Work Text:
Wolfram and Hart has the best doctors, for demons, vampires, and humans alike. Even so, Spike's arms scar.
They heal fast. Before he leaves the hospital, the scars are faint, a thin line of raised flesh, invisible unless you're looking for it. They're far less prominent than the slashed trophy of a scar the Chinese slayer left across his eye, but they ache down to the bone, an uncomfortable crawl deep underneath his skin.
He asks Fred what she thinks would have happened if Dana had staked him after removing his hands. Would they have dusted too? She chastises him for being morbid, brusque concern in her voice, but something flashes, cool and distant, in the quick and clinical sweep of her eyes. She wants to know too. He likes that about her, that she has that edge and hasn't tumbled over it, not even here. Angel's people are all like that - some kind of overly confident, cocky curiosity mixed in with all their compassion. But then, they are the kind of people who make deals with the devil for the sake the greater good and think that just maybe they can win.
Angel's not really like that. He's the type for stoic, self-righteous self-sacrifice, sure, but optimism? The dangerous, voluntary naivety of far-fetched hope that’s probably going to get everybody killed? No. Angel doesn’t think they can win this, whatever “this” is. Spike calls bullshit.
Something weird is going on here and it’s probably Angel's fault - most things are if you trace them back far enough - and it's not that Spike cares all that much, it's just that he knows. And Angel knows that he knows. And Angel hates that he knows, which is really the best part.
Or it was, before all of this, before the paradigm shift that made everything turn dark and inevitable.
He dreams about Dana and Nikki and the snap of bone in his hands. He wakes up with phantom pressure tingling on his finger tips, his hands burning like the blood is rushing back into them, like his blood rushes anywhere.
He's going crazy.
***
When he was crazy in the school basement in Sunnydale, the First Evil was there all the time. He couldn’t see past the ice in Buffy’s smile; Dru’s laughter echoed, haunting and hollow, in his skull.
The First looked like his victims too, a hundred years' worth of them pulled screaming from his memories, most of them nameless and nearly faceless, except for Nikki. Always Nikki, kneeling beside him with her fingers closing around his throat. But by then he had voices in his head that had nothing to do with that. The worst were the ones that were there before Sunnydale, the ones he brought back from Africa, that lingered in the corner of his vision, pushing at the corners of his mind.
Getting a soul was like turning the lights on and the volume up. He could see the gritty, dark corners of consequence; it all tangled up, this knot of guilt and pain in his rib cage where his heart didn't beat. He'd felt bruised underneath his skin then, too, and raw and responsible and haunted with everything broken open. He'd hated himself.
And he'd hated them, everyone he'd ever loved at all. Drusilla for what she'd done to him and Buffy for what he'd done for her and Angel for everything, for not warning him, but mostly for not being Angelus when Spike was still Spike.
He gets it now, though, that for Angel the lights were on all along.
***
Fred patches up his bloody knife wound. It wasn't even demons this time, just your run-of-the-mill human muggers. Sometimes it's worse when the bad guys are human because it's trying not to kill anyone that's most likely to get you stabbed.
The gash is deep, cut into the muscle, and it twinges sharply when he rolls his shoulder back, but he's had worse. He's had worse recently.
It won't scar.
Fred smacks him on his good arm. “You have to hold still.” She raises her eyebrows when he looks over at her; her voice is too casual when she says, “This would have healed on its own, you know.” He shrugs again and she rolls her eyes.
“How did this even happen?” she asks.
“Helping the helpless,” he says, smirking at her. He was, but only incidentally. Doyle’s been MIA since Dana, and Spike’s been fending for himself. He was drunk and leaving a seedy human bar when he overheard the yelling in the alley.
She flinches, just slightly. He catches it, though, and ducks his head to catch her eye where she's looking down, her hands suddenly rougher against his bandaged arm. “Hey,” he says, and she looks up, her smile tight and wry.
“We do good work here,” she says.
“I believe you,” he says, subtle emphasis on the last word. He believes she believes it.
She sighs. “Look. You and Angel have history, and I know just enough about it to know that I don't want to know any more, but he he's not...whatever you remember.”
That's most of Spike's problem.
***
Angel catches him on his way out of the building; it's like he can not only sense Spike's presence, but he can sense when Spike is actively trying to avoid him. And Spike's supposed to be the annoying one.
Angel stops him, one hand on Spike’s arm, firm and solid, but not tight enough to be painful. Spike could pull away easily if he wanted. Angel says, "What are you doing here?"
Spike shrugs and it makes his shoulder throb, but it’s already fainter, already healing. He could probably hit Angel without ripping it open and bleeding again. He wants Angel to hit him first.
"Just visiting," Spike says.
"Spike," Angel says, and he mostly sounds tired and annoyed, but it's not all directed at Spike. "What are you doing? Not here. Just . . . what are you doing?"
And oh, that’s rich. Spike makes a show of looking around, cocks his scarred eyebrow, and says, "What are you doing?" He pulls out of Angel’s grip and gestures at the lobby, meant to convey what the bloody hell is all this?
Angel's shoulder hunches, almost imperceptibly, but Spike catches the motion and grins. Finally. Spike's been wondering if he knew Angel at all, or if he only knew Angelus since apparently there is a difference, but the I'm-going-to-beat-you-to-a-bloody-pulp twitch at the corner of his eye is comfortingly the same.
But Angel just stares at him for a second, then his stance relaxes and something softens in his eyes. He shrugs and turns and walks away, leaving Spike staring after him, feeling tense, everything coiled and tight.
It’s been like this. Aborted arguments, all Spike’s jabs falling flat. Angel's been looking at him gently since Dana. It's out of place and unwelcome - unfamiliar too, though the echo of camaraderie there makes something twist up, low in his gut, memory throbbing like a bruise.
***
He has nightmares and he doesn't remember much more than sensation, but he wakes up at four in the morning with his hands aching, still seeing snatches of shadows out of the corner of his eye. He's asleep at four in the morning because he's keeping daylight hours because Angel keeps daylight hours here. He doesn’t like to think about it.
He wants to call Buffy; he knows where she is and could reach her if he wanted, but he still doesn’t know what he’d say. It’s even worse now, since if Andrew knows, Buffy must too; there’s no way she doesn’t by now, so now the silence means something, weighted and heavy. She must think he’s thrown his lot in with Angel and the evil lawyers.
When he's being completely honest with himself, he's not sure she'd be wrong. And what's he supposed to do with that?
He goes to Wolfram and Hart instead. He walks right in; no one ever stops him, for all that Angel says he wants him to go away. Angel might want him to go away. Most of the time Spike wants to go away. But here they are.
Angel turns away from the window when Spike steps off the elevator. The room is dark, and the sky is just starting to lighten toward dawn; the city lights through the window cast shadows that look like history across the planes of Angel’s face.
Angel sighs. “Spike. Of course.”
“Just came to make sure you didn’t need saving again.”
“What do you want?”
“Have you talked to Buffy?”
“What?” And if Spike didn’t already suspect, he can tell the answer is ‘no’ by the edge in Angel’s voice, exhaustion suddenly gone focused and hard.
“Buffy. Blonde, about this high, likes pointy wooden things.”
When Angel moves toward him, it’s slow and almost predatory. Spike squares his shoulders, thinks here we go. But Angel stops short, catches himself, and hangs back.
“Why would I have talked to Buffy?”
“After Dana, I’d’ve thought you’d want to.”
“Whether or not I talk to Buffy is not about what I want.”
“Right, of course, it’s about penance, I forgot.”
When Angel answers, he just sounds tired again. “Have you talked to Buffy?”
“To say what?”
Angel’s staring at him like he thinks he’s the stupidest creature on the planet.
At least that’s familiar.
“Go away, Spike,” Angel says.
Spike ignores him. “What is all this?” Spike’s tired too, and so tense he aches from waiting for something that just doesn’t come. All he gets from Angel is frustration and dismissal, or understanding that’s starting to look like pity lurking behind Angel’s eyes. Spike hates it. “You’re supposed to be the good one, the great hero, all redeemed…”
Angel laughs, low and bitter, and it would be familiar if it wasn’t so empty. “Oh, am I? I thought you were the champion now.”
“Yeah, but you’re you. Angel, Angelus, whatever. The Sunnydale crew, everybody here, they talk about you like you’re not even the same person. But I know, Angel.” Spike’s almost positive that’s even true. “I know things they don’t, and I knew you then. I was there.”
They’re glaring at each other, but it’s without intent, and it feels off, like everything else between them.
Angel breaks the standoff, shaking his head. “I know you were. I remember, trust me. And now you’re here. Why are you still here?”
Because he was there. Because he remembers too, remembers everything, and needs to know that someone else does. He remembers differently now; the darkness, the evil of it all is vivid behind his eyelids and running like poison through the stolen blood in his veins, but that wasn’t everything. It wasn’t Drusilla laughing in the moonlight, wading into the Trevi fountain; it wasn’t how much Darla loved Shakespeare; it wasn’t the way he felt with Angelus’ arm slung over his neck wandering, drunk and aimless, through city streets across the world. There was more to the story. But he can’t, won’t say any of that, and Angel would never admit it anyway.
“Because someone has to keep an eye on you,” he says.
He leaves when Angel turns away.
***
The bar is nice. Ritzy. Spike feels out of place and conspicuous, and not in the confident and sharp way that he likes. The rest of them seem comfortable enough, though, despite the fact they're being stared at. An artifact of being head staff at Wolfram and Heart, Spike figures, since the bartender clearly knows them. He slid a margarita across the bar to Fred with a wink as soon as they walked up.
It's not a demon bar, probably. Or at least, it's like no demon bar Spike's ever seen. He's used to seediness and grit and hiding in the shadows, and this is anything but that. There are demons here, though, and Lorne's not the only obvious one. Everyone is wearing expensive suits and drinking martinis.
Spike really hates it. He's going to drink an entire bottle of the most expensive Scotch they have and make Angel pay for it.
Spike’s feeling the loss of Doyle tonight, the loss of purpose, down to his bones, in the burning throb in his wrists. He never really believed it anyway, all of Angel’s destiny bollocks, but he tried. He wanted to.
It gets some better, though, and by the time Angel shows up, Spike's on his third glass of Scotch that maybe even Angel can't afford. He's leaning on the table between Fred and Gunn, telling them a story about that time with the pirates, and it's not even a story Angel's going to get mad at him for telling. He trails off when Fred inhales sharply, digging her fingers into his forearm.
The first thing Spike notices is the tightness around Angel's eyes. The second is that he's alone.
“Where's Cordelia?” Wesley asks, but his voice is faint, something in it hard and reconciled. It's barely a question. Angel shakes his head.
It turns into what Spike would call an Irish wake. He doesn't say that, because then Angel might hit him. Admittedly, that's not usually a deterrent and he's been trying to get Angel to hit him for weeks, but not like this. Not because of this. Not when it won't help either of them.
They're drunk, all of them, drunker than is probably dignified in the ritzy not-a-demon bar, and they're being glared at now, but if they don't care, then Spike doesn't. He's never really minded being glared at. He's pretty sure he can take anyone in here.
The others trickle out one by one, until only Wesley is left, and he and Angel are staring across the table at each other, all meaningful and stoic. It makes Spike uncomfortable, but then Wesley hugs Angel, brief and tight, and he's gone too. Angel stares at the door, looking bewildered and sad, and Spike is even more uncomfortable than he was before.
“Hey,” Spike says, “sit. Have another drink.”
Angel shakes his head. “I need to get back.”
“Angel,” Spike says, trying to keep all irritation out of his voice, and Angel turns around, looking at him warily. “All your people went home. You don't need to go anywhere.”
Angel says, “I'll see you later, Spike.” It's clearly a dismissal. Spike rolls his eyes, downs his last shot, and follows Angel out of the bar.
***
They're only a few blocks away when Angel slows to let Spike catch up. They're back at Wolfram and Hart, standing in Angel's loft staring at each other, before either of them speaks.
“Why did you follow me?” Angel asks.
“And here I thought we were just walking in companionable silence.”
Angel sighs. “Spike. What do you want?”
And that's it, isn't it, the same question in endless variations, and Spike doesn't bloody well know. He wants to stop being a pawn. He wants "Doyle" to come back so that he can knock his face in. He wants to not have nightmares. He wants the throbbing scars in his forearms gone. He wants all this to mean something; he wants redemption and everything Angel's always on about. He wants the soul to make him feel like a different person, when all it really does is give him a perspective he's not always sure he wants to have. He wants Angel to kiss him or hit him or something familiar, just so that anything familiar is happening at all.
But none of that matters right now. Layers of memory are tugging at him, and none of them have a template for this.
Spike shrugs. “I’m sorry, mate. About Cordelia.”
Angel's quiet, eyebrows knitted together in confusion and Spike would call him a neanderthal, except, again, not tonight. “What?”
“Are you okay?”
Angel looks at him more suspiciously.
Spike says, “It’s just a question.”
Angel nods, hesitantly, and he’s still looking at Spike like Spike’s gone crazy, or like he’s just waiting for something, for all their patterns to snap back into place, maybe.
That might be fair. Spike's been waiting for that too.
Angel says, “I don't know. I was better. She came back so that I would be. To help me. To really make me think about what we can do here. But without her… She didn’t trust this.”
Spike snorts and gestures at the room. “Of course she didn’t. Do you? Really, how did this happen?”
He expects Angel to deflect, like always, but Angel just stares out the window. “I can't tell you.”
Well, that’s more than that question usually gets. “That's okay, I don’t think I want to know. There’s a reason, right?”
He looks up and meets Spike's eyes, holds them for a moment, looks away. “There’s a reason.”
Spike nods and starts to turn away, when Angel says, quietly, “Are you okay?”
Startled, Spike turns back to catch Angel's eye again; there’s something sincere in his expression, tied up with all the fresh grief.
Spike says, “No. Really not.”
“I didn't think so.” They're quiet for a minute, until Angel asks, “Why are you here?”
It doesn’t sound like the question usually sounds, all frustrated exasperation. It’s a real question, and Angel’s looking at him honestly, like that day in the hospital, but without all the choked-up guilt right on the surface. It’s gentler than Spike knows what to do with, but for once it doesn’t make him want to push back until he drags them into antagonism and familiarity.
Besides, Angel answered truthfully, if not completely. Spike asks, “Where would I go?”
“I don't know. But between you and me, I think the prophecies might be bullshit.”
Spike shrugs. “Not about prophecies.”
“Then why?”
“Family.”
He's not sure why he says it, except Angel’s looking at him like he really wants to know. He's also not sure what he was expecting from Angel, but for once he wasn’t expecting the way Angel withdraws, the way his eyes go dark, his jaw tenses, and there's a sudden edged set of his shoulders, like Spike accidentally tripped over the nerve he’s been flailing around trying to hit for weeks.
Spike backs up a little. “Or maybe not that, then. I’m just gonna go.” He gestures toward the elevator. This conversation is weird even for Angel, he doesn’t know why he came here, and he’s done.
“Spike, wait,” Angel says, and when Spike turns around again, Angel’s still watching him. Some of the wariness is back, but the sudden flash of anger is gone, and the usual frustration isn't there at all. “It’s not…that’s actually not a reason I can argue with.”
“What does that mean?”
Angel shakes his head.
Spike looks at Angel and waits. The tension is coiled up his spine again; his hands hurt, but that might be the way he’s clenching his fists.
One beat, another, but Angel doesn't answer, and Spike was never the patient one. He asks, “Do you want me to go?” He’s talking about tonight. He means in general.
They stare at each other, the air in the room hanging heavy with history, until Angel takes a step toward him and says, "No."