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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Thicker Than Water Author: KellyHK Pairing: Angel/Spike Rating: NC-17 Setting: Post-NFA It was December, or at least that's what he thought it was. Didn't matter. Time stopped meaning anything some time last autumn. The snow had been a permanent fixture and would likely continue to blanket the ground for months, covering everything in a lifeless white. The nights had been tolerable when he'd first arrived, crisp and nowhere near freezing. But the money ran out as the days grew shorter. Those brisk, invigorating nights had yielded to something more painful and unforgiving. On a good day, when the sun would peek out for a few hours, it might inch toward the freezing point only to plummet once again when darkness fell. Spike was stiff everywhere. He thought vamps weren't supposed to feel the cold. Sure that made sense when you had a roof over your head and three squares a day. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had enough blood in his belly to chase the hunger away, and it had been weeks since he'd been able to scrape together enough money to sleep somewhere that had running water or heat. The sun had been up for an hour or so. He'd been up for three. The abandoned warehouse he'd sought shelter in did little to chase away the bone-aching chill, and the tattered army blanket draped over his shoulders offered little additional warmth. There were a few other transients in the building-drifters and junkies whose names he'd never come to know. Occasionally another vamp would pass through, sometimes to score a meal, other times just to seek shelter from the elusive sun. Didn't matter. He kept to himself, and the others left him alone. No one was there for camaraderie. The demon population was actually pretty small. But who the hell would live in Siberia if they didn't have a choice, Spike thought to himself as he bundled his blanket back into his rucksack. God knew he hated this run-down river town. It wasn't like he ever planned to visit Irkutsk, let alone live there. Yet there he was, penniless and half-frozen. On the run for what seemed like forever, he'd fled the chaos of Los Angeles well over a year ago. He had to. The Black Thorn never seemed that far behind. He and Angel had brought those bastards to a screeching halt for nothing more than a moment. And then all hell broke loose. He'd run one way, and Angel gone the other. At one time he'd heard that he and Gramps each had had a million dollar price on his head. Hell, for that price, he'd sell out the grandpoof himself. Only he had no idea where Angel was. So he'd fled and never looked back. Felt like a bloody coward, but what else was there to do? Wait for them to kill him like they'd snuffed Charlie and Blue? By the time he'd reached Prague, he'd only had enough dosh in his pocket for a forged Russian visa and a one-way ticket on the Trans-Siberian Railway. What the hell, he knew enough phrases of Russian, and it was a big enough landmass that hopefully he could just vanish into the woodwork. He didn't even like Irkutsk, he reminded himself and he patted down his pockets, his fingers itching to hold a cigarette. Tossing the empty pack he'd found in his coat pocket -something drab and obviously a leftover from the Soviet era - he rifled through the front pocket of his jeans in search of rubles. He found ten, just enough for a pack of the cheap smokes. He didn't have enough for anything else. Yeah, he knew he should save it for blood, or even a mattress in a filthy flophouse. But the nicotine would be enough to chase the hunger away that kept gnawing at his belly. His boots, a size too large, slapped against the pavement as he headed toward the gastronom on Karl Marx Street. If there had been a bright center of the universe, then Irkutsk was the furthest city from it, he told himself. Sure, there was that pretty lake an hour's drive away that he'd heard about and knew he'd never see. But no matter how many times the locals tried to put lipstick on this dirty pig in attempt to lure tourists and commerce to the area, it was just another eastern European city that stank of diesel and death. Heroin junkies were everywhere. Seemed like everyone was hooked on smack. Those that didn't claim to be junkies were only lying to themselves. And with the drugs came crime and disease. The city was dying. He didn't need to be a doctor to make that diagnosis, and didn't have the energy to care. The north end of town was the worst, filled with the uncaring, the addicts and homeless. A good place as any to hide where everyone else surrounding you felt just as dead inside. The sky was shrouded in clouds and threatened snow yet again. At least he'd be safe for his walk to the store. His left foot was cold and wet. There must've been a hole in his boot. Yet another thing he couldn't afford to replace. Maybe he could pack it with some newspaper or a plastic bag from the gastronom. Spike wished he had a hat to cover his head. He'd traded his leather coat in Budapest for a ticket to St. Petersburg. By the time he'd reached Moscow, he'd shed the blond hair in favor of a closely-cropped buzz that to help him blend in with the locals. Too bad "blending in" seemed to be synonymous with freezing to death. The gastronom was nearly empty when he pushed open the door and walked inside. The clerk was putting a loaf of bread and some sausage into a customer's bag. When she finally left, Spike approached the counter. He recognized the clerk. Vadim something. Always had things to sell above and below the counter. He smiled at Spike and waved he closer. Spike dug in his coat pocket and counted out eight of his ten rubles - literally pennies if he did the exchange in his head. "A pack of Primas," he said in Russian. He hadn't spoken the language in over a century, but been in Irkutsk long enough now that he wasn't struggling with it. He didn't stumble over the words as much as he'd used to. Some nights his dreams were even in Russian "Anything else?" Vadim asked, trying out his broken English. Leaning forward he whispered, "I just get small shipment of yak blood from Mongolia. Only liter or two, but I hear it is quite good." Vadim had known Spike was a vamp from the first time he'd stepped into the gastronom. One of the few blokes he knew that spoke English. Spike smiled even as his stomach rumbled. With ten rubles to his name, he didn't even have enough dosh to buy the cheap stuff like mutton or pig. "Just the smokes," he answered setting the cash on the counter. The clerk counted the money before putting it in the register. "I tell you what." The guy was as shrewd as a used car salesman. "I keep for you for few more days. You change mind, you come back. If not, I sell to other." Spike knew there were other vampires in town but never had any interest meeting one, even less fighting one. If Vadim couldn't hawk his wares today, he was sure there'd be other opportunities if Spike passed. "I'll keep that in mind," Spike answered, tearing open the cellophane wrapper and tossing the garbage on the counter. He ripped open the pack, the aroma of tobacco was pungent and strong. The Primas were unfiltered, packed in two neat rows of ten and probably the only true bargain in this wasteland. He could stretch a pack to last almost a week. He didn't wait to go outside before he struck a match and inhaled the first puff. Stronger than anything he'd smoked in years, they tasted like shit and the nicotine had stained his fingers yellow. "I keep blood for you," Vadim offered once again. "Dasvedanya," Spike answered as he left the shop. Eddies of smoke swirled around his face. The main drag was awakening for the morning. Storefronts were open for the day, and a city bus belched a cloud of oily exhaust into the air as it sped down the boulevard. University students scurried up the sidewalk before morning classes. The morning train would be arriving from the west within the hour. As good of time as any to turn a trick. Fresh meat right off the train if he was lucky. For fifty rubles, he could give you a taste of death, that high some craved when the heroin wasn't enough. He still couldn't believe people actually paid to be bit. Was never enough to fill his belly. But it was plenty to push starvation off another day. For a hundred rubles, he'd drop to his knees and suck something else. Everything had a price -a liter of blood, a bed, a shower. Desperate times meant desperate measures. The train was already in the station by the time he arrived. A handful of backpackers filtered through the station, no doubt in search of one of the few Spartan hostels in town. An armed soldier paraded through the station searching for contraband. The railway station was the hub for everything black market. Counterfeit American cigarettes, liquor, and sex. Heroin from Tajikistan and Afghanistan flooded out of the station every day. No sense even pretending that one soldier could stop it. What wasn't hidden in coffee cans and luggage was smuggled into the city within the human mules that risked their lives for not much more than pocket change and empty promises of a better life. Those who weren't selling were buying. Spike stamped out his cigarette and made his way toward the men's restroom. The stalls were discrete enough. It's not like he was offering dinner and a movie after all. They served a purpose and didn't have to be romantic. Never had to advertise. They always seemed to find him, and today was no exception "What are you selling?" a bloke drew near and whispered in his ear. The kid looked all of twenty and was already wasted. Pinpoint pupils and a glassy stare. Another heroin junkie looking for a different sort of rush. Spike puffed up and tried his best to resuscitate his swagger he'd long lost. "Eternal life," he answered. Seemed to be the buzzword all of the vamps offering suck jobs used. Not that he was ever going to offer an idiot like this a true chance of immortality. He was there for the thrill and the high and nothing more. They haggled over money for a moment or so. Spike hated lowering his asking price from fifty. Twenty-five rubles bought a lot of jack squat. Couldn't even lick the inside of an empty blood bag for that price. But he was hungry and was quite certain the vamp around the corner would underbid him if he didn't budge. So he settled for thirty-five. "Are you clean?" the guy asked in Russian. AIDS, everyone was terrified of it these days. Slow and silent killer, it had spread through the junkie population like wildfire in only a matter of years, a reward for shared needles and endless bad choices. "I'm a night creature," Spike said. Funny, he could dream and curse in Russian, but he'd never learned the phrase for "vampire." Didn't matter. It got his point across. "We don't get sick. Are we going to keep dancing or are you going to pay me?" Spike pulled away when he saw the soldier looking his way. Sure, the wanker with a machine gun tended to look the other way with just about everything in the station, but he wasn't going to press his luck. His client said nothing as he pressed seven five ruble notes into Spikes hand. He counted the quickly before folding them over and stuffing them in a pocket. He waited for the old lady to pass before he said, "Follow me." He led the man into the lavatory. A fat businessman was pissing in one of the urinals, another washed his hands at one of the sinks. Spike waited for them to leave before he shoved his customer toward the last stall. He'd used it many times before. The toilet had long been kicked out, a favorite for those looking for a hit of smack, a fuck or, in his case, a snack. Spike shoved the guy inside. The he bloke was nervous and fidgety. Spike could hear his heart beat racing. "First time?" Spike asked. Of course it was. The kid nodded anxiously as he bared his neck. Spike couldn't suppress a laugh. The kid really was green. You never, ever bared your neck to a vamp even if you were paying him. Easiest way to bleed to death. First rule of survival. "No, sweetheart," he said slipping into English for a second. Seemed easier to mock that way without killing the transaction. He pulled the kid's coat off and shoved a sleeve over the elbow. Passive little shit, he thought to himself. Was he going to have to everything? He pointed to the bend in the kid's elbow. It was already riddled with needle tracks. Kid might be green with a vamp, but he was no stranger to chernaya, the local heroin concoction. "I'm going to bite you here," Spike explained in Russian. The kid nodded and pressed his back to the far wall as Spike cornered him. Spike kicked the door to the stall shut and slid into gameface. No need for romantic pretenses. He took the proffered arm and sunk his teeth into that sweet spot in the crook of the other man's arm. The kid didn't need to worry about catching HIV from a tryst in a toilet. The bastard already had it. Tainted blood had its own distinct flavor. It tasted sick, like it was already dying. Poor sod, if the drugs didn't do him in, then the silent time bomb in his bloodstream certainly would. Disease or not, Spike kept drinking, his tongue lapping at the fresh wound. It's not like he could catch it anyhow. Oh, how it was so tempting to drain this kid dry and abandon the empty husk. He wasn't sure it was his soul or just common sense that kept him from following through. A murder would accomplish nothing and likely dry up the supply of Happy Meals with legs, only no one ever seemed happy in this armpit of a town. The kid's heartbeat had begun to quicken, a sure sign that it was time to pull off. It never seemed enough. But at that point, he no longer cared. His tongue was starting to go numb, and that warmth in his belly began to spread through his body. Closest thing to mainlining. The kid must've shot up recently with enough junk to satisfy a rhino. The rush was never this strong. He released the kid and staggered back as step. His vision blurred, and everything moved in slow motion. The bloke rode the bite high and slid to the floor satisfied as Spike joined him on the tiles. His head lolled back against the wall, and he let oblivion take him for a while. He didn't remember the kid leaving. The hunger returned with a vengeance when the drugs wore off and so did a blinding headache. It had been years since he'd lived with that fucking chip in his head, but his headaches seemed scores worse since it had been removed. Right behind his eyes. An ice pick gouged out his brains. He picked himself off the floor headed to the sink, ignoring the wanker who eyed him suspiciously. Water trickled from the sink on the left. Turning the water on, Spike cupped his hand beneath the tap and took a drink to wash the stale taste of blood from his mouth. He took another sip before splashing some over his face. No seemed to notice - or care-- that he cast no reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned the water off and headed out. The day was still young. *** The pickings were slim at the rail station. Some days would be busy enough to raise enough dosh to survive a week, but today was not one of them. For once people were more interested in scoring dope or young Georgian whores who couldn't be much older than fifteen. Spike managed to scrape out only one more trick before he called uncle and gave up. This time he only got twenty rubles. Still not enough money in his pocket, but that soldier was starting to give him that look like he'd worn out his welcome. There'd be plenty of opportunities on the north side. Once the sun went down, the population of the warehouse district would triple, and no one would have to worry about a soldier watching your every move. Hell, the north side was one of those run down parts of town no self-respecting idiot-or cop for that matter-would visit if they could avoid it. The sun was nearly set by the time Spike returned home, the dilapidated remains of an abandoned warehouse. It wasn't pretty, but it was home. Graffiti covered the walls both inside and out. Spent hypodermics lay among the rubble. The silhouette of a rat scampered past the doorway. Maybe he could grab a little kip before the night was in high swing. Spike headed toward the stairs. He'd decided to sleep on the second floor. "Hello, comrade," a vampire said as he greeted him in Russian. He and his two friends were blocking the stairwell. "We need to have a word with you." Spike felt himself slip into game face. Seemed like a natural thing to do when three goons you didn't know greeted you. "Is there a problem?" he asked. No sense pretending he couldn't understand them. "This is our building," the leader explained. Spike hand instinctively went to his belt hoping to find a stake or anything to fight back but came up empty handed. The minions moved in and grabbed his arms. Today just went from bad to extra shitty in two seconds flat. "Not a problem," Spike answered trying his best to sound nonchalant, as though getting jumped at dusk was an every day occurrence. "I'll move on. The city's big enough for all of us." "You don't understand, comrade." The boss inched closer. "This is our city, and you are interfering with business." Since when did the Russian Mafia employ thug vamps? Did they have their hands in blood trafficking as well? Spike held up his hands, trying his best not to look threatening. "Misunderstanding, mate," he said in English. Switching back to the local dialect, he added, "Didn't know I was getting in the way." The boss nodded, and they dragged Spike into the stairwell. Half of the concrete steps were smashed or missing all together. Definitely Russian Mafia. He wasn't sure if it was the Izmailovskaya or the Tambov Gang. Didn't matter, they had their hooks in everything, even in this hellhole. This was going to hurt. A lot. He was certain of it. Spike struggled to break free as the boss leaned back and lit up a cigarette. He wasn't going down without a fight. "Empty your pockets," Boss man demanded. "Otyebis," Spike spat, telling them in no uncertain terms to fuck off. A blow to the head, and Spike saw stars. Two more to the gut, and he wanted to drop to his knees. He was weaker than he'd thought, but wasn't going to let the wankers know otherwise. The boss patted Spike down, pulling the pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket only to crush them in his fist and toss them to the ground in frustration. He finally hit pay dirt when he rifled though the front pocket of Spike's jeans and found money. He counted out the bills and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Only forty-five rubles?" He pocketed the money anyhow. "What can I say?" Spike answered as he spat a mouthful of blood. "It was a slow day." The boss moved closer, his fetid breath reeking of vodka mixed with the blood of a fresh kill. "Today is your lucky day. I'm going to let you live." Oh sure, there would probably be strings to this. With goons like this, there were always strings. "You are going to work for us." Yeah, that was a great proposition, someone else's bitch in that extra circle of hell that nobody wrote about. "We take seventy percent of everything you make." Head goon took another drag of his cigarette "What type of deal is that?" Spike wanted to know. "I can't survive on that. Might as well put a stake in me now!" His head snapped back again. That bastard packed a punch. "Then you will have to work twice as hard." "And if I don't pay you?" He wasn't going to go down with out a fight. The boss pulled out a stake and pressed it against Spike's heart. "I wouldn't cross us, comrade," he warned, the tip pressing firmly against Spike's chest. "There are many ways to kill a vampire." Without warning he pulled the stake away and shoved it deep into Spike's side. Spike bit back a scream as his vision went black for a moment. He felt his game face melt away as the blood soaked into his jeans below. They let him fall to his knees, and he weakly tried to extricate the weapon from his flank. It clattered to the concrete, sticky with blood as the boss added, "And there are hundreds of ways to make you wish we would kill you." The thugs stepped over him as he curled into a ball. Everything hurt. "We will be back Monday to collect," the boss said as he stepped on Spikes hand. "Do not let us down, little one." Spike nodded to let them know he'd heard them as he pulled his crushed hand close to his body. A kick to the head, and the world went mercifully black. *** He had no idea how long he'd been out, but could tell the sun was up even before he opened his eyes. Frost clung to his skin, and his eyelashes were frozen together. Must've been one hell of a cold night. No doubt he looked like the corpse he felt like. Spike groaned as he rolled to his back. The skin on his battered cheek burned as it ripped free from the equally frozen floor below. Only then did he realize his jacket and boots were missing, likely scavenged by one of the lowlifes that filled these warehouses at night. His backpack was gone as well, not that he had much in it. "Son of a bitch," he said to himself. Dead broke, frozen and now the indentured servant of some idiot in the Russian mafia, he wished they'd let him drop a few feet more to the left where the sunlight was peeking through one of the broken windows in the stairwell. Then this goddamn existence would come to an end once and for all. He slowly sat up. The stake lay on one of the steps and his crushed cigarettes were an arm's reach away. He tried to salvage one from the destroyed pack. Went as far as to pull a broken one out but thought otherwise. Crumpling the pack further, he tossed it against the wall in frustration. Tobacco exploded everywhere. At least he'd stopped bleeding. That, or he'd simply ran out of reserves to ooze from the wound in his flank. The blood was frozen and congealed against his shirt. So this is what a deathcicle felt like. He pulled his loose sock back over his foot and tried to stand. The world spun around him, and Spike needed to steady himself against the wall. Those vamps demanded money, but he wasn't in the mood to make any today. He'd live with the hunger today. All he wanted to do was head back to his little corner of the world and sleep, maybe lick his wounds and attempt to heal. By the next night Spike was ready to hit the street again. No avoiding it, he needed to get back in the game. Needed blood to heal right and proper if he didn't want to be on the receiving end of another round of Kick the Spike. And he certain couldn't be empty-handed when the Mafiosos returned. If round one hurt like hell, he didn't want to press his luck with round two. The other vamps were starting to emerge from the shadows as well. Contraband of every type was for sale. No one had claimed the windowsill that overlooked the sidewalk. He'd have the block free to himself. It seemed like as good of a perch to sit and wait as another. *** That's when he saw him. Even without the shock of platinum hair or the long leather coat, he'd recognized him right away. He looked thinner than he'd ever seen him. Huddled in a ball, he sat precariously on a window ledge. Not dressed for the harsh elements, Spike tried his best to not look like he was shivering. Angel didn't know what to expect as he approached him. It was amazing that he'd found him at all. The last thing he wanted was for Spike to bolt, so he approached slowly and asked, "Little cold to be without a coat, don't you think?" That's when he saw him. Even without the shock of platinum hair or the long leather coat, he'd recognized him right away. He looked thinner than he'd ever seen him. Huddled in a ball, he sat precariously on a window ledge. Not dressed for the harsh elements, Spike tried his best to not look like he was shivering. Angel didn't know what to expect as he approached him. It was amazing that he'd found him at all. The last thing he wanted was for Spike to bolt, so he approached slowly and asked, "Little cold to be without a coat, don't you think?" "You could say that," Spike answered without looking, more interested in the ragged cuticle he was picking at then engaging in any conversation. "What happened?" He really didn't want to know, but there had to be a reason why Spike was half frozen and beaten to a pulp. Spike turned to answer. His left eye was swollen shut. "Got jumped by another vamp, okay?" he answered with a shrug. For as much as he looked broken, Spike was still filled to the brim with defiance. At least this frozen patch of hell hadn't taken that from him, but Angel doubted it was a simple mugging "How much are you going for?" "Fuck off, Angel." But he didn't deny he was whoring something out. His voice softened as he turned away. "Just leave. Please." "When was the last time you ate?" "Doesn't matter." "I've got blood back at the hotel." Spike hopped off the ledge and limped down the sidewalk. "Don't need you rescuing me," he said over one shoulder. "Go be a white hat somewhere else." Angel followed him as he headed into an alley. Nothing had changed. He was still stubborn as a mule. "Will you stop being a pain in the ass for just a second and listen to me?" he asked, grabbing him by the arm. Spike spun around, his jaw was clenched, his hands curled into twin fists at his side. "Oh, let's catch on old times, shall we," he said. "Fancy meeting you here, Gramps. How've I been? Why, thanks for asking. Don't have a fucking penny to my name, I just lost my only pair of shoes, I'm running on vapors, and if I don't come up with at least hundred rubles by Monday, some wanker of a vamp named Vladimir or whatever the fuck his name was is going to rearrange my insides. I'm just peachy. So if you don't mind, why don't let me keep whatever shreds I have of my dignity and let me get on with my night." Angel let out a sigh. Nothing had changed. He was as histrionic as always. "Are you done?" Spike said nothing and stared back with indignation. "Come back with me." "No." "Come back with me," Angel said again. "No strings attached. Just want to talk, that's all." He waited for the token protests to grind to a halt. After all, he'd known Spike for well over a century and knew exactly how he'd respond. Just needed to give him enough time to rant and rave. When Spike didn't bolt, Angel peeled off his own coat and handed it to him. Spike stared at it and said nothing. "Take it," Angel said. "Looks like you could use it more than me right now." Spike nodded his thanks and slid his arms into the sleeves. It was two sizes too big, and he looked like he was drowning in down. He didn't say a word as he followed Angel out of the warehouse district. They walked nearly a half-mile before they could find a cabbie that was brave enough to drive in that neighborhood after dark. Angel stumbled over his limited Russian - Spike had been the one who'd carried the whole clan during their stay in St. Petersburg years before - but was able to give the driver the address of the hotel. The two sat in silence as the cab ambled its way through the streets of Irkutsk and stopped in front of the hotels by the river. Angel quickly settled up the bill and headed inside. He could feel the staff's eyes bore into his back as he strode through the lobby with Spike in tow. It had to look bad - a filthy rent boy wearing his jacket. The hotel was used to business travelers, and the whores they usually brought back were probably a lot leggier and well dressed. But he didn't care as he headed toward the elevator. He smiled politely back at the receptionist at the front desk who looked away in embarrassment as their eyes met. The elevator opened on the third floor, and Angel pulled the card key out his pocket and opened the door to his room. Wasn't anything posh. Just a bed with a mismatched desk and chair. A floor lamp stood sentry by the window. The carpet was teetering on threadbare. But it was warm and clean, and that's all that mattered. "How'd you find me?" Spike asked breaking his silence. "Still have some sources," Angel answered, setting the card key on the desk. "You hungry?" Of course he was. Bones jutting everywhere beneath his skin, Spike was a poster child for famine. The thermos was still a little warm to the touch. It was one of those old fashioned ones that he hadn't seen in about twenty years. The lid doubled as a cup. The inside was lined with glass to trap the heat in. Cheap coffee makers and a Starbucks on every block had made them all but obsolete. He unscrewed the lid first and then the inner cap. He poured a generous amount of the pig's blood into the lid and handed it to Spike. "Ta," Spike said accepting to proffered cup. He cautiously tasted the first sip but then quickly downed it in just a few gulps. "Want any more?" Angel held up the thermos. "I've got plenty." Spike nodded and let him refill the cup before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Angel leaned against the desk and asked, "How long have you been here?" "September, I think," Spike replied. "They still following you?" The Black Thorn. They were always one step behind and ready to pounce. Waiting in the shadows, they were never far away. Spike shook his head. "Already found me," he answered. "Made it as far as London before they'd nabbed me. "Wait a second," Angel replied. "They had you?" Spike nodded. "How did you escape?" Spike set the cup down on the nightstand. He swiped at his nose with the back of one hand. "I didn't. They let me go." Angel was confused. The Black Thorn doesn't issue the equivalent of a demonic fatwa or offer a million dollar bounty just so they could catch up on old times. Spike was keeping something from him. He was certain of it. Spike had always been a lousy liar. "And they just let you walk?" "Well, if you call getting beaten 'til you're bleeding from every orifice then dumped in the Thames with a fifty-pound block chained to your neck walking. Then, yeah, they let me walk." "I don't get it," Angel said. Spike was on his feet again pacing nervously across the room. "Tossing me in the river is something Tony Soprano would do. You and I both know it isn't a way to kill a vamp, even at high noon. It was a reminder that they can find us do whatever they want to us whenever they want. I begged them to stake me, and they wouldn't. No, my punishment was worse. I got to live." "What happened, Spike?" he asked. Spike stopped his pacing, and for a moment, seemed more interested in the blood-soaked hole in his shirt. He drew in a shaky breath and swallowed roughly before going further. "I wasn't the only one they'd captured." The room was suddenly small and suffocating, as though someone had sucked all of the air out and cranked up the heater that hissed below the window. The silence dragged on for what seemed an eternity before Spike continued. "Thought I was done for," he explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "Beat me good and proper then took me down to the river. Had a bloody hood over my head, so I couldn't see. But I could hear that we were down by the docks; could smell the Thames. Filthy as ever. They pulled me out and made me kneel on the pavement. Was just before dawn. You know how your skin starts to tingle the way it does right before the sun comes up, yeah?" Angel nodded and said nothing. The floodgates were open, and he knew if he interrupted Spike, he may never find out what happened in London. "Anyhow, I hurt everywhere, and figure it was curtains for me," Spike added. He paused for a second to pick at a ragged fingernail. "Waited for the stake to come, or whatever they were gonna do to off me. But when they took that stupid hood off, another van pulled up and I had to watch as they killed them." He turned away for a moment, unable to look Angel in the eyes. He ignored the silent tears that had begun to spill on to his cheeks. His hands began to shake. "They were trussed up and blindfolded. Made them kneel so close that I could hear their heartbeats. Oh god, Angel, they were so scared. They didn't see it coming. Those goons pulled their hoods off so they could know it was my sodding fault they were there. And then they killed them. "Dawn was the first to die. Happened so quickly, I don't think she saw it coming. Single bullet to the back of the head." His face twisted in a painful grimace as he recalled the details. "It made this horrible popping sound, and then she was gone. Her blood ran out everywhere. And then they turned the gun on her." Buffy. Spike didn't even need to say her name. Angel felt like he was hit by a bus and staggered back a step. He wasn't sure if he wanted to comfort Spike or hit him. Neither seemed right. He tried to move closer, but Spike waved him off and kept him at an arm's reach, not allowing him into his bubble of rekindled grief. "Always figured she'd go down fighting. Or better yet, live until she was a hundred and one," Spike whispered to no one. "Never even got to say goodbye. It happened so quickly. All because we dared to tip some fucking windmill. I begged them, Angel. I begged them to kill me, didn't matter how. But they just laughed." Spike finally turned to face him, and for the first time since he tried to recall that terrible morning, looked Angel in the eyes. "So you see," he explained, "killing us would be easy. I mean, what's the fun in that? No they want us to live while they turn everything we touch into shit. That's our punishment. We've been sentenced to life with no possibility of parole." Angel had to hand it to them. The Black Thorn had created the prefect revenge. They were all gone. It was something he would've done when he'd lacked a soul. It was something Angelus would have applauded. Cold. Heartless. But it was far worse on the receiving end, something he did not see coming, that socked him squarely in the gut. He'd thought he'd lost everything after that ill-planned battle-his friends, his son-but nothing had prepared him for the larger list of casualties. The moments passed in uncomfortable silence. The heater popped and hissed beneath the windows. Hell wasn't a place filled with fire and brimstone. It wasn't an alternate dimension filled with chaos and fear. No, hell was a frozen wasteland in the middle of Siberia where apathy overshadowed grief, where if you stopped running, the rest of the world would hopefully fade away. Spike sighed and leaned against the desk. His closed his eyes and let his head loll back. "I'm so tired, Angel." "Leave with me." Spike said nothing. His fatigue was palpable. "C'mon, Spike," Angel tried not to plead. "The train goes as far as Ulaanbaatar. We could go back to China and start over." "And what makes you think they won't find us there?" "They probably will," Angel conceded. "But it's got to be better than waiting for the Russian Mafia to end it for you. And there have to be a thousand better ways to die than suicide by inertia, Spike." Perhaps the Thorn had broken Spike once and for all, leaving only an empty husk in its wake. Where were the fists and fangs? Where was that unmistakable defiance that helped them in that battle in the alleyway?" "I think my feet are frozen," Spike changed the subject. "Can I use your shower?" "Yeah," Angel answered, the request taking him off guard. He hadn't expected that type of reaction. Gesturing toward the en suite, he added, "There should be towels in the bathroom." "Thanks," he simply replied as he headed toward the shower and closed the door behind him. Angel could hear the water running, and the distinct tang of over-chlorinated big city water slipped past the closed door. He was going to be in there a while. It was the only place Spike could retreat. His own stomach rumbled, and he poured himself a cup of blood while he waited. Sable, at least that's what the shopkeeper had told him, but it probably was just overpriced Siberian weasel. It didn't taste that bad. A little musky, but he'd definitely had worse. By the time he finished his second cup, he heard the water turn off. A few minutes later Spike emerged from the foggy bathroom wearing only a towel slung low around his hips. Beads of water collected in his bristly buzz cut. Pale and gaunt, he looked even worse with his clothes off. "How're the feet?" Angel asked. Small talk had to be better than the painful silence. "Sore," he answered. Spike tried to weave his way past him to sit on the bed when Angel noticed the gaping wound oozing blood from his flank. Grabbing Spike's wrist, he pulled him closer to examine the damage. "Jesus, Spike," he said. "What the hell happened?" He pulled away and tried his best to cover the wound with the towel. "Got staked," he said. "In your side?" "Never said they were trying to kill me," Spike explained with a shrug. He needed to feed. There was absolutely no question about that. His injuries weren't healing. Hell, they were barely even bleeding as though he had nothing left to leak from the wound. Angel sat down on the edge of the bed, rolled up his sleeve and bared the crook of his arm. Spike recognized the invitation immediately. "I'm not a fledge," he said, there was no mistaking the shame that filled his voice. "No," Angel said, "but it's pretty obvious you're starving." "Fuck off, Peaches," he spat. "I don't need your charity." Angel was on his feet, toe to toe with him. Some things never changed. "Dammit, Spike, why do you always have to be so fucking difficult?" "I said no," Spike said. He reached the breaking point and connected his fist with Angel's jaw. Reflexively Angel returned the blow and sent Spike stumbling backwards into the wall, sending a faded framed print crashing to the floor. Spike swiped at the blood from his split lip with the back of his hands as his eyes flashed yellow. His brow crunched into game face, and he lunged forward at Angel. They tumbled together into a heap on the bed. Angel let out a groan as Spike pinned him to the mattress and latched on to his neck. Somewhere in the back of his head he felt the pain as teeth pierced his jugular. The blood roared in his ears as he felt Spike literally pull it from him gulp after gulp. He'd fed fledges from the arm many times. It kept him in control. He could pull them off when they'd had enough. It was less personal, almost clinical. But this was so very different. Intoxicating. Time stood still. As the blood left his veins, he felt his cock stir to life. Spike was gasping for air when he finally released Angel's neck. His eyes were wild. The pupils remained dilated as the yellow yielded once again to blue, and his tongue absently darted out to catch the last drops of blood from his lips. His cock was rock hard and pressed urgently against Angel's own burgeoning arousal. Before Spike could change his mind, Angel flipped them both over so that his body covered Spike's and claimed his mouth with a bruising kiss. He tasted like blood. And in that moment nothing else mattered. Not Connor, not Buffy, not even the fucking Black Thorn. Compared to the Spike in his scratchy towel that never did make it to the bed, Angel felt completely overdressed. He knelt back, his knees straddling Spike's hips, long enough to pull this shirt over his head while Spike fumbled with the buckle of his belt. Once he had finally kicked his trousers off, he covered Spike's body with his and kissed his way down his neck, his teeth nipping a trail to Spike's collarbone. Spike let out a strangled moan as Angel fisted his cock and thumbed the clear droplet that beaded at the tip. "Angel..." was all he could say, the remainder of a plea dying on his lips before he could say anything more. "Let me do this for you," he whispered as he crept his way down Spike's body scattering moist kisses down his chest and abdomen. His tongue swirled into Spike's navel briefly before continuing its journey south. The thatch of dark hair surrounding Spike's dick smelled like fresh soap. He couldn't count how many times he's fucked Spike's mouth a century before, but had never returned the favor until now. As he gently drew Spike into his mouth and swirled his tongue around the head, the other vampire let out a breathy sigh. Angel was in no hurry. He swallowed him whole before he brought him to the brink. Spike's breath came in ragged gasps. "Angel," he groaned, "I...I..." He clawed at the bedspread below him and arched upward as he spent in Angel's mouth. Angel gave him moment to recover before he eased Spike's knees apart. It had been years since they'd shared a bed, but they still fit together perfectly like pieces to a puzzle. Spike pulled his knees up, his ankles resting on either of Angel's shoulders. He bit his lower lip and his head lolled back as Angel probed first with his fingers, then with his cockhead. Angel's hands twined with Spike's on the bed, and he started to thrust. The pace was gentle and slow at first. He was in no hurry for it to end. But soon Spike was hard again and meeting him with every thrust. He leaned in and captured Spike's mouth with his, claiming him with both tongue and teeth. Spike's legs wrapped tighter around him, and Angel tried to fist Spike's length to bring him to completion, but Spike pushed his hand away and drew him closer until their foreheads were pressed together. Spike was the first to come. He gasped once, twice before he shuddered and moaned Angel's name into his mouth. That was all Angel needed to tumble over the edge with him. He clung to Spike and rode out the aftershocks. He stole one last kiss before he collapsed beside him in a boneless heap. Both were too spent and exhausted to move. Spike didn't bolt when Angel wrapped his arms around him in a lover's embrace. But they were never really lovers, so it was only a matter of time before this little bubble burst. Until then, he was satisfied with this brief respite no matter how short it may be. Angel tugged the covers around them. The room smelled of sex and blood. He was sure housekeeping would be horrified when they finally vacated the room. "Leave with me," he asked one last time. He could feel Spike shake his head. "End of the line for me," Spike muttered. "Then at least spend the night." Spike nodded once before drifting to sleep. *** The sun filtered through the heavy curtains as Spike awoke. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping, but it felt like it was mid-afternoon. Hell, he wasn't even sure what day it was. He always seemed to lose a day or two when his body went into serious healing mode. Rolling over, he reached for Angel, but the other side of the bed was empty. The other vampire's scent still hung heavy in the air. Spike didn't bother to call out for him. Angel was already gone. Figured the poncy bastard would bail in the morning. Probably best that way. The Black Thorn might spare Angel's life as long as they were a million miles apart. He couldn't follow Angel, or anyone for that matter. The Thorn wouldn't let that happen. His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. Pulling himself out of bed, he headed toward the bathroom for a drink from the tap. The wound in his side had knitted shut during the night, and there was only a small scab where the gaping hole had been only a day before. He filled the glass with water. It tasted horrible, but he swallowed it down anyhow. Might as well shower off the sticky remnants of his tryst with Angel before the staff dumped him once again on to the streets. Why bother? His clothes reeked and could probably stand on their own at this point. Maybe he could raise enough rubles to find shelter for another night. He wasn't ready to return to the cold wasteland of the warehouse district. His stomach rumbled. Maybe Angel had left that thermos behind. If he got lucky, the blood hadn't clotted yet, but he was willing to choke down any congealed dregs that still covered the bottom. The thermos was still there, filled to the brim and warm. Angel could not have been gone for long. Clean clothing were folded on the desk: jeans, a sweater, three pairs of socks. Boots stood side by side on the floor, and a coat rested on the chair back. A folded piece of paper rested under the thermos with what looked like a visa and a train ticket. Spike poured himself a cup and sipped on the blood as he read the note: Spike, The room is paid through Saturday. Stay as long as you want. The clothes are yours. Start living or start dying. I can't wait any longer for you to make up your mind. I'll be on the 3:27 train. Take care of yourself, A *** The train was forty minutes late leaving the station. Stalin was long in the grave, but the unpredictable departures had not changed since he was in charge. Angel settled back into his seat. He got lucky and had the whole compartment to himself. Maybe it was the scowl on his face that scared others off. It had started snowing again and was overcast enough that he could live the shade open. The snowflakes swirled around the platform. It would be months before this god-forsaken city thawed. A few people still skittered around the platform, trying to board before the train finally departed the station. He heard a conductor blow his whistle. Someone shouted something in Russian. Probably "all aboard" or something along those lines. The train lurched once before it slowly started to roll away from the platform. He scanned the platform once last time. An elderly couple waving at an unseen passenger grew smaller and smaller as the train slowly picked up speed. He wasn't coming. Spike had decided to stay behind, a prisoner to his own private demons. It would be nearly ten before he reached Ulaanbaatar. Six long hours to be alone with his thoughts. Angel shrugged out of his coat and retrieved a small flask from the pocket. Whiskey, neither Irish nor particularly any good, burned all the way down as he took a long swig. Six hours for him to decide whether he wanted to get on living or get on dying. Six hours to try to forget about everyone he'd lost. Guess he wasn't that different from Spike after all. He barely looked up as the compartment door slid open and the conductor asked to punch his ticket and inspect his travel papers. He was bone tired. He didn't realize how exhausted he was. He'd searched for Spike for what seemed like forever, and now that he left empty-handed, the fatigue was catching up with him. Finally allowing himself to rest, Angel leaned against the window, closed his eyes, and listened to the rhythmically clacking of the train against the rails until the gently rocking back and forth lulled him to sleep. The door slid open again, and Angel awoke with a start. They couldn't have reached the border yet, but he fumbled for his forged passport and visa just in case. Spike didn't say a word as he slid into the vacant seat across from Angel and set his knapsack in the seat beside him. His color was better and his swollen eye had gone down. But the bruise, the same one Angel had given him the night before, still marred the side of his mouth. Spike pulled the woolen knit cap off his head, one of the many items Angel had left for him. He was nervous, his restless energy was nearly palpable, and his silent stare bored into Angel. Angel reached for his flask again. Without saying a word, he offered it to Spike. The vampire nodded his thanks, took a drink from it, then handed it back to him. Angel took another swig and offered the flask back to Spike who waved him off. Angel took another sip and eased back into the seat while Irkutsk quickly became a dot in the distance. The tension slowly flowed out of the compartment. There would be plenty of time to talk later. Until then Angel was comfortable with the silent companionship. They'd figure out how to keep on living later. -End Feedback |