer crazy. Like Angelus, only he's not. That's what Spike says, anyway, and I guess he'd know." "Spike?" Doyle sounds surprised. "Yeah, I guess he would, considering the last time I saw him he had Angel chained up and had been sticking him like a pincushion." Xander winces -- being stuck like a pincushion strikes a little too close to home, and he doesn't feel like being reminded. "He has a soul now." "So do serial killers, and it doesn't seem to do any of them a lot of good," Doyle points out. "This one does, apparently. Maybe Spike got it zapped in from somewhere else. Like Gandhi, or someone." Xander glances to the right as they walk out between two buildings, but there's nothing. Nothing is good. He likes nothing. "Somehow I think Gandhi would want to keep his," Doyle says. Xander remembers something. "Came back from where?" he asks. "What?" Doyle says. "You said you came back. Came back from where?" Doyle shrugs. "Wherever I was. Dead, mostly." "Huh." Xander thinks about that. "Buffy came back, too. Willow brought her back." "Buffy... that's Angel's ex?" Doyle turns around and starts to walk backward next to Xander, which is probably a good idea. "Yeah. She's... well, probably dead. Again. Pretty much everyone is, at this point." Xander sighs. "Look, can we not talk about these depressing subjects and instead concentrate on the different but equally depressing topic of how we're going to deal with Angel? Because I'm thinking staking sounds pretty good." "No," Doyle says. "I can handle him. Trust me; I know him. He'll listen to me." "You haven't seen him," Xander says. "He'll listen," Doyle repeats stubbornly. "Whatever you say. But if he gets close enough for me to do it, I'll dust him." Xander gestures with the stake in his hand, which is awkward because it's his left and he's a righty. "It won't come to that. I can take him." Doyle grins. "I'm stronger than I look." They get within sight of the hotel. "There it is," Xander says, pointing with the stake. "Inviting," Doyle says. "It doesn't have to be. We're not vampires." It's a pretty shitty attempt at a joke, but they exchange smiles anyway. Outside the door, Doyle pauses long enough to say, "I don't even know your name." "Oh, sorry. Xander. Harris." Xander looks at his hand. "I'd offer to shake, but somehow I think our ability to sneak up on them would be hampered by the screaming." "Don't worry," Doyle says, and Xander wonders if he's always this disgustingly cheerful. "Come on." They creep upstairs quietly even though the hotel is silent now. Silent without electricity is a lot more silent than silent with electricity ever is. Xander can hear every creak of the building, and can't help but worry that the whole thing might come falling down around them. Which is on top of the worry about what Angel might do to him if he gets it into his head to come after Xander again. When they get to the top of the stairs, Xander points Doyle in the right direction and they head in it. Xander's hand is throbbing in time with his heartbeat, which is going at a tempo that a thrash band would envy. He wishes he could just turn and walk away from all this. He wishes there were somewhere to go. Xander peers cautiously around the doorway, motioning to Doyle to keep back, but the other guy ignores him and steps into the room. Past the shorter man's shoulder, Xander sees Spike lying on his side on the floor, legs bare. He's covered in blood -- seriously covered. If he wasn't a vampire, he'd be dead. Xander's first instinct, to go to Spike, is kept in check by his fear of Angel, and he hesitates long enough for Doyle to walk further into the room. Xander's gaze darts everywhere, into every part of the room he can see, but there's no sign of Angel. "Careful," he warns Doyle, but Doyle just flaps a hand at him like he's unconcerned. Xander can tell it's an act, though. "He's in the bathroom," Doyle says, nodding in that direction. Xander gives him a look, even though his eye's drawn back to Spike, lying crumpled on the floor, unmoving. "How do you know?" It's not like there's a blood trail or anything. "I can smell him." That's enough of an echo of what Angel had said before that it sends a shiver down Xander's spine. "Okay, just... hang on, okay? Wait for me." They're both talking in a whisper, which is stupid because Angel can probably hear them anyway. Xander goes over to Spike and gets down on the floor next to him, reaching out with his good hand and touching Spike's shoulder. "Spike. Spike?" The vampire stirs and makes a small angry sound. "Shh." Spike rolls over, and his face looks as bad as it did after Glory, which was pretty bad. Xander remembers because he'd been grateful, at the time, that Spike hadn't told Glory about Dawn, even if he'd never have said so. "Bugger," Spike mumbles, and Xander winces. "Yeah. Seems like we've got that in common." Xander glances at Doyle, who's waiting, but looking tense. "I brought someone who can help. Can you get out of here on your own steam?" Spike licks his lips painfully. "Can't even feel my feet," he says. "Go on. Do what you have to. He won't dust me. Would have already, if he was going to." Xander doesn't know what else to do -- it's not like he's going to leave Doyle alone to deal with Angel. "What if all three of us get the hell out of here?" he whispers at Doyle across the space between them. Doyle shakes his head. "I'm not leaving him." Well, it had been worth a shot. Xander gets up and follows Doyle to the bathroom doorway. Angel's inside, standing with both hands braced on the sink and looking into the mirror that doesn't reflect his image back at him. "Angel?" Doyle says. "It's me. Doyle. Listen... I know it's been a long time..." "You're dead," Angel says, unmoving. His hands, Xander notes, are bloody. "Just like Cordy, and Wesley, and..." He shudders. "Everyone's dead. I know. They talk to me." Doyle takes one step into the bathroom. "I'm back." "You're dead." Angel's voice is empty. "I can hear you, in my head, but it's not real." "I'm real," Doyle says, taking three more steps and touching Angel's arm. "There. Can you feel that? It's me. I came back to help you." Xander's tense, watching, waiting. He knows that if Angel decides to turn on Doyle, there's not really much he can do to stop it. It's a really shitty feeling, but on the other hand, it's not all that different from the feeling he's had for weeks, even if before he had Willow and now he's got... no one. Spike, maybe, although that's not saying much. "You can't be real," Angel whispers, but he lets Doyle turn him around slowly. "I'm real," Doyle says again. Angel reaches up a hand that's trembling and touches Doyle's cheek. "Doyle?" Doyle puts his own hand over Angel's and holds it against his face. "Yeah, Angel. It's me." And Angel folds up and sinks down onto the floor, shaking with silent tears. His face is pressed to Doyle's chest, and Doyle puts both arms around him and holds on. It takes Xander a while to realize that he's staring as Angel weeps and Doyle comforts him, but he can't help it. There's something about the way they look together that gives him hope. "I can hear them, and see..." Angel tries to explain, but his voice is muffled by tears and Doyle's shirt. "Shh. I know. You don't have to tell me now. It's okay." Doyle's hand strokes over Angel's hair, and after a minute he looks up at Xander. "Go do what you have to," he says. "We're okay." Xander's not completely convinced, but he reminds himself again about the whole thing where he wouldn't be able to stop Angel anyway, and nods. He goes back over to Spike, kneeling down next to him and then grabbing a blanket off the bed and pulling it down into his lap in case he needs it for something. "You weren't serious about the broken spine thing, were you?" "What?" Spike frowns, the expression drawing back into a grimace of pain as the cuts on his face protest. "Did I say that?" He looks worried, like he thinks he might be delirious and not have realized it. "No, just... you said you couldn't feel your feet." Xander's own voice sounds worried, too. "Oh, right, that." Spike pushes up onto his elbows, wincing. "Guess I got better." Xander can't stop himself from smiling, even though it's strained and he's listening to Doyle's soft, worried voice. "I guess." Spike's face looks like hell. "Look, what can I do? Can I get you anything?" "Not like there's a nice convenient stash of cow's blood sitting around," Spike says. He starts to shift to the side and his face twists in pain. "Fuck. Hurts." "Yeah." Xander wishes he had two good hands; it'd make it easier to help Spike up. "Just get me onto the bed," Spike says, making a choked sound that's more than just pain, it's agony, and Xander does what he can to take some of Spike's weight as he struggles up and sits heavily on the edge of the mattress, gasping. His eyes meet Xander's. "Not safe to leave him in there," he says, twitching his head in the direction of the bathroom. "I know." It's not like they have any choice, though, and they both know it. Spike shudders. "Need a shower." He does. There's blood all over him. "Is there hot water?" Xander asks, not seeing how there could be. "No." Spike's eyebrow is split, and the blood that dripped down from it dried in a weird pattern around his eye, like ghoulish Halloween makeup. "One of the benefits of already being dead; bit hard to catch your death of cold, you know?" "Yeah." Xander looks toward the bathroom again. "I think they're kind of busy." "It's a hotel -- there's a hundred showers." Spike stands up, sways, and Xander almost trips over the blanket on the floor in his haste to grab onto him. "Jeez, take it easy," Xander says. Spike's arm is surprisingly solid in his grip. Kind of thin, but strong, like he's been compacted from someone bigger into a smaller package. "Maybe you should wait until you're less, I don't know, traumatized." It was the wrong choice of words -- Spike glares at him. "M'not bloody traumatized. Be fine in a couple of hours." "Uh-huh," Xander says doubtfully. Spike tries to pull away from Xander's supporting hand and takes one step before swaying again. Xander grabs onto him, again. "Don't need any help," Spike says. "Right. Because people who don't need help always look like they're going to fall down any second." Together, they start to walk toward the doorway. "Pretend I'm doing this for me if that makes it easier." He calls back to Doyle, "We're just gonna be next door for a few minutes. Yell if you need anything." He doesn't want to think about what the yelling might signify, but there's no way he or Spike could stop Angel anyway, so there's no point in acting like there is. Doyle says something that sounds like agreement, and Xander and Spike step out into the hallway. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ The room next door's extra dusty, like no one's been in there for a long time. Spike thinks the place has been empty for months -- things Angel's said. Bloke is able to make sense every once in a while, at least. "Okay, here, sit down," Xander says, lowering Spike onto the closed lid of the toilet. He turns away and fiddles with the shower while Spike looks down at his bare knees. He'd managed to kick off his boots, before, and now he's in nothing but a t-shirt, the tattered remains of his jeans hanging down around his waist like the world's most fucked up mini skirt. "Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath, but Xander hears and turns his head. "Yeah, that pretty much sums it up." The water starts to run into the bath tub. "Maybe you should think about doing the bathing-while-sitting thing." Spike shakes his head stubbornly. "M'not an invalid. I can stand." "Right now I'm finding it hard to believe you can take your own shirt off," Xander says, looking at him doubtfully. Determined to prove otherwise, Spike pulls his t-shirt off over his head; a bit more slowly than he normally would have, but he manages. It hurts like hell -- it's not just his face that's torn and bruised. Everything hurts, and sitting on hard plastic's not doing anything to make him more comfortable. "See?" he says. "Fine. You win. Congratulations," Xander says without emotion, although his eye's warm enough. Warmer than the water when Spike gets in underneath it. He's glad it's LA and almost summer, because room temperature water isn't much colder than his own body, which technically ought to be room temperature as well. Feels like sandpaper over his skin as he raises his face to the spray. "I'll just wait out here," Xander says from what's probably the doorway, and Spike wonders how difficult it was for Xander to stand there as Spike stripped down and got into the shower. He rubs his hands over his skin and doesn't think about how Angel touched him before, how Angel's fists and cock had done just what they've always done. Left Spike aching and angry, wanting to strike back. He would have, if he'd had any strength left in him, and even though he knows that, he's still surprised when he reaches down to shut off the water and everything starts to go black. He blinks and puts a hand on the wall, bracing himself and waiting for the worst of it to pass. It fades, his vision clearing a bit, then comes back, worse than before. "Xan--" Spike manages, only one syllable. Then there's an arm around his waist and something hard pressed against his shin, and he's being manhandled into a room that's equally dark. The world tilts and Spike clutches for something solid, gets his hand around a warm, human arm and hangs on. "Easy," Xander says, his voice startlingly close. "You're okay, just... well, I guess telling you to breathe would be kind of pointless, huh." Spike opens his eyes and Xander's right there, watching him. Spike swallows. He tries to make his hand let go, but can't. "You came back," he says. "The shower's not a good place to fall down," Xander says, with a little grin. "All that tile, all those fixtures." "Not what I meant." Spike doesn't know how to say what he meant -- his brain's working at half speed. "Before." "Doyle kind of... turned up. Down." Xander doesn't seem to have noticed that Spike is still holding onto him. "He wanted to come back. Well, not back, but..." They're looking at each other. "Yeah," he says. "I came back. How could I not?" That's enough to get Spike to let go. "You wouldn't have, if you had any sense," he grumbles, yanking at the sheet they're both on top of even though it's futile. "Get up, you ponce." Xander stands up, and Spike gets the sheet pulled free and wraps it around his waist. "Better get back in there. Make sure everyone's all right," Spike says, not looking at Xander. After a few seconds, Xander says, "Right." ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ Angel can't let go. He's still not convinced that this isn't a dream, not completely, but that doesn't make it any easier to stop touching Doyle, holding onto his arms and inhaling the scent of him. "You can't be real." "My shirt's doing a pretty good job of getting wet, considering it's imaginary," Doyle says. There's that little hint of humor, even though Angel can tell that underneath it, there's worry. Angel draws a shuddering breath and presses his face in tighter against Doyle's chest. He's uncomfortable, bent over, but he doesn't care. "Look, I don't know about you, but I'm getting a crick sitting on the floor here. You think we can move to the other room?" Doyle asks. Nodding, Angel pulls back, but he grabs onto a fistful of Doyle's shirt -- there's a momentary flash of holding Xander's shirt the same way, Xander's panicked breathing, but Angel's not sure if that was now, today, or years ago. It all blends together -- as they get up. "Don't go," Angel begs. "I'm not. I'm not going anywhere without you. You hear me?" Doyle says it calmly, looking right at Angel like he knows that will be reassuring. It is; for a few seconds, anyway. They go out into the bedroom. There are torn of strips of fabric on the floor, and the smell of blood is unmistakable. Angel wonders what happened here. He wonders what happened yesterday. All he can remember is Doyle making things better, and he doesn't remember why they were bad. "You look like you could use some sleep," Doyle says, sitting him down on the bed. "I'm tired," Angel agrees. It feels like he's been tired for a long time. He lies down, Doyle's hands urging him to, but doesn't close his eyes. The room is quiet. He can hear water running somewhere nearby. Or maybe it's rain. Is it raining? Was it? There's water in his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere," Doyle says, touching Angel's face with warm fingers. Angel catches Doyle's hand, turns his cheek into it. He can close his eyes when he knows Doyle's there. "Something's wrong." "I know," Doyle says. "I can tell." "I don't know what it is." Angel looks at Doyle again, kind green eyes gazing back at him. "I know there's... but I don't know why." Doyle waits, and Angel adds, "I can see them." Doyle glances over his shoulder at the empty room. "See who?" he asks, frowning. "Them." Angel whispers it, wondering if they'll hear him. He pulls Doyle closer, hiding his face against Doyle's neck. There's blood there, pumping. "They won't go away." "Who won't go away?" Doyle asks softly. "The ones that talk to me. They want me to help them, but it's too late; they're already dead, and the other ones keep showing them to me. How they die." Angel knows he's not making any sense, but he can't figure out which things he's saying are wrong and which are right. He doesn't know how to put the words together so that they make sense. He knows there has to be a way. Doyle strokes a hand over Angel's hair. "It's okay. You just get some sleep, and when you wake up, we'll figure it out." "It's worse when I sleep," Angel says. "I can't get away from them." "Well, just close your eyes. I'll be right here." There's a sound in the hall. Angel lifts his face, and Spike and Xander are standing in the doorway. Spike is a ghost. Xander is losing pieces of himself, one by one. Angel can hear Doyle's heart beating, and he realizes that the rain has stopped. It hits him all in a rush, harsh and hot like the desert, and Angel exhales without saying anything and can't inhale again. No air means no words. They're quick and painful, cutting him open, making his brain bleed. One picture after another, but everyone's already dead, and there's nothing he can do to stop it, which just makes it all a terrible nightmare that he'd give anything not to be having. "Angel?" Doyle says, but Angel can't give the answer Doyle wants, because he's not all right, there's something wrong, like an empty, echoing hollow inside his head, a black hole hungrily swallowing up anything nearby. "I can hear them," he whimpers, holding onto Doyle. "They're all dead, and I can't save them." "Who?" Doyle says. Angel shakes his head against Doyle's chest. "First you had them, then Cordy. They were supposed to help me..." Another one cuts into him and he cries out, spasming. "Forty eight beech. Forty eight beech; like the tree, not the ocean. They've been safe there all this time, but now there's..." Angel tries to count to forty eight with his fingers, but there aren't enough, not on his hands. In his head, though, there are hundreds of fingers searing like brands, leaving prints that would be clues if he could figure them out. He looks up at Doyle, shivering. "You're supposed to be there." Doyle is looking back at him, horror dawning on his face. "Jesus. The visions?" Angel doesn't respond quickly enough, and Doyle shakes him. "That's it, isn't it." "I don't know," Angel says helplessly. In the doorway, Spike moves, and Angel remembers everything. Xander. Willow. Spike. He makes a choked, desperate sound and jerks away from Doyle and the doorway, rolling until the mattress disappears beneath him and he falls through air he can't breathe. He hits the floor hard, shoulder and hip, and whimpers. Tries to crawl under the bed as the memories hit him, sharp punches to the face that break bones, again and again. Doyle's there, saying something to him, blocking his way. He can't hurt Doyle, can't... "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." "It's okay," Doyle says, holding onto him, but Spike and Xander are nearby now, and Angel knows what he did to them. It's too much, unbelievable. He wants it to be unbelievable. Connor. And the way the boy turns up in the alley, eyes blazing and an otherworldly, beautiful snarl on his face. And the way Connor fights, like an instrument of death molded of skin and bone and blood. And the way Connor dies, one crushing blow of a dragon's taloned foot smashing him into something that can't live anymore. Angel wants it to be gone. Doyle's voice fades into the background like someone turning down a dial, and Angel lets him fade into blissful silence and with only the palest tinge of regret. I love you, Angel thinks, to both of them. It's his last thought before he's gone. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ "Angel?" Doyle's turning Angel's face to look at him, but Angel's off again, eyes focused on nothing. "Angel?" "Something in his head's not right," Spike offers, going over to where he has a change of clothes and starting to pull them on. "Thanks for that insightful deduction," Doyle snaps. "This has happened before?" "Plenty of times. And usually when he comes out of it is when things get bad," Spike says. "Worse," he amends, and sighs as he fastens his jeans. "Come on, I'll help you get him up on the bed." "Five minutes ago you could barely stand up," Xander says, looking at Angel nervously. Spike puts a t-shirt on, ignoring the pain. "Doesn't take much." he says, getting a hand around Angel's upper arm. "Up." He tugs on Angel's arm a bit and Angel gets up. "See? Just got to order him around." "Under the circumstances, you'd think I'd be glad," Xander says. "But you're not?" Spike glances at him sharply. Xander shrugs, and Doyle glares at them both. "Well, good to know you're both finding this situation so entertaining." His accent is thick, and it reminds Spike of something. "Doyle!" he says. "You're Doyle." Spike scratches his head. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?" "I was," Doyle says. "Now I'm back. I think it's to help Angel." Spike looks at Angel, who's standing there next to the bed without even enough to sense to sit down unless someone tells him to. "Good to see that's working out so well," Spike says. Doyle mutters something under his breath and touches Angel's arm gently. "Angel? Sit down." Angel does without protest, his movement the only sign that he's heard and understood what was being said. "Does he need blood?" Doyle asks. "No," Xander says, his tone a bit angry. Spike sees Doyle look at Xander and note the scabbed-over bite marks on his throat, then nod. "There has to be something I can do," Doyle says. "How are you at running?" Xander asks. "I'm not leaving him," Doyle says. "I don't care what he's done or what either of you say. I'm staying." Spike glances at Xander, who, he notes, isn't saying that he'll stay, too. "Suppose I might as well stick around, then," Spike says. It's late, and they should all get some sleep if they can. Between them, Xander and Spike manage to wrestle a mattress into the room, and Spike collapses down onto it with a weary groan. Xander comes back with a pillow and a blanket, but settles himself over against the wall. "Plenty of room here," Spike says, indicating the mattress. Xander shakes his head, gaze going to the curve of Angel's shoulder. "I don't want to be that close to -- " He stops, tries to cover up what he'd been about to say. "You," he finishes. "You're not that good looking," Spike says. It's not true, but if it puts Xander's mind at ease, it's enough. They've all got more than enough on their plates as it is. "Neither are you," Xander says. On the bed, Angel stirs and Doyle murmurs to him softly. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ Xander falls asleep sitting up against the wall. It's stupid, because it's really not comfortable and his ass in particular is protesting the position, but he wouldn't feel relaxed enough to lie down even if it wasn't Spike he was supposed to be sharing a bed with. He wishes things weren't so complicated. He doesn't know what they'll do next. He's not sure thinking about it is even a good idea, but he can't help it. If Doyle can get through to Angel, or find a way to fix... whatever the hell is wrong with him, then maybe they can all get the hell out of Dodge together. Or maybe... Nope. Not thinking about it. Instead, Xander counts sheep that start out white but turn a weird shade of pink. It isn't until one of them runs by with a red sock stuck to its wooly side that he realizes he's dreaming, and that in the dream world of sheep the red socks bleed in the wash just like socks do in the real world. A sheep makes a funny sound that's not a baa, and it's not a black sheep, but it has plenty of wool and dark, dark eyes that reflect like mirrors. In its eyes, Xander can see -- the light, the heat, and Peter Gabriel so doesn't belong in his dreams -- Spike and Angel fighting. Eyes aren't like mirrors. Xander wakes up with a gasp, his good hand clutched tight around a fold of the blanket. Angel and Doyle are tangled up on the bed, asleep, but the mattress on the floor is an empty space between and there's no sign of Spike. Getting up stiffly, Xander walks to the door and almost collides with Spike. "God! Are you trying to kill me?" he whispers, glaring. "Sorry," Spike says. It's weird to hear him apologize. "I was just..." "Lurking?" Xander suggests, still in a whisper. "Pacing," Spike says, dropping his cigarette to the floor and grinding it out with his boot. "Not enough room in there to." There's something about him that's tense. And yeah, they're all tense, but it's different than before. "What's wrong?" Xander asks. Spike sighs. "What's right?" He gestures past Xander toward the bed. "Angel's gone completely off the deep end, the world's falling apart around us, and I'm hungry and there's no one to eat." He looks Xander up and down. "And your fashion sense is truly appalling." Xander's still stuck on 'no one to eat,' even though he's pretty sure Spike wouldn't. "Wait a minute," he says, when his brain catches up. "My fashion sense? You're the one who gave me these clothes." Spike's lips twitch, and his chin dips down, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Bugger," he says. "You're right. I forgot." A smiling Spike is a... well, Xander tells himself, everyone looks better when they're smiling. "Are you really?" "Really what?" Spike asks, frowning. "Hungry. I mean, I know what you said before about there not being cows around, but..." Xander's not sure he should ask how Spike's been staying fed until now. But Spike seems to know what he's thinking. "People dying left and right out there," he says gruffly. "Plenty of blood still in them most of the time." Xander breathes out unevenly, remembering Angel with Willow. "Yeah," he says. They stand there looking at each other. Xander is painfully aware of the way his vision is screwed up because of his missing eye; it makes him self-conscious, which feels both good -- because it's kind of nice to be worried about something fairly inconsequential, even for a few seconds -- and bad. "Might want to get some more sleep if you can," Spike says. He takes out a crushed pack of cigarettes, looks into it, and puts it back into his pocket without lighting one. "Go on. I'll be here." Strangely comforted, Xander goes back to his pillow and blanket. When he wakes up again, he thinks he's still dreaming. Otherwise, how could Xander explain what he's hearing? Because it sounds like two people going at it, and as far as he knows it's just the four of them. Xander glances at the doorway and sees Spike's shadow and the tiny red glow of a cigarette tip. Which leaves... Angel and Doyle, who are moving together in the darkness, under the blankets, and there's no way to mistake what they're doing. There's kissing, and Angel keeps murmuring things under his breath, some of them in a language Xander doesn't understand. He's glad to hear it, though, because if Angel's talking it means he's not feeding from Doyle. It's weird to realize that Spike is listening, too, as Doyle groans and urges Angel on with soft, encouraging words. Xander's body responds to the sounds, which is kind of disturbing, considering, but Xander's got a lot of practice ignoring things he doesn't want to think about. "Angel," Doyle says in a whisper. There's more kissing, wet, hungry sounds, and Xander shuts his eyes. As he falls asleep again, he wonders what Spike is thinking. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ Spike's exhausted and hungry by the time the sun comes up. Doyle's asleep with his head on Angel's thigh, while Angel sits up against the headboard, hand absently stroking Doyle's hair as he stares at nothing. He's gone again -- Spike can tell. Over near the wall, Xander stirs and yawns, wiping his knuckles across his eye. "What'd I miss?" he asks. "Nothing," Spike says. He knows Xander was awake when Angel and Doyle fucked. Doyle makes a muffled sound and sits up, looking at Angel's face. "Angel?" He touches Angel's naked chest, but there's no response. "Typical," Spike says, making an effort to sound sympathetic. "You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better," Doyle says, covering himself with the sheet when he remembers he's naked. Spike leans against the door frame. "Right. When obviously what I was trying to do was make you feel worse." Doyle looks around. "Do either of you see my pants?" "There," Spike says, pointing but not moving. He's curious to see if Doyle gets up to get them. "Thanks." Doyle somehow manages to reach them without standing up or showing more skin than he's already showing, and struggles into them while Xander stares determinedly at his feet. "So I take it the current situation's not limited to LA?" "You mean the whole apocalypse thing?" Xander asks. "That would be an unfortunate no. It's pretty much everywhere, from what we can figure." Spike wonders who 'we' is, but doesn't ask. Doyle mutters a curse under his breath. "I think I'm here to take them back. The visions." There'd been a whole conversation during the night about that, one that Spike had listened to with interest. He'd just thought Angel'd lost his mind; he hadn't realized there was an actual cause for it. "That require some sort of spell?" "I gave them to Cordelia when I kissed her," Doyle says, and Xander twitches. "And she gave them to Angel the same way." "Right, right," Spike says, waggling his finger as it comes back to him. "He said something about that, right before we tried to take out the Black Thorn." Angel blinks and pulls his knees up. "I can see them. I can. See." Even though he's talking, doesn't mean he's out of it. "I know," Doyle says, patting his arm reassuringly. "It's okay. We're gonna fix it." "It's too late," Angel says. It sounds like a response to what Doyle said, although Spike knows from previous experience that might not mean anything. "Maybe we should listen to him," Xander says hopefully. "I told you you shouldn't have come back," Spike points out. "Neither of you has to stay," Doyle says, looking from Spike to Xander, his hand still on Angel's arm. "Go. We'll be okay." Spike shakes his head. "You'll be dead. You haven't seen what he's like. It's not pretty." "Understatement of the century," Xander says. "I don't care," Doyle says. "How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not..." He grabs onto his head suddenly, and for about two seconds Spike thinks he's having an aneurysm. Angel's worried, supporting Doyle as he writhes on the bed and gasps out a few words that don't mean anything to Spike. Even Xander moves closer to the bed, watching, and finally Doyle goes limp, panting. There's a trickle of blood from his ear, his nose, even the corner of one eye. "It didn't work," Angel says, finger leaving marks on Doyle's skin. "Didn't work." "Seems to me like maybe it worked a little too well," Doyle says, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. "Jesus. Either I've forgotten, or that was a hell of a lot worse than it used to be." "You didn't used to bleed from the eyes?" Xander asks. Doyle looks startled, swiping his fingertips under his eye and looking at them, stunned. "No, that part's new," he says, then, "Shit. I'm gonna -- " He scrambles out of the bed and into the bathroom, and they can all hear him being noisily sick. "It's wrong," Angel says, rocking and hiding his face. "It's all wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this." Xander looks at Spike. "If the visions switched over to Doyle, shouldn't Angel be okay?" "Don't know." Spike shrugs helplessly. "Maybe it's not that simple." "Anyone'd be crazy," Doyle says, hanging onto the door frame. He's pale. "The Powers That Be just showed me people who've been dead for weeks. How they died. What they look like now." He swallows heavily. "I don't know how anyone could stay sane, seeing things like that." Angel lifts his face and looks at Doyle. Spike can see something there, a flash of something that he doesn't think he could name, and then Angel just... snaps. Spike doesn't even have time to get an arm up -- Angel's knocking him to the ground, slamming him against the floor hard enough to leave him senseless. There's something in Angel's hand, and then a series of blows to Spike's head and everything starts to go black. He can hear Xander and Doyle shouting, a muffled thud, and then... nothing. The first thing that filters through to Spike is the smell. It's the thick smell of blood; a lot of it. The second thing is the pounding of his skull, which he knows from previous experience is most likely broken. It hurts so badly that he's afraid to open his eyes in case it turns out he's blind, but another wave of the blood-scent washes over him and he groans and forces his eyelids up. Turns out Xander's lying directly across from him, against the wall, out like a light if the way he's drooling means anything. Spike hitches himself up onto one elbow and listens for Angel, but he doesn't hear a thing. "Harris," he says, voice hoarse. Xander doesn't move. "Harris!" Xander stirs and lifts a hand to his head. "What the fuck?" he says. "Pretty much what I was thinking," Spike says, crawling over toward Xander instead of trying to get up. He touches Xander's shoulder to reassure himself that they're both okay. "You bleeding?" "I..." Xander frowns and blinks. "I don't think so." "You'd know," Spike says. The scent of it's heavy enough that there wouldn't be any question. "Someone is." "Doyle?" Xander's voice quavers and breaks, but he pushes himself upright, one hand going to adjust his eye patch automatically. "Doyle?" There's no answer. Spike gets up, bracing a shoulder against the wall as support. The edges of the world blacken and sparkle, and he feels Xander's hand under his elbow. "You okay?" "Yeah," Spike says. This isn't the time to explain about his head, not when he's got no idea where Angel is and he's starting to suspect that Doyle is either dead or close to it. "Doyle? Come on, mate." He pushes away from the wall, following the scent of the blood toward the bathroom. The smell of it's covering up everything, so he's cautious, moving slowly. He knows Xander's right behind him, which is one more thing to worry about. In the doorway, Spike stops dead, and a second later, Xander bumps into him, both of them staring into the once-white room that now looks painted with drying blood. "Oh fuck. Fuck -- " Xander says, and bolts. Spike can hear him retching behind him, and he doesn't blame him. See, it's not the blood. It's not even the fact that Doyle's head is split open like a melon, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling. It's that his skull's empty. Angel's curled up against the far wall, and as Spike stands there waiting for reality to change into something he can understand, Angel starts to rock and whimper, hitting his head into the wall. "It didn't work," Angel says. "Didn't work. Didn't." "Christ, Angel," Spike breathes. "What the hell did you do?" Behind him, Xander's still vomiting. Spike wishes he could join him. "I had to save him," Angel says, turning his face toward Spike. Doesn't meet his eyes, though -- seems to be looking just off to Spike's left. There's a bit of something gray just below Angel's lower lip. "I had to. It was the only way." "God," Xander says, one hand on the wall. He can't see into the room from where he is. "God, Spike..." "Yeah," Spike says. "They're all in my head," Angel says. "Crying, and... I can hear them. They're dead, but they're safe in there. It's the only place they are." Spike thinks that he should say something, but for once in his unlife he's completely at a loss for words. "He had to be safe. With all the others." Angel's eyes are wet, his hands covered with blood and gore. He meets Spike's gaze for a fraction of a second. "I saved him." "Bloody hell," Spike says. "Why did he..." Xander tries again. "Why would he...?" "Because he's mad as a hatter, that's why," Spike says flatly. "Thinks he was doing the bloke a favor." "I did," Angel says, squeezing his eyes shut and going back to rocking. "I did, I did." His voice is a thin whimper. "I had to. So do you." "Have to what?" Spike asks, although he knows what Angel's saying. "Save me. Please..." Angel's weeping. "You have to. It's the only way." Spike holds a hand out toward Xander without taking his eyes off Angel. "Give it to me." Xander doesn't ask what he's talking about, and a few moments later Spike feels the press of wood against his palm. "Go wait in the hallway," Spike says. "But -- " "Go." Spike doesn't look at Xander. Not because he thinks Xander's going to try to talk him out of it, but because he doesn't want to see the look on his face. Xander goes, and Spike steps into the bathroom, grip tightening around the stake in his hand. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ After, he joins Harris in the hall. Doesn't look at him then, either. "Let's go," Spike says. "Go where?" Xander asks. Not a bad question, but it's not one Spike has a real answer to. Not now, not with a fine layer of dust on him and his head aching with something like grief. "Anywhere but here," he says finally, and they start for the stairs. They get into the first car that will start, and drive. Twice, Xander has to roll down the window and throw up, even when there's nothing left in his stomach to get rid of. Spike complains about the smell, which sets off another round of dry heaves because it reminds Xander of the smell of all that blood, like being in a slaughterhouse. Seeing Doyle like that... The fact that part of Xander had wanted to believe that Doyle could make everything okay just makes it worse. "We shouldn't have gone back," he says bleakly, looking out the window. "Told you that more than once," Spike says, driving. It doesn't sound reproachful, but Xander can hear the echo of what he said in his own head. "I didn't mean it like that." Spike frowns. "It doesn't matter." Xander's tempted to let it go, but he decides not to. "Yeah, it does," he says. "I just meant... it's like I took him to his grave, you know?" It's melodramatic, but it feel true. "You didn't know," Spike says. "Maybe I didn't know that exact thing was going to happen," Xander says, swallowing. His throat burns from stomach acid. "But I knew something could." Spike glances at him. "Don't think you'd have been able to talk him out of doing what he did," he says. Xander looks out the window. Everything going by is dark, shadowed. There are fires and thick smokes. It's all gone to hell. "Yeah, I guess," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say. He keeps watching as they drive; he doesn't know what he's looking for. They drive half the night, then stop and sleep when Xander's past the point of making sense. Spike's still wound up, jittery, can't sleep until an hour after dawn, and then Xander's up by mid-afternoon and pushing for them to get moving again. Slowly, they create a pattern; start driving when Spike has to huddle under a blanket, and stop long after Xander's exhausted. It's a solution that pleases neither of them, but it's the best they can do. There's no point in trying to settle anywhere. They fight vampires, demons. They run from a dragon one night; the flames it breathes down on the car hot enough to melt the paint from the roof, but somehow, against all odds, they get away. There's not enough food for Spike, though Xander manages with tinned things and a can opener. Finally, one night when Spike's strung out, shaky with hunger, Xander crouches down next to him and offers his arm. "No," Spike says. "Look, you're more good to me undead than you are dead," Xander says. There's a little, sharp knife in his busted up hand; two of his fingers don't sit straight anymore, even though he abandoned the makeshift split a week ago. And he's right, so Spike nods and hates himself for being grateful. Weeks later, Spike gets up just before dawn. Xander's asleep, sprawled on his back and snoring. Spike creeps upstairs, the house they've holed up in silent around them. He needs... he doesn't know what exactly. He finds a tape player with working batteries and a collection of half-decent music; slips the headphones on and turns it up loud, careful not to sing and wake Xander but unable to keep from moving to the beat. He's listening to a band he doesn't know the name of when he hears something indistinct, separate from the music, and clicks off the machine. Xander's shouting his name, the level of panic in his voice sending a bolt of sheer terror through Spike, who drops the tape player to the floor and runs for the stairs to the accompaniment of a desperate inner voice that's chanting what might be something close to a prayer. Spike falls down the last three steps, careens off the wall, and tears around the corner to collide into Xander full-force. Xander yelps, and Spike barely manages to get a hand around the back of Xander's skull before it smashes into the tile. "Fuck," Spike says, his knuckles stinging. "What? What is it?" Xander's hands are all over him, head, shoulder, back, hip. "I woke up, and you... I opened the front door, and -- God, I thought you were dust." Xander's eye blazes. "You asshole," he adds, and punctuates it with a fist to Spike's face. "Bloody hell!" Spike rolls off and away, rubbing his cheekbone. "Wait, you hit me and I'm the asshole?" "I thought you were dead," Xander says, sitting up. "I called and you didn't answer me." Spike wants to shout at him, but he can see that Xander was genuinely afraid. That makes him feel guilty, so he ends up shouting after all. "I was upstairs!" he says loudly. "God forbid I want ten minutes to myself!" Xander looks down. "You could have told me where you were going," he says sullenly. "Fuck you," Spike says. "You're not my mother, thank God. I don't owe you anything." Xander's quiet. "Fine," he says finally. "Fine," Spike says back. "Good. Glad we're on the same page." They don't talk at all in the car. Ten hours of silence. It isn't until they're holed up in a new place that Spike chances an apology. "Didn't mean to scare you," he offers, tossing a pillow from one of the other rooms onto the king sized bed. "You didn't," Xander says, not looking at him. Spike wants to tear his hair out. "God, what does it take with you? I said I was sorry. You know how many times I've said that since I was turned?" "Three?" Xander guesses. "Maybe four," Spike says, and they grin at each other warily. "I get the bed," Xander says. Spike looks at him in disbelief. "No, I do. You take the one in the other room." "The one that doesn't have a pillow now?" Xander asks. "No way. This one's mine." Defiant, Spike strips down to the skin and lies down. "If you want to sleep here, you'll have to sleep with me." To his surprise, Xander calls his bluff, pulling off his own jeans and t-shirt and getting underneath the covers wearing nothing more than boxer shorts. "I'm not sleeping with you," he announces. "I'm sleeping in this bed. That's it." "Think of the scandal if word got out," Spike says, tucking his hands beneath his head and looking up at the ceiling. Minutes later, Xander's snoring. When Spike wakes up, Xander's arm is around his waist from behind, Xander's breath warm and sweet against the back of Spike's neck. Spike tries to stay relaxed, not wanting to lose the moment -- bit of comfort, that's all it is -- but he can hear Xander's heartbeat speed up, and then Xander pulls away. Deliberately, Spike rolls over and drapes his own arm over Xander. "No one to see," he says, kissing Xander's bare shoulder. "No one to care." Xander's tense but aroused -- Spike can smell it. He strokes his hand tentatively along Xander's side, and when Xander exhales and turns toward him, he forgets everything for a while. After, when they're both sated and half asleep, Spike hears Xander say, "Spike." It's not a question; sounds more like Xander's trying it on for size. It doesn't require a response, but Spike gives him one anyway. "There's no one else," he says. They both know that's the problem. End. Fan Fiction Index   Feedback to WesleysGirl