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Chapter 8 L.A.

LA is never dark at night. Not in the heart of the city. Not even in the surrounding hills. The lights of the infrastructures condenses with the smoke and fog and gives the surrounded land an iridescent glow that mocks of brightness and light, trying to give the land, and it's inhabitant, some sense of security. But there is little that is bright and light in the heart of LA, and even less that is guaranteed and secure, not in this vicinity anyway. Not at the heart and soul of the beast.

Angel looks out from an eye of the beast at the false brightness on this chilly winter's eve. The morning is fast approaching, but the darkness is still prevalent, not yet having been chased away by the oncoming sun. Angel can feel the sun as it makes it's descent forward. He can feel it come to chase both the darkness and the false light away. He should fear it. The light of the true sun. The goodness of purity, of it's life giving brightness. It's burning light. He should fear it. But he fears it not. He know well that the specialized glass will protect him. But it too is a false security, for should it crack the sun would scorch, burn him to dust. False security, mocking safety, which yet he needs not. The dark is ruling the landscape, the only light still is the artificial ones created to make the inhabitants feel better. The false illumination remains for now until the true light of the sun bathes the land with it's love.

Angel looks at the land. Looks at the lights. The mockery of the illuminations.

False brightness, like false hopes. That makes sense to the vampire. He is the king of false hopes. He is both it's leader and it's follower.

Buffy's gone. Connor is gone. Cordelia is gone, have slipped from her coma into a peaceful death one month before Connor was turned. All his hopes of redemption, of humanity, gone.

Gone when he sold his soul to this place. For Connor, and that damn amulet.

Ho yes, the amulet is gone too, possibly along with Spike. Well, that would be the only good luck Angel has had so far.

Angel had full crews working around the clock for any sign of Connor, Dru, the amulet, and, at Fred's insistence, Spike.

No mystic or cleric, or psychic can get one blip of any of them on their radar. But Angel is determined. Determined to find them. Determined to have justice for Connor. Determinded to set things right. To fix this. To get them back.. To get them all back. To him


Angel has reverted back to tactics worthy of Angelus to achieve these goals. Tactics he hasn't used in decades. He has bullied, threatened, tortured, even killed, and yet all this has yielded nothing.

Well, not exactly nothing.

The part of him that was Angelus was absolutely singing with glee. The monster whispers into his ear, thanking him profusely. He has been greatly enjoying this.

The monster hasn't had this much fun in a long while.

He hasn't been this close to the surface in years.

The monster laughs at him, but also, waits silently.

They are coming to unleash him.

They've been working to set him free.

He need only sit back and wait, perhaps whisper into ears now and again and the time will come.

He will be free.

Free to watch hell unleashed on Earth...At long last.

Angel doesn't register these last few thoughts. Angelus is much better at hiding himself within Angel's mind. This place is helping with that too. No, Angel's thoughts are only fixated on the who, what and why of the recent events. Still believing that he is the one that is in control. Still believing that he can fix this, make it all better, He peers silently out the window, his cold body not noticing the increasingly chilling air.

Chapter 9 The winds,

The breeze from the window, slightly ajar, is cold here, as in L.A. and reflects the chill of this still dark night. But here in the security of this room, surrounded by his scent, a mother dreams, her first seemingly non-horrific dream in weeks.

She sees him standing alone in the darkness by a small brook. He is still, silently watching the soothing rippling of the water.

"Sweetie?" She calls calmly, as if he hadn't been lost to her. As if he hadn't been missing these past weeks.

He turns to address her. "Hello," he says quietly, and turns his attention back toward the water.

"Sweetie. Whatcha you doing out here baby?" She kneels down and runs her finger thought his hair. "What's wrong baby?"

"I have leave this place" He answers sullenly. "I don't want to. "

"Well, I can see that this is a nice place to visit." She looks around. The air is much warmer here, and even though it is dark there is a comforting feeling in this midnight blue landscape. A familiar feeling that leaves her warm and peaceful. A feeling that she could just curl up with her son here and be safe, safe and happy forever. But something inside the mother recognized that this wasn't right. They couldn't stay here.

"I think I should like to stay here too." The mother says, "But this isn't home. We should get back home. It must be very late."

"Too late." The boys says sadly. "Too late to go home."

"Oh baby." The mother reaches out to hold him, "It's never too late. Never too late to come home."

Rain begins to fall as the wind suddenly picks up. It begins to blast forth violently, and is cold. So, so cold. She turns, just for a moment, to peer though the rushing winds, and feels him slip though her grasp. She tries to grab for him, tries to hold her son tight. But she can't hold him. Can't keep him. She know this. Feel it as she feels the cold, to the very bone, but she tries anyway. It is all for not as she feels him slipping further and further though her fingers.

He is slipping into the force of the wind. She tries and tries to hold on, but can't keep him. He slips away, and disappears into the fury of the storm. His screams and pleas of "Mommy, Mommy help me" carrying loudly though the winds.

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Buffy wakes up with her sons cries still ringing in her ears. She rolls over in his bed, clutches his pillow, breathes his scent, and can only cry. It's the only thing she seems to be able to do...cry. The only thing she has been able to accomplish in weeks. She couldn't protect him. She can't find him. All she can manage to do, she thought bitterly, is cry for him.
'Well', She thinks and she closes her eyes, 'That's more than his father got'


Chapter 10: Waking

The fog of the pain and dreams lift and float away, and in the wee hours of the early morning, William once again struggled to open his eyes. Consciousness coming much easier now, as his mind and body had already begun the task of healing thyself. His body slowly begins to stir. His brain registers the pain, but it has dulled into a slow and steady ache, much less tormenting than before. His slowly healing body was now almost back to full performance, with only some minor hindrances from his limbs, some due to on going injuries, some from lack of use. Hesitantly, he moves on the bed, and cracks open his eyes, as he slowly sits up.

Confusion has clouded and dazed him. His newly awakened mind not yet having a full grasp of the memories of the past few weeks, nor is he fully aware of his current state

He sees that he is in an unfamiliar room, on top of an unfamiliar bed. The room was dingy, dusty and sparse, but far more comforting than the frighteningly dim, dank caverns of his dreams.

Carefully he tries to get up, and the pain throughout his body intensifies. After a few false starts, he manages to get onto his feet and take a couple of carefully hesitant steps. Slowly, he wanders around the room, investigating this place. This place, he has no memory of arriving at. He can't help but wonder at how he got there, and he recognizes that something is not right. Something is missing, absent from this place. Something vital. He immediately both senses and misses it greatly.

He recognizes certain artifacts occupying this space. There are clothes streamed haphazardly around the room. There is a clutter of empty food container and cans heaped in a corner. There's a collection of clutter on the side table. Amongst the paraphernalia he finds, towels and soaps, medicines, creams and ointments of some kind. Also there were flashlights, batteries, other kitchen type utensils, and several long sharp knifes. William hesitantly pick up a knife into his left hand. As he held it an image came rushing into the forefront of his mind.

A knife slicing into his palm.

Blood dripping down his own hands.

Terrible pain and burning and then blackness.

And then, the vampires, especially the female. The female who took him. The female who hurt him. Who had kept him locked away from his home. From his family, from his mommy.
William dropped the knife in horror and backed away from the table. He looked frantically around as he began to cry. The memories of the past few weeks slamming into his brain with infinite detail.

Mommy! Where was his mommy? He didn't feel her near him anywhere. Why couldn't he call her? William frantically looked around for a phone, but found none.
He tried to invoke the powers to summon her. Shout for her though his mind and hers. As he tried to formulate his energy, a familiar prickling of pain laced through his head.

William quickly halted his attempts and fell to his knees. The spell! He remember the spell!

Nothing about self can be told!

Nothing about self can be invoked!

He couldn't call anyone. He couldn't even say his own name! Or anyone's name that he knew and loved. Tear began to stream down his face as he sobbed with grief. He felt lost. Lost and frustrated and alone. And terrible, terrible fear.

For this child, a child who had know only love and protection since birth, who had know only safety and joy, these new feelings of loneliness and isolation were horrifying. For this child of magic, who was used to feeling strong and confident. These feelings of helplessness were alien to him. He had never know such terror.

William sat on his near on the frayed carpet of this dingy room; simply sat on the bed and cried and wondered what would become of him. He sat this way for many minutes until he felt a presence coming near, and hear the click of a key into the door. He scrambled up and threw himself onto the bed, doing his best to appear to still be asleep.

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Spike wandered sleepily into the room, bypassing the bed with a slight glance, heading straight for the small kitchen area. There he threw his key down on the slab of concret that served as a makeshift table.
They had moved twice in the past couple days. From one dingy motel room to another. Didn't anyone in Mexico have a bloody phone? Did Ma Bell bypass the entire Central America region?

Spike supposed he could have gone to the local cops. He'd been in and out of enough of these small towns to see that there was some kind of law down here. But Spike was distrustful by nature, and wasn't ready to answer any questions. Especially with the kid in the state he was in. And especially when he was currently in possession of illegally gotten games. He didn't fancy American prison, and he figured a Mexican jail would probably be worse. Spike couldn't risk it.

No. They were alone in this.

He had managed to 'trade' the car in again, but this one was a bloody clinker. It would have to do. It was the only thing he could find. At this rate they'd make L.A. shortly before the next millennia. They were getting nowhere fast.

At least he manages some better clothes for himself and the kid, and also some basics supplies, flashlights, medicines.

He got lucky in finding and raiding the Mexican version of a Walmart. But his raid were becoming infamous, and he had heard whispers of a ring of bandits raiding the villages and towns along the roads. He had to make some time and had to do it quickly, before a local pigs caught their scent and starting rutting their noses around. If only he didn't have to drag the brat around.

("Leave him. He will only bring you trouble.")

His own voice echoes in his mind, infusing it with these poisonous sentiments. Harder and harder it was getting to drown them out. Spike closed his eyes and griped the table hard, as the voice became louder and more insistent in his mind. A slight scream is ripped from his throat and escapes into the wind.

("Leave him. He is a burden. He is nothing to you")

"Fuck you to hell." Is Spike's gritted response to the voice.
He moved quickly to dumped the content of the bag on the table, focussing on the emerald green bottle and the alluring amber liquid contained there in.

Spike holds the bottle up and peers longingly at it. He fondles the body of it. Caresses it as he would a lover. He closes his eyes and runs his fingers along the long slender neck as it leads to the screw cap. And inside, he can imagine the sweet ambrosia. The tip of his tongue sneaks between his teeth and wets his lips. He can imagined the taste of it of this fruit. The feel of it. He can sense the fiery liquid caressing his throat, easing his pain.

Spike longs for some escape. He longs for the fog endued oblivion that he knows this nectar can produce. Bust most of all he longs for rest. Rest and the peace that he know that can be provided in this bottle. It has been way to long since he slept.

"Ah you. You can make everything better, yah?"
William, being only four, is naturally curious and has a short attention span. He momentarily forgets fear and sneaks a peak though his partially closed lids. He sees a man. A man talking to a..a bottle. The man seem familiar somehow even if his actions at the moment are not.

William watches the scene with curiosity, until he sees the man throw the bottle down in disgust and turn away from the table.
Spike shook his head in a mixture of disgust and unfulfilled desire. He turns away from the siren in the emerald bottle. The last time he indulged, it had only taken a few swigs (he thinks) and the next thing he knew he had awoken on the floor, a happy roach crawling on his chest, enjoying the fallen cheetos still clinging to his shirt. He had lost a whole day, and what was worse was, he had muted his senses. Christ he was being swarmed by vermin and was none the wiser.

Not good for him.

Not good for the kid.

No, he had to keep his senses sharp. It was the only way to survive. Yes, survive. Spike was a survivor, and a stubborn one at that. He had survived worse. He would burn in hell before he would be torn down. He would survive this.

Spike removed the rest of his good. Grabbed out a can of prepackaged soups and set it to "cook" in the kitchen; 'Kitchen' being a relative term for a makeshift table off the back of the room that hosed an ancient mini fridge and a hot plate, but Spike would make due. It had been over a hundred years since he had looked to food as anything but a pleasurable hobby. The necessity of hunger was the only thing that moved him to eat this swill, but he needed food to survive, and he dare not leave the boy alone too long. He was afraid to leave him alone and vulnerable. But also, he was afraid to subject the kid to prolong car trips, which was the main cause for the little time they had made on their journey thus far. He wasn't a Dr. Didn't know squat about how to nurse a sick unconscious child, but he figured bouncing around underneath the hot Central American sun in a car with no air condition was not conducive to health. So he traveled only as far as he dared.

Spike felt a ticking his spine, he felt eyes upon his back. Quickly he abandoned the soup only to turn around to find.
To find an unconscious child. Spike peered at the figure on the bed. He was thoughtful for a minute before he shook the thought away with a shake of his head. "Bloody well imagining things now," he mumbled with a shake of his head.

William poked his head up curiously again and watched the main. He wasn't talking to his bottle anymore. It looks like he was making something. William could smell the cookery and it made his mouth water and his tummy grumbled. He couldn't remember when he had suppered last. Suddenly, William saw the man take his beloved bottle and smashed it all on the floor, mumbling bad words all the while doing it. He was careful not to move though, not to flinch as the man seemed to get more and more upset over his broken bottle. 'Wow, he really must like bottles,' Wills thought.

Spike stared down at the ruined liquid coating the dingy floor. 'Least I din't pay for it,' he thought with irony. Spike slid down the wall into the pool of liquid and held his head in his hands. The scent of the ruined elixir reached his nose and hot tears escaped his eyes. He gritted his teeth, fighting within himself to get his torrid emotions under control but it was a war he couldn't win.

The grief and pain and fear of the days past overwhelmed him and he was lost amongst the misery that was his existence.

How could one person be subjected to so much pain? Was there not a limit to the amount
mount of torment that can be placed on one being? His mortal life before had been subjected to loneliness and ridicule. His vampire life was one of servitude with a few brief moments of glory and lust thrown in here and there. When he met Buffy, things had changed. He caught glimpses of the beauty that was life. The light that beams through the shadows of existence. Home, happiness, family, friends. The things that keep us going through the drudgery and hell that is life. We continue, hoping to gleam a few of those precious moments of happiness.
Of camaraderie. Of belonging. It's all most of us have.

Spike had seen it from a distance, but he had merely traded one sentence of servitude for another. He was a servant, watching at a distance the joys of the manor house. Participating, but never as a guest. Feeling the light directed at others, but hardly onto himself, except in mockery and falsehoods. Because it wasn't real was it? Those lights, those feelings of love, especially at the end. Was it real? Any of it?

Spike wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore, not even himself.

The tingling sensation began again as he was wallowing in his misery amongst the wet and the dirt and dust and the now happily inebriated cockroaches that felt safely ignored while they inspected their liquid treat.

Spike did ignored the vermin. He ignored the sticky sweet dirt now clinging to his lower half. He rose slowly not bothering to wipe the moisture from his face. He cautiously and with great interest entered the space where lied the bed, and the child upon it.

The child lie still. Spike watch, a mix of strange new feelings he couldn't describe touched at him. He concentrated on calming himself, getting his heart rate under control. He blinked his eyes opened and closes foe several minutes. Every time he opened his eyes he was met with the child's closed ones.

This game of revers peekaboo went on several minutes. Until finally it the inevitable happened. William miscalculated a fraction of a second. Sometimes that is all it takes to change things forever. A fraction of a second. One small miscalculation.

The next time Spike opened his eyes, he was met with a pair of smaller blue one's peering back at him.

William was quicker to react as Spike was momentarily stunned. He honestly didn't expect to see consciousness in the child. He didn't really expect to see anything, so cluttered was his mind as of late. He thought he was imagining things. He thought madness had finally overtaken him.

So he reacted a second too late as William panicked and leapt up from the bed and ran with a speed that shocked Spike. Just how long had this kid been dicking him around?

It only took Spike a moment to collect himself, but a moment was all that was needed for William to pry the door open and take off out into the desert.

Spike lingered in confusion for only a minute longer before he took off like a bullet.

William ran and ran until he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The thud thud of the organ drumming in his ears. He felt the presence of the chase. He felt the man catching up behind him. William tried as hard as he could to pour on more speed but it was to no avail. His small legs could only pump so hard so fast and in his blind panic he forgot his magic and simply ran. Ran for his life.

To where he didn't know.

From what he couldn't care.

He ran and ran. He ran because it was all he could think of to do. He ran even though he had no place to go. No one to go to.

Spike had a few slight advantages over this child. Besides his years of experience with the hunt, the chase; He was also already fully recuperated, and he had much longer legs. It only took him moment to catch up with the child.

Spike tackled the boy who struggled and fight in his arms. Spike managed to haul the scratching and biting child onto his shoulder and cart him back towards their room. He was silently grateful for the desolation of this place because the few stragglers and derelicts who took refuge here paid him no mind, most being already drunk, even at this hour of the day
.
Spike barley manage to get open the door before the boy began his assault anew. Growling while biting and kicking he hit Spike where ever he could.

Spike steadied the child. He gripped him tight in his arms and eased him down his chest. The boys' back facing him. He gripped the kid tight while grunting.

"Will you hold on a second!" Spike growled. The temptation just to take the squirming child and throttle him back to unconsciousness was overwhelming.

('Yes, kill him." "Kill him and be done with it. End this now")

"F..Fuck me!" Spike growled.

"Now see here." He grabbed the boy by his flailing arms and turned him to his face. He peered sternly into the boy's eyes while keeping the him immobile.

"If I was going to hurt you, you'd be in a world of hurt already. Yeh?". He looked seriously at the child. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm not gonna hurt you."

The child in his arms calmed. His lips changed from a scowl into a pout and he began to silently cry.

Spike didn't know what possessed him to pull the child into his embrace. To try to soothe the boy's fears. It was like an instinct, but from where only God knew. Spike repeated over and over "I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm not gonna hurt you." Trying to make the boy understand. To believe.

Now Spike just had to believe it himself.





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