Chapter Nineteen

To The Innocent




In the course of his long unlife, Spike had developed several fundamental understandings. Never bite off more than you can chew (followed closely by never chew more than you can bite), where there’s a will there’s a way, and never give homeless folk loose change. Always heightens their spirits. Better to keep them grounded in reality and get a free meal out of the deal at the same time.

Likewise, there were guidelines that one saved for a rainy day. He had those long memorized, as well. Among the lesser-known stanzas were: there were slums, and there were slums.

And Zack Wright’s motel was in the middle of a slum.

“’m a creature who lives in a graveyard,” Spike reasoned as they approached the building; one alit with neon lights that had the majority of vacancy burnt out, so that the sign flashed NO CAN every other beat. “More than that, in a bloody pit of filth. Granted I’ve done as much with the place as I can…but this, mate, is godawful.”

Wright tossed an irritated glance over his shoulder. “I wanted to keep a low profile, all right?”

The vampire appraised the building with his eyes, grinning tightly to himself. “Good job.”

“Look, would you mind waiting out here?”

“Why?”

“I just need to grab a few things and we can get going.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Afraid to let a bloodsuckin’ fiend see the grime inside your grime? Come on, Zangy. ‘S not like I have standards.”

“I’d really rather you wait out here.”

“Well, ‘m not gonna.”

Zack sighed in exasperation, caressing the bridge of his nose. “Why?” His voice teetered on the very edge of reason. The emptied foreshadowing that no matter the reply, he was liable to break to his last whim and resort to petty threats.

“’Cause ‘s botherin’ you, an’ now my interest is piqued.”

“Well, it’s going to remain unsatisfied.”

Spike was practically bouncing with buoyancy now; features alit with boy like fascination in a manner that suggested he would plow his companion down, chip be damned, if only to get to the other side. “Come on, mate!”

“No.”

“Wha’s there to hide?” At that, the vampire stopped and his eyes narrowed. “You got drugs in there?”

Zack stared at him; half stunned, half aghast. “What? No!”

“You do so!”

“Leave me alone!”

“You got a stash in there, an’ you don’ wanna share.” He held up his hands. “Well, don’ worry. I gave up the psychedelic buzz back in the ‘60s. Made me see things even wonkier than usual.”

“That being the point, I can see why.”

“So, there you ‘ave it. ‘m not gonna lay a hand on your goods.”

“Yes, I know. Mainly because you won’t be seeing them.”

The vampire’s face fell into a petulant pout. He was on the verge of whining like a three year-old. “Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

“That’s the lamest excuse ever.”

Wright grinned. “You’ve been hanging around Cordelia too much.”

A rumbled blurb of amusement tackled the air and Spike shook his head. “Bint does have a way with words,” he conceded. “An’ she was talkin’ you up earlier. Seems to think you’re her type of guy.”

The hint of tease faded into the hunter’s tone. He shadowed a grin and neared the door to his motel room, hiding his face from sight. “Is that so?”

“Only ‘cause I’m unavailable.”

“Oh. Right.” He began wrestling with the lock, conceding a glance up to toss the vampire a wicked smile. “And by unavailable, you mean ‘hopelessly in love with someone who has too much of hero complex to return the feeling,’ I take it.”

“Not funny, mate.”

Wright cocked his head in consideration before unexpectedly throwing himself against the stubborn door in an overall ineffective body slam. Overnight, it had evidently decided to stick. “It is if you’re me.”

Spike sighed heavily. “’ll find time to laugh when she’s back safe an’ sound,” he decided. “Then it’ll be tragically funny. ’Sides, Cordelia’s cute, but she’s as daft as a table lamp. More your type.”

“Oh, so you think I’m cute?”

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes. “Right. Bloody adorable.”

There was an amused snicker that nearly covered the hunter’s noteworthy haste in making it through the door before the vampire could second guess his intentions. Of course, as all things, it couldn’t last more than a second. Too soon the peroxide Cockney caught on and all but threw himself at the closing barrier to give it a good shove.

“Give it up. You’re not getting in.”

“You right bastard.”

Wright grinned and managed to fasten the chain lock. “Sorry,” he replied in a tone offering anything but distress.

The victor’s lapse was his celebration. The fleeting forgetfulness that, yes, while he did have strength that some might consider subhuman, his companion had strength that was. Before he could even turn around, Spike had snapped the lock in two and tumbled inward with a haphazard crash.

“You ass!”

The vampire fought to his feet, dusted himself off, and flashed another grin. “Sorry,” he retorted in the same tenor.

“If I ever find the idiot that decided vamps could enter public accommodations without an invite, I’m going to tear his spleen out.”

“That’d be the PTB, mate, an’ good luck.”

Zack snorted; Spike chuckled.

Then he took a look around.

The room was pretty much that: a room. A telly, two beds that had been semi-made by room service, and a sparse collection of things that one could likely manage to live without forever, much less however long he intended on staying in the Hyperion. There was nothing lying around that seemed remotely incriminating. A large anticlimax after an equally foolhardy struggle that neither would be bragging about later.

Spike turned to Zack, brow domed to perfection.

“You were tryin’ to hide the roaches, is that it?”

To his surprise, however, Wright looked equally bereft at the lack of scandalous findings, though he did not bear the mark of a man robbed. He instead bore a sideways irritation. The same that he saw half a dozen times on the Slayer’s face every day when he was implicated in any given matter.

Spike refused to adhere to the unspoken past-tense of that clause. There was no past-tense where he was concerned.

And there never would be.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

“I’m a bad housekeeper,” Wright invented lamely, gathering his belongings. It was most clearly an invention; no one looked that puzzled at his own excuse without reasonable merit. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“What?”

“I have to…” Zack nodded indiscreetly for the bathroom.

“Use the loo? Thanks. Din’t need a soddin’ diagram.”

He frowned, instantly angry. “I didn’t—” He started before realizing that irritation was ineffectual when the target was one William the Bloody. Instead, Wright shook his head and marched intently for the restroom, snatching something too quickly for it to have caught the vampire’s notice. “Never mind. I’ve given up trying to argue with you.”

“Given up? Already?” Spike glanced up and flashed a grin. “’S so early in the game, mate.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not playing.” That was definitively that; like a three year old determined to get the last word, Wright slammed the door to the restroom and locked himself inside. The action prompted a chuckle but nothing more. That bloke was more than a little strange.

And then, for no reason whatever, the vampire found himself overwhelmed with the notion that he needed to call Rupert right then.

Likely because he hadn’t kept up to his word at all like he intended.

Well, like he intended to intend, anyway.

Like he said he would.

“Zangy!” he called. “’m usin’ your phone. You mind?”

There was a muffled response that he didn’t exactly know how to translate. Conceding, he took that as the go-ahead, offered his thanks, and correspondingly decided to ignore the ruffled comment he earned in turn.

The call was likely the wisest thing he had done all day; he agreed wholeheartedly with Zack’s conception that his plan was the quickest. The most liable to produce speedy results, but speedy did not always equal good, and the peroxide vampire would be the first to acknowledge this. In the past, such things wouldn’t have bothered him. He was an advocator of making the rules up as he went along, bugger all to consequences, present and future. There was always a loophole to seize. A window to crawl through. Something that measured his complacency with enough accuracy not to be discounted.

This was not such case. Not with the life of his Slayer hanging in the balance. The wrong move would solidify her end, and he would never forgive himself.

Pawns were in set; things were in motion that could not be redone. He knew it. It was simply a matter of eluding the voice that forewarned with petulant reiteration that every step he took sank him deeper into an immutable mistake.

“Look, Rupes,” he said, barraging mindlessly into a stream of tedious dialogue that was designated to warn and scold even more so than he had already. Perhaps it was the ambiance, the company, or the severity of the circumstances, but the Watcher’s warnings seemed even less valid and worrisome than usual. And of everyone there was in Sunnydale to fear, Spike’s hat was off to Rupert Giles. The old man had stones in him, even if he was the only one to see it. He had stones, and he was not afraid to refer to them with every beat of his calling. “’F I can, I’ll give you a ring, but from here on out, you’re jus’ gonna have to trust me, all right? ‘m not gonna be in the position to pick up the bloody phone every five minutes.”

“Yes, that would be quite the accomplishment,” the Watcher agreed irritably. “Considering your contact with me has been at a very minimal percentage of what we decided upon your leaving.”

“Things change, mate. I think you of all people should appreciate it.” Spike tossed a brief glance to the closed door. Wright was still in the loo. “Anyway, ‘s not like I’m flyin’ in solo. Angel’s merry band of superheroes are all on board, an’…I got help in other places.”

“Other places?”

Spike nodded ineffectually; the lifeless room answered in with the same sort of candor. “Yeh,” he replied. “There’s this hunter, a demon hunter. ‘E’s an all right git once you get passed the attitude an’ bias…’course, now that I think about it, tha’s right up your alley, innit? This guy’s big on the wronged-out-for-vengeance gig. Seems Darla pulled a nasty before she joined up with the Master in SunnyD. Completely ruined this bloke’s life. ‘S a sad story…she did things that I din’t think she had the gall to—”

“You’re telling me that you feel for what she did?”

The peroxide vampire blinked at the unexpected wave of brazen incredulity before recalling just whom he was speaking with. A bloke becomes accustomed to one thing and all else falls uncertain. That was certainly one thing that earned his favor with the Los Angeles crowd: the reason to understand without prejudice. It was nice.

And more so, despite his reluctance to admit it, he did feel for what Darla had done. He felt more than even he thought a vampire could. He felt because he had sampled a taste of the same the night before, and found its flavor more than disagreeable. If any of his so-called family even thought of torturing Buffy in that manner, he would have all their heads on stakes before they could explode into dust.

“Well, yeh.”

“I can’t believe you’re bringing freelancers into this. Do you have the slightest idea—”

At that, the vampire scowled. “Oi! Wait a minute! Zangy’s no bloody freelancer, mate. ‘E’s one of us.”

“One of you?”

Oh. Of course. One of you. One of Spike’s kind in the eyes of Rupert Giles.

Of all the fucking nerve…

“How did this man know that Darla was back? How did he know where to find her at all?”

Spike opened his mouth to reply, then paused and realized that he didn’t know.

Huh. Well, that was odd. He remembered Wright mentioning that he received word, but he never identified a source.

Still, that was consequential. It didn’t mean anything.

Only it could mean the world.

“Wes,” he invented quickly, tossing a glance to the bathroom door as it opened again and Wright stepped out, brows perked. “’E’s a friend of Wes’s. Blokes know each other from the way-back-when. ‘E’s the one that brought ‘im in.”

Zack frowned, not following.

Spike waved generally and turned his back, though watching the other man carefully, fresh with new suspicion. The turns he had taken thus far were irreversible, and while the face he saw was the same that Lorne claimed to have directed him to, mistakes were known to happen in the past.

It was likely explainable. Why he was here. How he knew about Darla. How he knew so much about the Order of Aurelius. How he knew everything. All within the same measure of reasonability.

It occurred to the vampire that this was a very dangerous ploy. His want of feeling was becoming more and more human by the day, and it would eventually lead him to a dead end. He wanted to believe Wright was legit more than anything. He wanted to believe because, in the time they had spent together, he had grown rather fond of him. And that wasn’t something that happened to the peroxide Cockney every day. Hell, it wasn’t something that happened every century. Angelus was the only other male in his life that could even begin to qualify as a relation, and that was simply because they had tolerated each other for twenty or so years. There was Giles and Xander, of course, but he wouldn’t even pretend that what they shared merited the status of friendship.

And while Wright would likely deny it with every fiber of his being, they were as close to becoming friends as Spike had ever experienced.

“Look, ‘m bein’ careful, all right,” he snapped, turning his attention back to the receiver sharply. “’F anythin’ of importance ‘appens, I’ll give you a ring. But tha’s it. All right? I can’t be runnin’ off to the phone ‘cause you want me to. There are things in motion that—”

“We’re leaving town, Spike.”

Okay. Out of the blue, much?

He willed his eyes shut. God, he missed her.

“Oh?”

“The Watcher’s Council shared some rather dire news with us pertaining to Glory, and I refuse to risk more by sitting around here. Buffy’s family…her everything is in danger, more than just her life.” There was an edge to the Watcher’s voice that he didn’t want to place. The sort of will of giving in before the game was through. As though everything was lost and there was nowhere to go but away. “I cannot put Dawn in that much danger. Joyce is beside herself enough with worry…”

Spike emanated a long sigh at that. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think how the Slayer’s mother was reacting to all this.

“…and her condition…” There was a long pause. “Her condition might be worsening as well. We—”

God. Everything was falling apart.

“Right,” he agreed hoarsely. “How do I reach you?”

“Wesley should have my cell number. If not, contact me through the Watcher’s Council. I won’t disclose anything now.” Another silence, not quite as long. “Please, Spike,” he said softly, forfeiting everything that ever was with a simple note of aching desperation. “Please get her back. If you do…I’ll…”

“Don’ make promises, Rupes,” Spike replied. “I’m not here to barter or trade. I’m here ‘cause she’s gonna make it. You get me?”

There was a near incoherent concession at that, the exchange of not-so-pleasant pleasantries, and the general bout of usual threats before he brought the call to conclusion. Zack arched a brow and heaved his bag over his shoulder once more, nodding for the door.

“I take it your friends back in Sunnydale don’t know about your little Slayer infatuation?” he said flippantly.

“Oh, they know I have a Slayer infatuation,” Spike replied gruffly. “They jus’ don’ know ‘s gone from ‘wanna kill’ to ‘wanna shag.’”

The other man arched a brow. “Is that all you wanna do?” he ventured softly, as though afraid of the answer. “’Cause last time I checked, grown men didn’t cry when a potential cum-bucket kicked it.”

The punch hit through the still of the room like dry wood smacking against a steel bin, and Spike’s consequential yelp of pain solidified its end. Wright made no move to defend himself; he reckoned he deserved it for that remark, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t irritated.

“What the hell was that?”

Spike reeled immediately, his eyes shining defiant strands of yellow through a frenzied mess. “Don’t ever talk about her like that,” he warned lowly. “Ever. Do you understand me?”

There was a long pause.

“Yeah,” Wright conceded finally, nodding. It was earnest. He turned to absently slide a scrap of paper to the dresser, eyes shining reverently. “I’m sorry. That was beyond uncalled for.”

“You’re bloody right it was.”

“I’m sorry.”

A few beats ticked by, the air lingering with their mingled breaths. Finally, Spike nodded and moved to brush passed his companion. “Right then,” he said, casting a quick, curious glance to the discarded note but unwilling to allow his eyes to linger. “Get everythin’ you need?”

Zack nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

Another glance. Markings were comprehensible this time. “Right then,” he agreed. “Let’s off.”

Wright edged out the door, and Spike turned fully to the dresser. After all, curiosity killed the cat. While he wasn’t a cat, he wasn’t any better when it came to ranges of ignorance.

The final glance sealed it.

On the paper, very legibly, was the word Hyperion.


*~*~*



They didn’t outside a stone’s throw of Zack’s motel room before something went wrong.

Very wrong.

It wasn’t as though Spike hadn’t faced odds of a lesser magnitude. He was more than accustomed to being in the full of danger’s glance with every step that he took, and had long ago conceded to the same adage that he had at some point forewarned the Slayer about. Every day, one must acknowledge that the morning’s wake might be the last known from the earthly helix. Of course, in the vampire’s perspective, whatever came his way was ultimately avoidable. There hadn’t been a situation yet that he had not managed to talk himself out of, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t grounded.

He wasn’t Angelus. He knew that his tale would likely have a dusty ending. He knew he wasn’t invincible.

However, he would be damned even more than he already was if the lot of wankers surrounding him now were the ones to finalize the period of his very long sentence.

“Friends of yours?” Wright demanded. They were back to back—surrounded by a gang of seven or eight vamps that could have passed as a wandering street gang had Spike not known what to look for.

The peroxide Cockney arched a brow, still attempting to gauge the situation. Each of the aggressors was wielding something wooden and pointy, and while some eyed his companion’s jugular hungry, it was more than obvious that he was target. This did not ring as good.

They had been sent to dispatch him. And as if to clarify this point, one broke the unspoken etiquette of the pack and launched himself toward the intended. Disarming him was simple; a matter of skill and cunning, of which the elder vampire had in abundance. The overall impact was anticlimactic; with a huff, the platinum blonde wheedled the makeshift stake from his opponent’s grasp and sent the other spiraling down the apex of categorical dustiness. One down. It wasn’t difficult to label these wannabes as babies of a larger world. He had been around the block enough times to know who was and wasn’t of the old blood.

No. They were mercenary vamps. He hated mercenary vamps.

“I’d say an emphatic no,” Spike retorted.

“I’m agreeing.” Wright exhaled deeply and withdrew something from the lapels of his jacket. Another stake, most likely, or a weapon of similar nature. The peroxide vampire wagered that he kept something that would kill vampires handy at all times, just in case he happened to run into a certain blonde female whose demise was quicker than she likely wagered.

“What do you think?”

Spike snickered. “I think I’ve made more enemies in this town than friends. Bloody Peaches. Weren’ we s’posed to be pullin’ one over on him?”

He wouldn’t mention the other option: the one where this was all Wright’s doing.

“No. I mean, you take the three over there, I get the four over here?”

“Why should you get four?”

Zack glanced over his shoulder and flashed a cocky grin. “Because I called it.”

Spike smothered a smirk. There was more of himself in his companion than he had ever encountered in another individual. “Not ‘f I beat you to it, mate.”

“Loser buys drinks?”

He chuckled. “You’re gonna be outta money ‘f you keep on like that. But you got a deal.”

They broke apart at the same time, launching headfirst into a dance that either man had long ago memorized and mastered. Poetry in bloody motion. Spike felt the familiar rush of unbridled excitement tackle his senses, and he whooped in merriment. Too long. It had been far too long since he had indulged in a true decent spot of violence.

There was one perk to living in Los Angeles, he supposed. There would never be any of the slow nights that had befallen Sunnydale the weeks before Angelus’s reemergence.

It was series of low blows and high punches. All too soon, Spike had dispatched the three that had served as his prime directive and turned his focus to Wright, catching a glimpse of the man’s fighting skill for the first time. And despite however much he hated to admit it, the hunter knew what he was doing. He moved musically—set infinitely to his own beat. Almost as though he had been composed to be the first male Slayer. The sort of innate cunning that was only recognized when one was put to the ultimate test.

Watching him it was difficult believe that he hadn’t been doing this longer than seven years. His technique was almost as good as Spike’s, and that was something that the vampire refused to take lightly.

But that didn’t mean he was going to buy the wanker drinks.

Wright had set and aimed to kill the last when it suddenly imploded into a flurry of dusty bits. A scowl immediately beset his features, especially when he pinpointed the cause.

“That wasn’t fair,” he complained.

Spike grinned at him unabashedly. “Life isn’ fair, Zangy.”

“I’m so not rewarding you for stealing my kill.”

“Oh, you’re a welcher, then?” The peroxide vampire shrugged as though the knowledge was of no consequence. “Right then. I can live with that ‘f you can.”

“I am not a welcher.”

“Well, you wanna pick the pub, or should I?”

The man rolled his eyes. “I might not be a welcher, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I’m not buying your drinks, Bloody. Not for that. Deal with it.”

Spike arched a brow. “Bloody?”

“You know…‘William the Bloody.’”

“Not very original.”

“Don’t like it? Stop calling me Zangy.”

“Not on your—”

A horrible, overly dramatic growl sliced through the Cockney’s dialogue before he could reach the thought to completion. Immediately, both men reverted to attention, whirling in time to see the launch of a random vamp that had somehow escaped their notice. It took that for Spike to realize he had consigned his stake to the last he dusted, and though Zack was quick and had better aim than he would ever admit vocally, the approach was too hasty and arbitrary to make any estimates that might score as accurate.

But then something happened.

Something very, very unexpected.

The vampire exploded in an array of surprise and cunning that Spike had only previously allowed concession to the true professionals. It was so unexpected that he nearly swore the dust shimmered with a variety of different hues, even if that marked his own eccentricity, and was—not to mention—impossible.

It took several seconds to register that the true bombshell wasn’t the sudden end of their equally haphazard attacker.

It was the source of his demise.

A small girl with dirtied blonde hair, holding a model of what looked to be the same brand of Wesley’s handheld crossbow. The girl, and the woman behind her.

There was nothing for a long minute. Spike just stared.

He knew those eyes.

And it stunned him into breathtaking submission.

“What…” he breathed, unaware that he was panting. “What the hell is—”

“Nikki!” someone called in an unfamiliar tenor. It took seconds to realize that the sound had emanated from the hunter at his side, and a foreign, nearly parental expression had crossed his features sternly. The universal forewarning that someone was in very big trouble. “Where the fuck have you been?”

The young blonde spitfire that was all too familiar for eyes shrugged dissonantly, though her countenance was not nearly as cold as she was trying to stem. “Well, if you had bothered to call to tell us where you were, you might’ve found that we’ve been sitting ducks for the past day and a half. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” She gestured to the child at her side. “And don’t use that kind of language in front of her!”

“It’s okay,” the girl replied. “I’ve heard it before.”

“That doesn’t make it all right, sweetie.”

That seemed to ebb Wright even further. “Stop parenting—”

“Well, I’m sorry. If I don’t, who will?”

“And what a fantastic job you’re doing. It’s almost one in the morning! She should be in bed!” The hunter broke into a pace; having seemingly forgotten that he was in the audience of a very confused vampire. The same who could do nothing but stare blankly and hope that everything eventually made some form of sense. Wright, meanwhile, had paraded forward intently, eyes blazing. “You take her out like this again, and I’m going to—”

Nikki arched a brow. “What? No really, let’s hear it. Drop your little righteous mission? Actually try to be a father for once? Be home at night to tuck her into bed and read her actual bedtime stories? Any of these sound good, or am I speaking a foreign language?” Without awaiting a reply, she glanced over his shoulder and gestured broadly to the nearly-forgotten and certainly-dumbfound bystander. “And when did we start associating with vampires? Huh? Especially ones that—”

“Spike?”

It was the first word to come from the child’s mouth, and it took that for the peroxide Cockney to realize that she had been staring at him the entire time. His attention averted sharply. The girl. The girl. The same girl from the alley.

This wasn’t…it couldn’t be…

“Yeh,” he replied with a weak, still bewildered grin.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Wright abandoned his spat with the young woman without prompt and paraded intently to his unlikely companion. “What the hell is this? How do you know—”

“He saved us,” the girl responded, her eyes not leaving Spike’s. Small captivating orbs of knowledge. He knew he was lost without having to formally concede defeat. “He saved us from the Kraelek the other night.”

“Not saved,” Nikki objected in a huff. “I would’ve taken care of it.”

“Enough!” The peroxide vampire threw his hands in the air. God, the alley was spinning. “Will somebody please tell me what the bloody fuck is going on?!” He paused shortly thereafter and glanced once more to the child, wincing slightly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him.

Zack sighed and placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders, holding her to him protectively. “Fine. Why do I even bother to try and keep you two out of danger? You practically go on a danger scavenger hunt!” There was a moment’s pause as he cleared his head and redirected his attention with some semblance of formality. “Spike, this is Rosalie Melody Wright,” he said. “My daughter.”


To be continued in Chapter Twenty: Purple Skies...





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