a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Nemesis
Author: Maayan
Pairing: A/S, A/Lindsey
Rating: NC17
Setting: Post- 'The Trial' 


Blood everywhere. In his throat, pouring from his mouth, sliding down his chin, staining his shirt. Blurring his vision, flowing from the wide gash in his brow where a steel-toe boot has broken the skin. His sight weaves in and out - concussion. His empty stomach rolls, his ears ring with the swelling screams of his hunger.

Lack of blood. Paralyzing his limbs, fogging his brain, muffling his thoughts and Lindsey's voice. Drowning out Darla's death cry, Dru's mad coos and taunts.

Broken bones now.

Beaten, whipped, flogged, bloodied, battered.

More blood clogging empty lungs, hemorrhaging darkness and dying whimpers.

Lindsey's snicker, lashing through the mist of sickness, cutting and sharp.

Blows upon blows, layers of bruises on top of contusions. Useless internal organs rendered and crushed.

More blood where there should be none, spat on the cheap carpet of the motel.

Deft fingers in his hair again. Burning scalp.

"Still with us, Angel?"

His name like a sneer, the disdain as incisive as the knife slashing the skin of his back, the prods burning the flesh of his sides, nudging broken ribs.

"I want to play with Daddy."

Another pain. This one old, too deep, too raw to be dealt with, and he'd rather tempt the tazers and cry bloodless tears.

"Later, Drusilla. You have a Childe to attend to. Take Darla back home. I will be with you in a little while."

He doesn't see the pout on the brunette's lips, but he hears it.

Rough tugging, shoulders in agony, visions of water-stained ceilings and grinning thugs. Wrists crushed by the weight of his own body.

More blood pooling in his mouth, bubbling past his lips and down his cheek. Convulsions now. The dimness gaining, the light beating a hasty retreat.

A knee digs in his stomach, fingers close around his throat. Sharp edge against his cheekbone. Pungent smell of plastic and bitter fury close to his nose.

"This is the last time you take something from me, Angel."

The blade parts the skin like a knife ripping through silk, scraping bone.

Hissing breath, the light almost gone now.

"And now..."

Hurts. It hurts. Oh, please, God...

"... it's my turn to take."

Flash of silver, and then darkness, all-encompassing. Agony beyond the realm of pain.

A cry, sharp, certainly his own.

Nothing now, only thoughts.

One thought, tied to the one word which has been banging around his mind since Dru walked through that accursed door.

Family. 

A glimmer of blond hair and tight cheekbones.

He does feel the cold, artificial hand now close to his belt-buckle.

He used to be above begging.

Please. Please. Please. 

Not anymore.
 
* 

He could have ignored the compulsion. He could have. It has been so long since dominance has been asserted, since blood has been exchanged. The hatred used to be sharper than repressed memories of cold embraces, intimate nights and fearless hunts, but jealousy blisters the surface of his mind still.

Yet he listens. He abandons his watch, walks away from the Slayer's house, climbs inside his car, and drives south. Plenty of time to make it before dawn.

The journey is strangely devoid of thought. Action and reaction arise from a darker, simpler level of consciousness, and as he nears the glittering megapolis, he knows what he will find.

His Princess, so close now, and he doesn't really know what to make of that. His Grand-Sire, the call of family undeniable, however improbable is her presence.

And Angel. Angel's thoughts now silent in his head. And yet he can't tell if he is answering the primal draw of the reunited bloodline... when was the last time... China...? or the simple, foreign desperation of his Sire's cry for help.

Curiosity, restlessness, shadows of loyalty, blood received and common history. Vague memories of beds shared for a hundred years challenge unforgiving solitude and this newfound obsession for the enemy of his kind, borne out of maddening segregation and the compulsion to take what was once His.

Share again. Partake.

And the understanding that the man who has been screaming inside his mind sounds closer to the creature who made him than the... the *thing* he encountered in Sunnydale a handful of years ago ever did.

Not a blank slate. No. Never.

For all he knows, he'll feel like putting the spike he always keeps in the trunk - cause, you know, reputation and all that - to good use when he gets there. Or he might gather what's left of his Sire in his arms, remember the common ground rather than the dividing chasm for once, and rock him.

Who the fuck knows?

Not him, and he doesn't care.

He stopped second guessing his own actions a long time ago. Makes unlife more interesting, and he needs the challenge now, when boredom and predictability are about to destroy what little is left of William the Bloody.

In L.A. there will be a connection, there will be remembrance and acknowledgement. For the first time since the bastards stuck that bloody chip in his head, he thinks about his Sire and reminisces. He is startled to discover that the prospect of wiping the dark-haired vampire out of existence doesn't appeal so much anymore.

There are so few left who remember what he was before. So few he can talk to now without either ending up being the laughing stock - or a pile of dust. So few of his kind who will even acknowledge his existence.

The need and the fear are stronger than the anger.

Loneliness is the greatest foe, now.

And so, when his Sire calls, he comes.
 
* 
 
The screams are whimpers - death throes of a wounded beast.

He follows the little cries for mercy to the Royal Viking Motel, eases his way inside without drawing attention, checks out the skyline behind him. He's made it to L.A. with minutes to spare, yet allows no time to enjoy the darkness before dawn.

The door hangs open, lock mangled.

Only one scent drifting from the room, so he walks in.

The smell nearly drives him to his knees.

Sire's blood, always potent, always craved, but too much of it now. Drying, coagulated, wasted on the shoddy carpet.

Blasphemy.

His eyes track down their prey.

Angel is huddled in a corner of the room. How he managed to drag himself that far is anyone's guess.

Spike approaches slowly, kneels by the broken man.

A muscle jumps along the sharp jaw, blue eyes surrender to gold.

A good beating is common place among vampires. And torture. Torture is fair game. There's been enough of that between them. However, some things are not allowed. Some acts should not be committed against one's Sire, and with one quick look, Spike can tell that the line has been crossed.

He sniffs.

And by a human, no less.

That won't do.

At all.

Had it been Darla, Spike couldn't have objected. She is Angel's Sire and as such is entitled to unlimited access to his body - even if the blond never could bear to see his own Sire in the bitch's arms, which made life quite interesting for a century or so. He knows Darla's been here. He can smell the blood. And Dru... her scent is here too. But she is Angel's Childe, and madness notwithstanding, she would never have dared to break the Law.

But a mortal...

Angel is a vampire, a master, and Spike's Sire. Three reasons to punish the man who has trespassed, when only one of them would do.

Spike shivers. He has never seen the older vampire broken. Ever - God knows he has done his best to try and shatter him himself. And he doesn't like seeing it now. Because if Angel can break, so can he.

He lifts his hand then, and if he isn't gentle, he tries at least not to inflict more pain. Although he doubts Angel can feel much of anything at the moment. The dark-haired vampire is turned on his side away from
him. Spike sees only the hands taped behind his back, and the lowered pants. No one has bothered to give Angel back his dignity, and the slacks hang open on his knees. Blood and semen trickle out of his torn opening, and Spike growls. The scent of another, the brand of another is on his Sire, and he hates it.

Whether it is Darla, Buffy or even Dru, whether he faces Angel or Angelus, whether Spike wants to fuck the man or kill him or both, the younger vampire has never taken well to anyone displaying possessiveness when it comes to his ancestor. Spike owns very little, he never did - in this life or the previous one. But he feels he will always own Angel, for the dark-haired vampire can no more cease to be his Sire than Spike can stop being his Childe. Blood is blood. Because if Angel owns him, it means that Spike himself can lay claim to that relationship at least. And that's already something.

The expensive shirt has been slashed.

Every inch of exposed skin is a twisted patchwork of bruises, cuts and burns. The burns seem older. They have healed a little. Spike cuts through the tape with an old knife the Watcher won't miss. The strong, large hands hang lifelessly by Angel's sides, knuckles scraped and raw. The right shoulder has been wrenched out of the socket. Spike's fingers settle lightly on it.

Slowly, he turns Angel around, tries not to stare at the exposed cock he has worshipped or lusted after through most of his time on this earth. He focuses on the face he knows better than his own.

Then wishes he hadn't.

He goes gameface, he can't help it. There's too much blood, the smell of sex is too pungent, cloying, and the anger - unexpected, but not unwelcome - is too powerful.

The wound runs from Angel's brow to the perfect cheekbone. Through his left eye. The lid is sealed shut, and blood pours from underneath. Spike wonders if the eye is gone. If something is left of it, it will heal. If there's nothing... The blond vampire can't bring himself to check.

He too succumbed to that damnable angelic face all those centuries ago, and for some reason he cannot name, the idea of Angel being disfigured gnaws at his stomach.

He stares for a moment. Shakes himself out of this torpor.

Angel's wounds need to be dressed. He has to feed. Spike would offer his own blood but knows that he will need all of his strength very soon.

He looks out the window. Light.

He has no choice.

He makes the call.

* 
 
Spike tells the Bat Pack where to find Angel, after extracting the promise that they won't call Sunnydale. He doesn't want the Slayer in L.A., knowing what he's preparing to do. She has no place here.

When the three of them get to the motel, Spike has redressed Angel and cleaned up most of the blood. The cheerleader has obviously been talking to the witch, 'cause they give him the benefit of the doubt long enough for him to explain what he's doing there, and to convince them that this time around he's not responsible for Angel's dreadful state.

Curiously enough, the cheerleader is the most helpful member of the Fang Gang. She puts a hasty end to the new guy's useless displays of testosterone and the Watcher's annoying questions. Neither of them has a clue what happened, seems Angel pulled a lone-wolf.

The beauty queen gasps when she sees the vampire on the bed, brings her hand to her mouth. There are tears in her eyes, and the Watcher comes up to her, offers his arm but she shakes him away.

Explanation-time over, and she takes charge. Spike is impressed.

The vampires are smuggled out of the motel in dark covers. The newest addition of the Bat Brigade carries Angel to the car, and it's all Spike can do not to snarl at him. The idea of another man touching Angel now makes his blood itch.

The Watcher drives them to a hotel - a huge, decadent thing, so bloody Angelus - and Spike wrestles his Sire away from the black guy. He allows none to follow but Cordelia, and together they settle Angel on the bed.

"Water. Bandages. Blood," Spike bites out.

Funnily enough, the girl doesn't object to being ordered around by a soulless vampire. In a minute, Spike's demands are answered. When she comes back, Angel is naked on the coverlet.

Her eyes shy away briefly from the wounded form of her boss - out of respect, embarrassment, and, Spike can tell, flustered envy. But her face hardens when she sets herself to the task at hand. While Spike coaxes blood down Angel's throat, massaging the trachea, forcing him to swallow, she drags a wet towel down the vampire's limbs.

When she reaches his lower body, she freezes.

She has seen.

Slowly, she lifts her eyes, and Spike doesn't turn away. He meets her gaze head on.

"You don't tell anyone," he growls. "Get me?"

She swallows. Nods shakily. Tears are streaming down her face.

She goes back to work. She is even more careful now, gentler, if that's possible.

Spike takes care of the face wound. Cleans it up. Dresses it. Sighs in relief. The eye has been punctured, but it'll heal. It will be slow, and painful though.

Finally, they are done. Angel is as comfortable as he is likely to get.

The prom queen clears the place up. She pauses, torn between getting as far away from Spike as she possibly can, and watching over Angel.

Her loyalty wins out.

She stays.

For Spike, the concept of gratitude has limits. "Thanks," he mumbles gruffly, not looking at her.

She gets a clue.

"I... I'll be outside, if... if he needs... needs anything. At all. I'll send Gunn to get more blood. I..." Her voice wavers. "Please take care of him."

"Will do."

He aims for flippant.

Lands miles away from the mark and can't bring himself to care.

At last he is alone with Angel.

He sags then. Strength spent. Exhaustion settling in. He wants to sleep, but he wants to hear Angel's voice first. He knows it would be better to let the older vampire sleep away the worst of the pain, but he can't help himself. Nobody ever said he wasn't selfish. He is a fucking demon after all.

He climbs on the bed next to Angel, lies down and keeps his boots on. His hand hovers... he can't find a place that isn't bruised. It lands on Angel's right hip. Curls there.

Spike growls when Angel flinches away from his touch.

He takes his hand back.

Angel is trembling.

Spike wraps the coverlet around his Sire, tries not to hold too tight, has to stop and taste Angel's lips. It's hard not to ravage the vampire right here, not to wipe the offending human smell off of him, but somehow Spike doubts that Cordelia, Buffy - pretty much everybody he knows - will understand.

Angel would though. Might still ask for it.

Spike can always hope.

In the meantime, he deepens the kiss. Tastes tears, blood, panic and despair. Whatever happened in that room, it must have been so much worse for Angel than what Spike has imagined up to now.

With Dru and Darla on the premises, the British vampire can only guess.

Spike holds the large, cool body against his chest, as close as he dares. If Angel gets distressed, he promises himself, I'll let go.

Knows that's just a load of bullshit, there's no way Angel will escape his embrace today.

Then sleep comes, and he forgets that he wanted to hear his Sire's voice at all.
 
* 

When Spike awakens, it's like no time has passed at all, but the sun is a lot closer to the horizon and Angel is still unconscious.

Cordelia has been in. There's a cooler on the dresser.

He drags himself out of bed, grabs a couple of cold I.V. bags. He goes back to Angel, sits behind him, gathers the tall vampire in his lap and tears the plastic open with his fangs. At first, he has to force the blood down Angel's throat, but the dark-haired man starts to twitch, lifts his hand - looks burnt, holy water, Spike can tell - wraps his fingers around Spike's wrist, holds it close to his mouth.

When the bag is empty, Angel lets go. His good eye is still closed. The younger vampire can't tell if he's awake or not.

"Angelus," he grumbles.

Angel moans, thrashes a little.

"Angelus, wake up."

The swollen lips part, a moist tongue darts out. "Will?"

Spike tries not to let that name get to him.

"Here, mate."

Angel doesn't say anything for a long time, and the blond thinks that maybe he's unconscious again, but the older vampire's heavy body is still rigid with pain in his arms.

"Thank you," Angel rasps out.

Spike doesn't know what to say, so he growls.

Angel raises his fingers to the bandage covering half of his face. Spike intercepts him.

"It'll heal."

Angel doesn't answer.

The blond tries not to let the wide, sweaty back pressed against his chest distract him. "Who did this, Angelus?"

He doesn't ask about Darla, about Dru. That's not his concern now. He can track the unholy duo down later - he's not sure he really wants to anyway.

He only cares about the mortal who has raped his Sire.

Angel smells like pain and weakness. Spike growls. "Who did this?"

He won't get his answer anytime soon, because Angel's passed out again.

He coaxes some more blood inside his Sire, then feeds. He leaves the door open as he exits the room, follows three heartbeats down to the lobby. Here they are, huddled together. The cheerleader's face is drawn, small and tight. Her huge eyes lift darkly to his, and the secret they share cramps the room.

The men can tell that something remains unsaid, something shattering and revolting, but they keep silent. Spike knows that they will question the prom queen, later, when he is gone, but he is certain that she will not tell of the unforgivable offence perpetrated against his bloodline.

They keep their distances. The young black man doesn't try to hide the stake tucked in his waistband. Spike wonders to what extent the other two have filled him in.

The girl stands the closest. She knows about the chip, she has seen him care for Angel. She doesn't fear him now, and Spike is both enraged and amused.

Shakily, in spurts, the story comes tumbling forth. What little they have pieced together anyway. Looks like everything isn't just sugar and roses for the Bat Brigade.

Wolfram and Hart. The dreams. Darla, human. Spike bets his Grand-Sire wasn't too happy about that one. Angel, slowly slipping away, flashes of Angelus. Darla again, dying. Syphilis, they say, and Angel trying to save her. They don't know about Dru. He can tell the cheerleader is shaken when he announces that his Princess is in town.

But it's nothing compared to the horror in her eyes when he explains that Darla is a vampire again.

Yes, he is sure. He felt it.

Blood never lies, and there was enough of it in that dingy motel room.

He keeps up the stream of questions, relentless, uncharacteristically patient. He wants to do this right, and he's going to savor it all the way. Cordelia knows what he's after. She gives him the name.

Lindsey.

That's all he needs to know.

He rages against the chip. This Lindsey is human. He can't touch him, Angel is in no shape to claim revenge for himself, he can't spare the time to track down his Princess or his Grand-Sire. He won't find them if they don't want to be found, and chances are it will be a few more hours before Darla rises anyway. The Fang Gang won't do the trick. No doubt the guys would want to do violence to Lindsey if they knew what had really gone down - but not the kind of violence Spike has in mind.

No matter. There are ways around that.

He's got enough money in his pocket.
 
* 
 
Tracking down Lindsey takes but an hour. Easy when you got the right connections. The lawyer isn't even in hiding.

Spike leaves Angel to the care of the cheerleader. She knows where he's going, but she doesn't object. She even smiles for him - a small, joyless thing. Spike is startled.

He finds what he's looking for at the address the Watcher has given him. Caritas. He's not there to sing though. The green Host looks at him knowingly, doesn't try to interfere.

Spike hires a Fryar demon named Kakyos. Fryars are mercenaries. They despise humans with a passion, but best of all, don't need invitations. And they'll fuck a tree if you ask nicely.

Spike sends Kakyos to the lawyer's apartment, with express instructions not to start without him. Some roughing up is okay, enough to subdue, but no more. He is to bring the lawyer to a hotel Spike knows and wait.

The bleached vampire returns to the Hyperion. Gunn is nowhere to be seen. The Watcher sleeps in the lobby. Spike climbs the stairs soundlessly.

The cheerleader is still awake, sitting by Angel's bed, holding his hand. Her eyes are red, puffy, her hair a tangled mess. She can't have heard him come in, but she must have felt him, because she turns around and nods in acknowledgement.

"Alright, pet?"

She lift her ashen face. The mascara runs like twin bruises around her eyes, but there are no more tears. The little lines around her mouth are hard and unforgiving.

"Have you found him?"

He nods.

Her voice is tight as steel.

"Can I come?"

He almost smiles. "I don't think that's a good idea, pet."

"He's been dreaming of Hell. Calling for Darla. And for you."

"I have to get him dressed."

She doesn't ask. She doesn't need to.

"I'll help."

Angel is burning up. The healing process, burning off the blood. He needs to feed again. The prom queen has him quickly dressed without blushing; Spike assists by shifting the vampire around. He leans over Angel, shakes the broad shoulders.

"Angelus, wake up." Louder. "Angelus!"

His good eye flutters open, his lips part. "Will..."

"Still here, mate. The chit's here too."

"Cor..."

"I'm here, Angel."

"We have to go. Now. Think you can walk?"

Angel stares, trying to process the information. "Walk? W... where?"

"Don't worry about this now, Peaches. Sit up."

"Darla... Will, I have to find... Drusilla... She sired..."

"Calm down, luv. One thing at a time, okay?"

"Here, Angel..." The chit again, with a pint of blood. Her small, perfect hand settles on the vampire's pale cheek, guides the glass to his trembling lips. He drains it, slowly, and she wipes the blood around
his mouth with a corner of the sheet without lifting an eyebrow.

"Okay, mate. Up now." Spike wraps his arm around Angel's waist. The May queen hovers, chewing her lower lip. The dark-haired vampire stands, and wavers. Spike waits until he can steady himself. Angel shakes so badly, his knees almost give out. He's coughing still.

Spike helps his Sire to the door and down the stairs, and the chit is still there, ready to catch her boss should he stumble. They don't wake Wesley. Angel's weakness doesn't need another witness. Their progression is slow. The older vampire limps heavily. And it isn't solely because of the deep wound in his thigh.

They get to the garage, and by then Angel is clinging to consciousness by a thread. Spike deposits him in the passenger seat and he closes his eyes.

A hand brushes his fingers, and he's surprised that the chit has the guts to touch him. A human touch. Since he can't kill them anymore, it's been quite a while since he has felt warm skin pressed against his own.

"You're sure this is a good idea, Spike?"

"Don't get your panties in a twist, pet. He will be just fine."
 
*

When they get to the decrepit hotel, Spike parks the convertible in the underground garage and checks for sewer access. Finds it. Good. It means they won't be rushed for time.

"Angelus, you need to stay with me for a little while, pet."

Angel stirs, disoriented. "Where are we?"

"I've found the lawyer."

Angel flinches. "He's mine."

"That's why I brought you here. You can watch. We can both watch." Spike growls. "Nobody lays his hands on you, Sire."

"I think... You know that Dru is here."

"It's not about Dru, Peaches. Or Darla. That's an entirely separate matter."

Angel seems to think about it. "Okay."

He grounds his teeth against the pain and manages to climb out of the car on his own. Spike is on the other side in a flash and supports Angel to the elevator. Twelfth floor. The door has been left open. Nice touch.

Kakyos appears and invites them in.

Lindsey is in the center of the room, bound and gagged, tied to a chair. Disheveled, barefoot, shirt torn open showing his white undershirt, but his eyes, when they land on Angel, are cold and calm. Spike takes the time to notice that he's quite attractive. The kind of pretty boy Angelus and his Childe would have gone after in another time.

Spike is going to enjoy this.

Angel falters, leaning more of his weight on his Childe. The blond vampire stirs him to the couch and helps him sit down. He can't read the expression on Angel's features, but that's nothing new. There's a lot of pain there, and something else. A thirst Spike hasn't observed on that handsome face for a hundred years.

He stalks to the bound lawyer and rips off the gag. He knows the man won't scream.

Not yet.

"Who are you?"

"Spike."

The lawyer nods, unruffled. "Angel's Childe." His gaze is clear. "Come to avenge your Sire?"

"You go after the bloodline of Aurelius, pet, you gotta pay the price."

Lindsey sneers, and in Spike, the anger mounts.

He has never so much despised the tiny piece of hardware lodged in his head. He wishes that he could tear, gouge and render limb from limb. Rip out the lawyer's beating heart and lay it at Angel's feet.

Spike cocks his head at the Fryar demon and wanders to the bar. Pours a triple whiskey, thinks better of it, and grabs the bottle.

"I won't do anything. He will." He goes back to Angel, who stares, mesmerized, at the bound man. The older vampire is in shock; his emotions fight to breach the barrier of numbness and despair enclosing him. Spike wonders, not for the first time, what happened in that motel room - beyond the obvious.

He nods at Kakyos, sits back to watch.

And lights up a smoke.
 
* 

When the screaming starts, Spike is on his third fag.

He's hard as a rock, his jeans are too tight. He wants to lower his zipper and put his free hand to work, or slam Angel's mouth down on his cock, but that's not really why they are here.

Later, maybe.

When Angel is healed.

Spike looks away from the writhing form of Lindsey, down to Angel's lap.

Seems like his Sire is enjoying this too.

Maybe they can go back to the Hyperion when they're done here. Grab the cheerleader on the way. Liven up a few of those useless empty rooms.

Angel blinks quickly, as if he has trouble focusing. His left eye flashes gold, there's a hint of fangs between his split lips. His tongue darts out. Spike knows he is in gameface himself. It's Lindsey's blood,
dripping crimson on the grey carpet.

All the body parts are still intact though. Kakyos knows his job. This could go on for quite a while.

Lindsey doesn't sneer or chuckle madly anymore. The Fryar demon put an end to the bravado when he whipped out the needle-nose pliers. Sometimes Spike wonders if they've been invented with any other purpose in mind. Each time he's seen a pair, someone was ripping off somebody else's nipples.

Weird.

Broken bones, broken toes, broken knees. Lashes and cuts.

Lindsey matches Angel now, and Spike hesitates to think the words.

Poetic justice.

That's cheesy - on so many levels.

Spike shifts, trying to ease the comfortable pressure in his lap. His fingers twitch. He's restless. He wants to share in the fun. He wants to drag some sort of emotion on Angel's face.

Angelus is excess, Angelus is passion.

The blank features are too disturbing to behold.

Lindsey chokes on the blood in his mouth. His eyes widen comically when Kakyos reaches for his waistband.

Spike gathers his courage. Wanders his hand to the side and wraps it around the budge in Angel's lap. Doesn't squeeze, just let it rest there.

His Sire bucks his hips, it's barely noticeable but it is enough - so Spike doesn't remove his fingers.

And enjoys the connection.
 
*

"Spike..."

The blond vampire straightens, twists to face his Sire.

"Yeah, pet?"

Angel looks sad and tired.

"That's enough. Finish it."

Spike dispassionately stares at the wrecked form of the lawyer on the floor at his feet. Lindsey's face is unrecognizable, eyes swelled shut, lips ripped open by the Fryar's cock, broken cheekbones visible through the transparent skin. Both arms have been pulled out of the sockets, fingers broken, the artificial hand forgotten a few feet away like a dead animal. He's naked from the waist down, his ass torn and bleeding, the back of his legs black and blue, the sole of his feet cut to ribbons.

Fryar's aren't into casual S&M.

They always do things the hard way, even when there's no money involved. Spike knew that when he hired Kakyos. Knew that the spikes on the back of the demon's hands and arms - and on his cock - would be put to good use.

Lindsey will never walk again.

But that's not really an issue.

He signals to the demon, who reaches for Lindsey's throat, but Angel puts a hand on Spike's forearm.

"Wait."

He stands with some difficulty, waves away Spike's help.

He walks slowly to Lindsey. Kakyos moves away. Angel kneels by the lawyer. There's life left in him. He is conscious. Kakyos saw to that.

Angel bends, his lips a hair-breath away from Lindsey's ear.

The lawyer gurgles. He can't even flinch away.

"I didn't let this happen because of what you did to me, Lindsey. I want you to know that." Angel's voice his raspy and low. "This is for Darla."

Another gurgle that might have been a word, Spike can't tell. He moves to assist Angel to his feet. Kakyos draws out a knife.

And then, the door opens.

"You got me a present, my Spike?"

Spike turns around.

His Princess and his Grand Sire paint a stunningly attractive, frightening picture in the doorframe.

There is no surprise on Angel's face. Just infinite sorrow and resignation.

"Dru, Darla. Come in."

They stalk inside.

Spike fetches a handful of bills from his pocket and shoves them in Kakyos' hand. "We'll take it from here, mate. Cheers."

The Fryar says something like 'anytime' in his demonic language, and is out the door in an instant.

Drusilla hangs herself at Spike's neck as if they've never been apart. Spike has a hard time keeping Angel up and answering her attentions at the same time, but he manages.

The girls don't ask about the Fryar and the blond is thankful. He doesn't feel like explaining his little problem now.

Darla walks up to her Childe, her hand grazing Angel's wounded chest. "You tried to save me." She leans forward, hovering above his lips. She isn't smiling.

She is smelling Lindsey on Angel, Spike can tell.

"Dru had a vision," she explains.

Angel sways, and Darla helps Spike hold him up.

"I have... been negligent in my Sire's duties," she says simply, " but I have been given a second chance. I won't reject you now, Angel, and I hope that, in time, I can convince you to rejoin the fold."

In a corner of his head, Spike thinks Darla has gone mad, much like Dru. Maybe it's in the blood. But the images her words conjure - his family, reunited; his pack, on the hunt once again - make him shiver despite himself.

A happy, dysfunctional little vampiric family. It didn't work in China, but things are so different now. Even vampires can learn to compromise, given the right incentive. And what fucking choice does he have anyway?

Angel doesn't say anything. The mask is up again. And Spike, who knows his Sire better than even Darla ever will, knows what the mask stands for.

It means that Angel is too broken, too worn out, too damaged to scream.

"But first..." Darla hisses, sashaying past the dark-haired vampire, "first I have to teach someone a little lesson. Too bad you started without us." She crouches by Lindsey, grabs him by the hair, and lifts his ruined face off the floor.

She snarls, fangs out. "No one will ever, ever touch what's mine."

She beckons Dru forward. The brunette is already in gameface.

Darla smiles for Spike and Angel. "Please, boys. I think we can take care of the rest."

The vampires step back.

Watch the women sweep down like manic vultures on their prey.
 

END

(This author wishes to remain anon.)

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