Chapter Twenty-Four

Bleeding From Yesterday



The day started on an early, almost serene note. Naturally, this led to general apprehension. The phone refused to ring, the doors refused to admit customers, and there had been no word from Spike in nearly thirty-six hours. None that anyone could attest as tangible. His concerns about being discovered by Angelus and the others had yet to be determined. Wright ventured to Caritas alongside Gunn half a dozen times to establish if any word had come in, but the lines of communication remained intensely and indefinitely severed.

There was one thing the four shared in spades: the communal abhorrence for being sitting ducks.

Tedium at Angel Investigations was something that hadn’t been a major concern for quite some time. Cordelia shared a few tales of similar boredom with Wright over another nutritional McDonalds breakfast, earning a grin or two to coincide with the unabated awe on his face. It was different, she knew. After having been on the road for so long, following lead after lead of new information, hearing of people who spent entire days—and weeks, pending—without anything to go on seemed damn near impossible. Especially in a city like Los Angeles.

There were other things to discuss. She shared over coffee several interesting Buffy-related stories from Sunnydale. The Graduation incident in which the entire senior class banded together to destroy a giant snake-shaped mayor. He heard of her adventures with someone named Xander Harris—on particularly eyebrow-raising story about a man made of bugs and serious smoochies in the Slayer’s basement that led to subsequent smoochies wherever dark area was located. He laughed when she told him about battling Buffy for Homecoming Queen, only to lose full count. He provided false sympathy when she related the story of finding Xander and someone named Willow involved in serious kissage while being held Spike’s prisoner, and consequentially ignored the dirty smirk she gave him in turn. He even listened to the dull-as-dust stories involving the ‘Cordettes’ and their various extravaganzas. It was all riveting. Amazing. As though something he remembered vaguely, but from a long while ago.

“You’re still very young,” he observed.

“I turned twenty last month,” she retorted with a shrug. Then her look became suspicious. “Why? How old are you?”

Wright smiled. “Well, I was married in college, was widowed three years after, and Rosie’s almost nine. You do the math.”

Cordelia made a face. “Have I mentioned that math wasn’t my best subject?”

“Only a thousand or so times.” There was a pause. “It’s considerable…the age difference.”

“What, give or take ten years?” She looked unimpressed. “Honey, Buffy and Angel were separated by centuries.”

He flashed a cheeky grin. “Comparing us to the infamous ‘star-crossed lovers’? For shame! Were you thinking of something else?”

“Don’t call them ‘star-crossed.’ Spike’d have your head for that. Besides, I don’t think that applies when one of the aforementioned lovers is torturing the daylights out of the other.” She frowned and shook her head. “And hey—buddy—you’re the one who brought it up.”

“Just wanted to let you know, in case you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

Cordelia stuck out her tongue. “Perv.”

Wright smirked, completely unashamed. “Yup. Color me one dirty old man.”

“You’re not old. Well, not really.” There was a sigh and an inevitable shrug. “Okay, so a little, considering. If you sit down and do a serious contrast and compare. But still. No big. Age wasn’t really a huge deal for me. Never was. I mean, hello. As I’ve said, Angel’s had a freakin’ bicentennial, and Spike’s gotta be way up there.”

“He’s a hundred and twenty seven,” Wright replied automatically. He ducked his head at the amazed look she gave him in turn. “Sorry. I do my homework.”

“Obviously.” Cordelia snickered. “What? Did you not have some brainy friend to copy off of?”

“I did, but he was much too honest to let me cheat. Had to make the grades, myself.”

“You see, when you live on a Hellmouth, cheating doesn’t exactly strike as a deadly sin.” She shrugged. “Ah, well. Willow never really helped me, anyway. She was always more Buffy’s friend than mine.”

“You sound like you were a very different person in high school.”

“I was a total bitch in high school.”

Wright shrugged. “Knew me a few of them.”

“Well, at least I’ve grown enough as a person that I can admit that now.”

He grinned. “Yes you can.” There was a brief but complacent silence as they considered each other—then Zack jolted to a start and flashed a glance at his watch. “Ah, fuck. I gotta run. The boys and I are gonna swing by Caritas, then do a sweep of the territory the vamps covered last night.”

“You’re going by Caritas again?”

A shrug. “Gotta at least try to keep the lines of communication open.” He was suddenly leaning over the check-in counter, scribbling something down on the first scrap of paper his fingers touched. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone—” he began absently.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Because of my spaz-fest last night? Really, I’m—”

“—but seeing as I have no choice, here’s my pager number.” He glanced up, all tease from his eyes having vanished. “Don’t blow it off like that. A ‘spaz-fest’. It was more to me than that. It was more to you than that. Right?”

There was an intense moment of introspection. She was too lost in his eyes to reply at first. Then a sharp jerk and a corresponding nod. Offering something more than the volume of her voice could attest. “Yeah…erm…yes. It was. I just…my defense mechanism is to make everything—”

“I know.” He smiled. “Mine, too.” Another brief minute of silence. “I mean it, Cordy. Page me if you have another fit.”

“Hey! It wasn’t—”

“And watch the girls for me. Don’t let Nikki give you any shit.” Before she could register what happened, Zack had leaned far across the counter to give her a brief, however evocative kiss before he bolted across the lobby. It left her winded for seconds after he disappeared, and forced her down another spiral of self-analysis that she wasn’t sure she was ready for.

The reflective silence she was going for didn’t last long. Within five minutes of solitude, the entry doors swung open again. Cordelia plastered on a smile and peeked into the hallway, witty retort about pagers and obligation curled and waiting on her lips before she caught the face of the man in the lobby.

A face so foregone, she nearly didn’t recognize it.

“…Lindsey?”

The lawyer from Wolfram and Hart—the very same she had come to loathe on principle given the events of the past year—blinked at her dazedly before realizing he had been addressed. While they weren’t terribly acquainted, give or take a haphazard alliance in the past, she knew him well enough to gouge the look on his face detailed more agony than any expression she had seen him adorn before.

“Cordelia,” he muttered. “I…I need help.”

*~*~*


Before falling in love with the Slayer, Spike wagered he had never spent more than five minutes in the course of his unlife worrying extendedly about anything or anyone. Everything had fallen at a general give-or-take level of acceptance. He couldn’t bear the thought of anything more. Even with the saga that was Drusilla, he hadn’t lost much sleep over it. Her infidelity, while it dug trenches, was nearly a part of the general acceptance. He had known that from the start—Angelus made very certain that he understood that while the insane vampire had chosen him, her daddy would always be the preferred lover.

A century could do wonders to one’s perception. Angelus had only been with them for two decades before he got himself all souled up and rat-happy. From there, it had been easy street. Killing and fucking all the livelong day. Getting into messes only to assuredly get out of them. Prague presented the first problem that he couldn’t readily talk himself out of, but once they escaped, he hadn’t worried too much. True, he had spent his every waking minute hunting for the cure to his beloved’s ailment, but there wasn’t much worrying involved. Just tedious research and nonstop wanking, seeing as Drusilla was in no condition to readily solve his sexual urges every time he got them.

Falling in love with Buffy had turned his world upside down in more than the obvious ways. For days, he had tormented himself with thoughts of her. Debated once even taking a drill to his head as to bore the seemingly random affection out of his head. Never his heart, of course, because it wasn’t really there—and he had never been wholly serious, even if he had taken comfort in that. At very first. Until it became abundantly clear that he was indeed in love with her, and so helpless was his case that he had remained blind to it even as it had obviously been there since their general acquaintance.

After admitting his impossible feelings to himself—and similarly after surpassing the phase where he bumbled stupidly outside her house, debating and fighting the urge to storm in like a madman and demand she hand over his unlife, please—Spike had experienced something a century could not have prepared him for. All out concern. The knowledge that Slayers were creatures of a limited lifespan. That she had already surpassed her due date. And yes, she was the best of the best. She was fucking poetry itself, but even that failed to comfort. So he watched her. And loved her; worried himself a little more dead each day that his own words would come to pass. That some grizzly night thing would have itself one good day, and she would be taken from him forever.

It astonished him how deeply his feelings ran. How strong his love had become after its acceptance into limelight. He had spent a century with Drusilla—a fucking century—and never come close to this sort of agonized bliss. From the looks that crossed her face when he touched her, to the bittersweet taste of her mouth when they kissed. It was impossible to compare, impossible to believe there had been existence before her. That he had lived without this mammoth love swallowing his insides. The want of purity above death. The weight of tears he felt depressed upon his nonbeating heart when he thought of her. When her voice echoed her relief that he was there, that he was real, when nothing else could possibly ring as true.

Spike still wasn’t thoroughly convinced that she believed him when he vouched for his own tangibility. The idea that she could have dreamt of him while having no reason to was beyond vexing, even if he relished its taste. But God, the pangs he felt now were unsurpassable by any other feat he had known. Angelus had made no mention of her yet, even when he thought he would. Even after he disappeared and reappeared hours later, Slayer smell rank on his clothing, he offered no explanation and similarly made no move to conceal himself. He also didn’t comment on the potential of the peroxide vampire’s presence in that very death chamber during his disappearance at their hunt. Oh no, the Cockney had made quite sure of that. He had showered himself thoroughly, fed off a few more townspeople without killing them, then proceeded to get himself thoroughly pissed at some low-ranking pub. There was no doubting that smell, or the telling wobble in his stride.

But Buffy smelled of him. He knew that. She smelled of him, and her quarters were drenched in the heat of her unquenched arousal. He hadn’t had the courage to push her over that threshold, and perhaps it was for the best. A climax was certainly more telling on the nose.

At least, as was per his experience.

It was difficult business not staking Angelus outright when Spike saw him next. Knowing what he knew. Having felt her blood between his fingers, and knowing why it was there. Knowing whom had tainted her precious body with his calloused, hateful presence. Knowing whom had made her bleed.

Knowing that he had hurt his girl.

His girl.

There were several truths to be reckoned with. His worrying was going to drive him out of his mind if his fury did not beat him to it. And there had to be a way to get access to Buffy’s manacles without attracting attention to himself. Were it anyone else, Spike would bump into his grandsire at random and snag the key the old-fashioned way. But it wasn’t anyone else, and there was no way the great billowing sod would fall for that. Didn’t bloody matter how good the peroxide vampire was at petty theft. Didn’t matter that he had paid for more than his fair share of drinks without paying for them at all. Didn’t matter that Xander Harris had served as his steady income months long after his relocation into the Restfield Cemetery.

No. None of that mattered. Because this wasn’t some glorified carpenter. This was Angelus. And he would know.

He always fucking did.

There was only one foreseeable option tight now. He had to return to the Hyperion and consort with the others. Let them know what he knew. Let them know what was happening to her. Demand resolution until they had an acceptable answer. An acceptable variation of the more grim reality.

The happenings around Wolfram and Hart seemed to be on a very give and take basis. Angelus and Darla had spent most of the day basking and fucking and eating whatever they could find. On occasion, some lawyer bint named Lilah Morgan would send down an impressionable intern to be made into a hearty snack. Under different circumstances, Spike suspected that he might like Lilah: it wasn’t often that he encountered a modern human woman with the morality of a politician. And while it was more than obvious that her actions were modeled for self-benefit rather than any notion of appeasing his enemies, their status alone separated them on the greater spectrum of things.

Time to go back to the Hyperion. Definitely. To the others.

They would get her out.

*~*~*


It amazed her that after everything she had seen, and more importantly done, that Cordelia still managed to be captured by the propensity in which little things could progress from bad to worse.

Lindsey had been in the lobby for two minutes, disheveled and more than a little defeated, when the doors flew open once more and Kate Lockley paraded inward. She wore an expression that could freeze Hell, though the determination on her face looked more prone to raise it.

“I’m having trouble with this,” she said sternly as means of salutation. “You want to know why?”

Cordelia frowned and fought the temptation to bang her head against the desk. “Because those shoes really don’t match your top?”

That didn’t seem to help. Lockley brushed passed a dumbfound Lindsey without tossing him a second glance and slammed what looked to be a police file on the front desk. “I’m having trouble with this, Ms. Chase. Twelve reports from different victims with distinguishing marks on their necks. Notice anything familiar?” She didn’t give her time to explain. “A man with peroxide hair and a notably Cockney brogue? You assured me that he was safe!”

“He is!” the brunette snapped, leaping to her feet. “Else those twelve would be dead and not filing police reports.”

“So you’re telling me that it’s all right that a loose vampire feeds on people as long as he maintains that they don’t die. Let’s not count how much blood loss was sustained. How many hospital bills are piling on innocent victims without insurance.” She slammed her open palm to the clement surface. “These are still assault charges, Cordelia. Innocent people—”

“If I may intervene,” Lindsey volunteered. “As a lawyer, I can attest that while some are better than others, the term innocent people is—”

“Shut up,” both women snapped.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. My interest is piqued.” Lindsey glanced to Cordelia with a quirked brow. “Spike? What’s your connection with Spike?”

“And that falls under the category of ‘questions I am least likely to answer,’” she retorted with an unpleasant smile. “Especially to the right-hand man of Evil Incorporated, who, by the by, kidnapped the Slayer.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh really?”

“You ought to know. I was the one who informed you of Angel’s transformation, wasn’t I?”

She frowned. “Yes. You were also the one who initiated said transformation.”

“I was never in favor of it. That was Holland’s idea.”

“And what a fantastic idea it was.”

“He’s dead now, if it’s any consolation.”

“Because of a party I let Angel break in on,” Lockley added irately. “If I had kept him in custody—”

“You and everyone else would have been killed,” Lindsey finished. “Trust me, Detective, you don’t know Angelus half as well as you think you do. The books you’ve piled through? The facts you’ve memorized? Words on paper. That’s all they are. They can’t begin to measure up to what he is. What he’s done.” His voice quieted. “The things I’ve seen him do.”

“The things you’ve let him do, you mean,” Kate snapped.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh. Rich. Didn’t have a choice except to allow him to instate chaos all over town. Do you have any idea how many people lost their lives last night?” The cool blonde turned her icy gaze back to Cordelia, blazing with contempt. “For every person that your friend didn’t kill last night, your boss killed double. That doesn’t account for the multiple reports that compile what Darla and Drusilla did with their…do you have any conception of—”

“Your friend?” Lindsey demanded, again cutting through uncaringly. “You put him there, didn’t you? Spike. There’s no other—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There was no way he was falling for that. Cordelia was an expert liar even if she wasn’t a keen actress, but the remark itself fell flat between the convenient woes of both parties. Instead, his eyes narrowed and he appraised her with a disbelieving glance. “Yes you do,” he said softly. “I…God, I wish I’d known sooner.”

That was it. The brunette’s eyes went wide with conspiracy. “What?” she demanded, monotone. “What did you do?”

“I haven’t done anything,” he said. “Not as of the recent. But I did send a small group of mercenary vamps to take care of the problem. They’re dust, just so you know. He and some rogue killed every one, according to…I just wish I’d known.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Well, you know now. Live with it.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been putting myself through,” he snapped, suddenly embittered. “Watching…oh God. Watching what he’s done to her!”

“Spike?”

“No, Angelus.” Lindsey started pacing, a trait that looked odd on him, even if it was needed. “The things I’ve seen him do…because he’s bored. Because it’s fun. Because it’s her.” He shook his head. “I had a half mind to do something myself if I didn’t think it end up killing us both. It’s not…”

The undeclared conviction of right hung over them like a cloud ready to burst. It was conductive notice. Despite however much McDonald’s disposition seemed and likely was legitimate, marking his motives as right was far and beyond anything that Cordelia was openly comfortable with.

“You’ve been video monitoring everything that Angel does?” Kate asked softly.

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

Lindsey’s eyes widened comically. “Know? Are you kidding me? You really think I’d be standing here if he knew?” He sighed and shook his head. “If Spike is really—”

“He’s really,” Cordelia intervened resolutely. “Trust me.”

“I don’t have a choice but to.” He glanced to the ground, to Lockley, and to the ground again. “We’ll have to figure out some way to get her out of there. He has better access than I do, even if I don’t believe Angelus has told him about her yet. That she’s still alive.”

“So you don’t know if he’s found her yet?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t looked at last night’s tapes from the security feed. It didn’t seem necessary, with all of them out on the town.”

“Murdering innocents,” Kate muttered under her breath.

Lindsey’s hands came up and he gave her a narrowed look. “You want to try and stop them, Detective?” he asked rhetorically. “Be my guest.”

“They’ll just kill you dead,” Cordelia agreed with a shrug.

Lockley glared at her. “Ms. Chase, with all due respect, there’s every possibility that I will be ‘killed dead’ every day on this job. That doesn’t change the description much, does it? I refuse to stand idly by while people are out there being maimed and murdered and god-knows-what-else. I don’t have time for this.”

“Neither do I,” the lawyer said. “Whatever you and yours are planning to do needs to be done quickly. Angel is…while his torment of her is as active as ever…he—”

She held up a hand. “Fine. Right. Whatever. Listen Lindsey, you came to us. All right? You want in, you’re gonna have to play by our rules. That means no staking my friends, especially when they’re there to help you. That also means no changing your mind once the deed is done, like some have done in the past. See if you can talk to Spike or something. I know for a fact that he’ll have more than one idea on how to get her out of there. The guy talks of nothing else.” She turned to Kate. “You. I don’t care what you do. Just stay out of our way.”

“Is your friend going to continue biting innocents?”

Lindsey coughed. Loudly.

Cordelia, in turn, offered a falsely sweet smile. “Hon,” she said. “It’s better than what Angelus would do. Remember that. And yes, he is, if it means getting the Slayer out. You don’t understand—Spike’s on a one-track street. Biting people means trust by crazy family means access to Slayer means saveage and hopefully much-deserved smoochies.”

“He’s really in love with her?” Lindsey asked, astonished.

“That’s none of your business, buddy. Just get back to Wolfram and Hart and see if you can dig up anything useful.” The brunette sighed deeply and shook her head, gaze averting to the ground. “Just…do it, okay? Whatever’s going to be done needs to be in the now.” She paused, the first hint of worry that she had thought to betray since the situation flew so drastically out of hand pouring through her eyes. There. Calm. Resolute. More than tangible: stressed and far from defeated. Cordelia refused to concede defeat; it was in her nature. She reckoned she would be fighting until long after the battle had concluded.

Either way, that did not stop or alter what was already known. A fact strained with more calamitous consequence than any she thought to convey.

“We’re running out of time.”






To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Five: Kiss The Flame





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