Larvaverse

by
Witling

Part One

He lay in the bath watching the steam curl up through the yellow light, feeling his body slowly forget automatic response, adrenalin, swing-stake-recover. The door was ajar, and after a while he heard Harris come in and drop his coat out in the living room. A minute later he pushed the door open and shuffled in, half-asleep, covered in gunk, already pulling his shirt off. He paused and blinked at Spike, then started to back out.

"'s all right." He sat up with a sigh, ran a hand through his hair, then scrubbed it to make it stand up. "You look like hell."

The kid didn't say anything to that, just wavered there with one arm out of his sleeve as if he were having trouble deciding what to do with himself. Spike flicked water off his face and waited. After a second or two the kid sat down on the toilet seat, yawned, and leaned back against the tank.

"I vote," Spike said, "if we make it out of this alive, we all chip in and buy the poof some nice new lackies."

Harris nodded, his eyes glassy. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Which was about right. It took more of a toll on you if you still lived and breathed.

"He finish showing you those maps?"

Harris nodded, eyes trained on his own knees.

"You remember a thing he showed you?"

Pause. Harris squinted, then laughed slightly and didn't say anything.

"'s what I thought. You need sleep. All you lot. This Risen fucker can just wait till you can count to twelve again taking your shoes off." He leaned forward to pull the plug. "I'm done. Have a quick shower, get to bed."

The kid yawned again, his jaw cracking like thin wire snapping. He was shaking his head. "Nah," he said, when he could talk again. "It's fine, leave it."

Spike paused with his hand on the plug. "You sure?"

"You look clean." He started pulling his shirt the rest of the way off, peeling it off in places where it was dusted and bloodied and gunked to his skin. "I'll just soak a minute."

Spike hesitated, then stood up and pulled one of the three-star towels off the bar. Fluffy and white and pre-warmed, and there were some advantages to the poof's new arrangements, that was for sure. The kid looked better fed than he had in a while, though you could still see his ribs when he dropped his shirt on the floor.

"You're a mess," he said, toweling absently and staring at the grey-brown whorls of crud on the kid's chest and arms. How did he get so fucking dirty? Spike stayed cleaner than that, and he killed more things than Harris did. Got hit less, too. Which was probably part of the explanation.

Harris's eyelids had fallen completely, and he was fumbling with his belt buckle with swollen, hammered fingers. Spike tucked his towel, crouched down, and took over. "Forget the bath. Just come to bed."

The kid put a hand on Spike's shoulder and worked his legs out of the trousers, eyes open now, grinning a little hangdog grin. "Nah. I'm fine, I'll just be a minute."

Spike wadded the ruined trousers up, tossed them into the corner, and said nothing while Harris used him as a prop to stand up and step into the bath. There were old green bruises in the small of his back, from where he'd been kidneypunched by some of the Risen's fanatics. He sat down slowly and stiffly, and he hissed a little when the water came up over his belly.

"Gonna talk to the poof about a day off for you," Spike said, falling forward onto his knees and letting his forearm drop into the tub. He cupped water in his palm and rubbed some of the crud off Harris's shoulder, so he could see the godawful tattoo. "You're useless like this." And if the poof didn't like it he could go fuck himself.

Harris nodded vaguely, eyes closed again, lids blue with fatigue. He reached down with a grimace, grabbed his leg under the knee and helped it up a bit so he could scoot down. His hair was soft and wet, a dark corona around his head.

"And another thing--" Spike started, reaching for the soap. Harris's hand came up and caught his wrist.

"Spike." His eyes were open, bloodshot and gentle. "I'll be out in a bit, okay?"

Spike paused, then swallowed and withdrew his arm. "Right," he said gruffly, and stood up. Pathetic. "Don't drown."

Harris shook his head, and then his eyelids were sinking again, and Spike turned on his heel and went out to lie flat and alone between the cold sheets, like a mothball.

He was tired too, and he must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew he was staring at the bedside clock and it was four o'clock in the morning. Harris wasn't there. That put a crab of worry in his belly, and he turned, rolled out of the too-big bed, and padded over the carpet to the bathroom. The door was still ajar; the lights were all still on.

"Harris--" He tapped lightly, automatically, then put his head around. His first thought was suicide. It was a calm, precise thought, from a hundred twenty-odd years of seeing blood. The bath water was red, the kid was white, he was afloat. Suicide.

Then that thought grabbed hold and he was across the room before he knew he was moving, bashing his knees into the edge of the tub, reaching down and yanking the kid up by his wrists. Which wasn't the sort of thing you were supposed to do to injured humans, but he wasn't thinking. He hadn't said anything yet. He was breathing, though; he could hear his own short gasps, like a runner sucking wind. No, no. He'd done so many awful things in his life.

Then he saw that Harris's eyes were open, shocked and in pain, and heard that his heart was beating lapadiddy lapaddidy.

"What the hell?" That was his own voice, sharp, cracking. Harris's eyes rolled white, fluttered, came back. Don't shake him, that wasn't what you were supposed to do.

He lifted the kid out of the tub and laid him on the warmed tiles, like a bloodied, beached dolphin. The kid was coughing, trying to shake his hands free, trying to look around and see where he was. Pink water ran down the side of the tub. The tiles under Harris' back started to pool pink, then red.

"You're hurt," Spike heard himself say, and realized he had to get hold of himself. It wasn't suicide, the kid wasn't dead. He'd fallen asleep in the tub, was all. And now he was white and shivering and he smelled a little weird. Like he had a fever.

"Spike--" He was trying to sit up, prop himself on his hands. His hair was stuck in wet black lines to his cheek, his elbows wouldn't lock. "What the hell?"

"That's what I want to know," Spike said, snatching a towel off the rack and getting it around him. And hello, when he touched it to the kid's right side it came away bright red. "You've got something here."

"No, I'm fine--" They both looked at the towel, and then Spike got his hand on Harris's shoulder and gently pressed him over so he could get a look at the side. There was something there. A puncture, bleeding freely in a thin continuous trickle, and around it a strange dark swelling, like something tucked under the skin. He didn't like the look of it. He liked the smell of it even less.

"What--" The kid was staring down at it in dismay, and Spike pushed him back up again. Get him dried off, warmed up, into bed. Go find the poof. Figure this out.

"Dunno. Come on, up." He did most of the lifting, and together they started out to the bedroom. "You get hit there?"

The kid shook his head and stumbled. Spike took up the slack and thought, bed, warm, poof. Figure this out.

"Spike--" The kid stopped abruptly, his face stricken, then suddenly yanked his arm out of Spike's and started backing away, batting at his side with his hands. "Oh, fuck it's moving--"

"It's what?"

"It's moving, I can feel something--" He backed into the coffee table and knocked the hotel flowers off it, tried to go around, almost fell over his own feet. His eyes were huge and panicked.

Spike got over to him in three steps, grabbed his hands, and made him stand still.

"You can feel what moving?" he asked, though he already had a sinking feeling and one look at the kid's face was enough to confirm it. "Okay, hang on--" He turned the kid roughly sideways and stared at the lump. Nothing. Then suddenly the kid yipped and tried to pull away, and at the same time there was a slight twitch under the plum on his ribs. Oh, Jesus.

"Change of plans," Spike said, grabbing the kid's arm and starting back for the bedroom. "We're getting clothes on you now. And we're going to find the poof."

Part Two

Angel was awake, or if he wasn't, he did a good impression. He answered on the second ring. Spike snapped, "Go open your door." He was hustling the kid down the hall with one arm wrapped around his waist, the other hand holding the phone to his ear. He could feel the kid's pulse, hot and fast and scared, through the whole right side of his body.

Angel was an insurmountable asshole at times, had a head like a block of ham and never learned to ask before he hit, but you had to give him his due. He didn't faff about; he was just standing waiting at the open door, phone still to his ear.

"What's the problem?" He tossed the phone behind him onto the couch and reached out to grab Harris's other arm. Kid was still soaking wet, skinned none-too-gently into a pair of jeans and nothing else, and Spike hadn't bothered with more, himself. He got the kid in and kicked the door closed behind them.

"You tell me." He dropped his own phone and turned the kid so the bad side faced the poof. "What the fuck is that?"

They stood there for a long, silent minute. Angel studying the kid's side with a slight frown, the kid heaving for breath, Spike taut and waiting. After a few seconds the kid's heart started to slow, and he shrugged Spike's arm off. Wiped his hair back off his face with the heels of his hands, took a deep breath, and risked a look around at the thing, himself.

Angel glanced up. "Hi, Xander." His voice was low and steady, and the kid gave him a shaky little wave.

"Hey." He palmed blood off his ribs and rubbed it onto the leg of his jeans. "I should get off the carpet." His voice was thin and uneven, but he was being practical. Spike's throat closed in a little more.

"The carpet doesn't fucking matter," he said sharply. "There's something in there--"

Angel gave him a sharp look, one that the kid wasn't supposed to see. Pull yourself together. It stung. He fell silent, felt himself shrink a little, lose a little substance. Angel knew what it was, he'd know what to do. The prick.

"I could use some more light," Angel said, looking around as though he didn't know where the lamps in his suite were. "Come over by the armchairs."

Halfway there the kid stopped short, twisted around, and started slapping at his side, stumbling back as if he could get away from it that way. Spike caught his elbow, Angel caught his hip. He was making a throaty, wordless sound of total horror.

"What the fuck is in him?" Spike barked. Fuck pulling it together. Fuck all of this. He was going to rip that thing out with his bare hands in a minute, no matter what it was.

"Over by the light," Angel said, without looking at him. "Come on."

They got the kid over to one of the chairs and perched him on the arm. He was still shuddering, his fists clenched into rocks and his arms corded, every muscle in his belly showing. Out of the corner of his eye, Spike could see the slight, continuing movement under the welt. The kid's eyes were wet, and his jaw was hard as wood.

"Go turn the light on," Angel said quietly, and after a second Spike realized that meant him. He thought about just punching the poof in the side of the head, then let go of the kid's arm, stepped back, and went to turn on the light.

"Turn," Angel was saying, behind him. "Okay, lift that arm up." A pause, while Spike studied the lithograph on the wall. Pretty little bird. "Spike, call Wes."

He should have thought to call Wyndam-Pryce right away, right after he called the poof. Ex-Watcher, after all. Knew all this kind of shite. He was panicking, behaving like a woman. What was the Watcher's phone number? There were memory buttons for that.

He went back across the room and picked up his phone, dialed the number, and stood staring at the berries of blood in the carpet where the kid had stood. Behind him, there was a yip and a scuffle. Angel said, "Try to breathe normally." The phone's housing cracked in his fingers and he loosened his grip.

"Yes?" The Watcher sounded groggy, still asleep.

"Angel's suite. Now. Bring--" He didn't know what to say, didn't want the kid to hear. He walked into the hall alcove and lowered his voice. "First aid kit. You have a scalpel?"

"What?" Now he sounded awake, just not tracking. "A scalpel? What's going--"

"There's something wrong with Harris. Get in here."

Behind him he could hear the kid breathing high and fast, not normally at all, but like he was going to pass out. He hung up on the Watcher, dropped the phone again, and went back into the room.

The kid had slipped down into the seat of the chair, one leg still up over the arm, his hands braced behind him as if he were getting ready to launch himself forward across the room. He was gasping for breath, and when Spike walked back in his head snapped around so hard his neck popped. His face was white and wet, his eyes were huge. Spike stopped where he was, his belly suddenly cold.

"Spike, get a towel." There was blood on Angel's hands, more blood in the air. Automatically, he turned and went into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and carried it back in.

When he walked over to the chair to hand the towel to Angel, he saw that the lump on the kid's side had grown, and darkened almost to black. Kid's face was covered in sweat, his whole body was shaking. His eyes skated over Spike, fastened on his face, stayed there while Angel wiped the blood off his side. The lump kept moving. Spike tried to smile. His face felt numb. After a few seconds of meeting the kid's gaze he looked away. Pretty little bird.

"Go open the door for Wes," Angel said, a second before the knock. He went.

"What's--" Wyndam-Pryce had blue circles under his eyes, his hair was a mess, lip still split. They were all a wreck. But he also had a bag in his hand, and he might not be gorgeous but he was awake and alert. Spike ignored whatever he was saying, and just led him into the room.

He took it all in in one glance, Angel's dark heavy unreadable expression and the kid's drenched look of terror. His shoulders settled and he didn't ask anything, just went over and knelt down to take a look. Then he and Angel glanced at each other.

"I should have thought--" Wyndam-Pryce murmured, and then seemed to collect himself, and smiled at Harris. "Hello, Xander."

No wave this time; just the big black eyes and the heaving shoulders. Wyndam-Pryce nodded and started to get to his feet. "Hold on a few minutes more, and I'll be right--"

"Hello," Spike said loudly, and then stopped short. Angel and the Watcher both looked at him. "Is someone going to explain what the fuck is going on here?"

Another quick glance between the pair of them, and in another mood he'd hate that, sanctimonious pricks the both of them, but right now it was just a delay. He was going to punch something in a few seconds.

"I'm going to punch something in--"

"It's a parasite," Wyndam-Pryce said, standing up stiffly with one hand on the armchair. "The subcutaneous larva of Littleman's Sinistral Soft-Winged Beetle. Also known as the Goitre Bug." He gave Harris an apologetic look. "The eggs are microscopic, but the larva grows at an exponential rate."

Spike stared at him. The only sound in the room was the kid's breath, loud and fast and harsh.

"I can get it out," Wyndam-Pryce said kindly. "It just won't be much fun for Xander."

"So--" Spike paused, reached behind himself, found the edge of the bookshelf, and hung on. "So numb it up first. You've got that spray, use that." Part of him was winding down; they knew what it was, Lowman's something. They could get it out. Another part of him couldn't get away from the kid's racehorse breathing, or the thought of the knife in his side.

"I can't cut it out," Wyndam-Pryce was saying, starting for the door. "He'll have thousands more eggs on his skin, and if the first larva doesn't hatch out, another egg starts mitosis. It would be endless." He was almost past Spike, looking even more tired and drawn now that his part of the crisis was over. "We can poison them, though."

Spike stepped in front of him, blocking his way. "Poison?"

"Spike," Angel said, from the far side of the room. Flat, annoyed tone. Fuck him.

"It's the standard remedy," Wyndam-Pryce said, meeting Spike's gaze. "It'll be hard on him for a couple of days, but he'll recover."

"What do you mean, hard on him?" He could see Angel giving him a dark look over the Watcher's shoulder, and ignored it. "It's going to make him sick?"

"Yes." Wyndam-Pryce turned back to face Harris. "It works a bit like chemotherapy, Xander. It'll make you sick, but it'll kill the larva and the remaining eggs. You'll be fine in a few days."

Harris let his head fall back so he could see them around the back of the chair. He was still wheezing, his jaw ticking, his hair soaked into strings. "Okay," he said, and his eyes went from the Watcher to Spike, very quickly. Spike stood frozen while the Watcher walked around him and then out.

Harris picked his head back up, disappeared behind the back of the armchair, and went on gasping for breath.