Larvaverse

by
Witling

Part Three

He'd expected some kind of potion, but when the Watcher came back in a couple of minutes he was holding a flat leather case. Spike took one look at it and grabbed his arm.

"You're not going to--"

"Spike." Angel was still over with Harris, had him sitting on the couch now, no help from Spike doing it. He couldn't go over there, couldn't stand seeing that thing under the skin, and seeing the kid try to twitch away from it, biting his lip to stop from screaming. Angel's towel was pretty red now. The whole thing was a complete fucking cock-up, and if they thought they were going to stick a needle full of poison in the kid's arm, they were--

"The larva's already well along," Wyndam-Pryce said quietly, not trying to free his arm. "Drinking the remedy would take too long. I have to inject it into the larva, to kill it immediately. And then into his bloodstream, to pre-empt the remaining eggs."

"No way," Spike said.

"Spike," Angel said, standing up. "Bedroom. Now."

"Fuck off."

"It's the only way to kill it before it injures--"

"Find another way."

"Spike." Quiet, low. They all looked around. Harris was sitting up, one hand tight on his own knee, the other hovering uselessly over the lump. "Calm down. It'll be fine."

"I'm not letting this--"

"No, I am." A pause, while he took a deep breath and swallowed. They all heard his throat work, heard the little aborted sound he made in the back of his mouth, trying not to yelp.

Spike let go of the Watcher's arm, and stood staring at the floor, the blood still working its way into the fibers. "I don't think--" he started, and then Angel's hand closed on the back of his neck and he was stumbling forward, cringing and cursing, into the bedroom. Before the door shut behind them, he heard the Watcher sit down on the couch, heard him say in a gentle voice, "Can you lift that arm?"

Then Angel had shoved him across the room and he was slingshotting back the second he had his balance, throwing his whole weight against the poof's chest, useless as that was. He staggered back and they stood staring at each other. In the other room, he heard a sharp intake of breath and threw himself forward again. Useless as that always would be. The poof didn't clout him, just held him off and finally, when he wouldn't stop, grabbed him by the throat and shook him.

"Fuck you," he gasped, when his voice came back. Angel stood staring down at him, the same look he always had for Spike, pity and revulsion. Fucking bastard.

He got slowly to his feet and took a few steps away, turned his back and rubbed his throat. There was more blood in the next room; he could smell it seeping under the door. He could smell Harris's fear, too, and a rising tang of sickness. It made his whole skin itch, made him want to rip something apart, wreck something, light something on fire.

"Spike." Angel was still standing in front of the door, his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. "Enough."

He turned back, stared at the fucker for a second, then picked up an empty water bottle from the night table and flung it into the wall. It exploded with a crash, glass everywhere, and instantly the poof was on him, tackling him to the carpet and grabbing him by the hair and wrists.

"We are in a hotel," Angel whispered, his face pressed against Spike's ear. "You either control yourself now or I'll control you."

He thrashed for a second, stupid and useless, exhausting himself under Angel's weight. Then he lay still, his face turned to the side so he didn't have to see that look any more.

"Fucking hair-puller," he muttered, and Angel let his head go. He didn't try anything, so Angel gave his hands back and sat up, still straddling him. He had rug burn on his cheek. He felt like screaming, like crying. He could hear them walking in the next room, heading for the bathroom. Jesus Christ. "Why--" He broke off, rubbed his face, and clenched his fists. "Why do you get to decide what's the right thing to do?"

Angel regarded him for a second, then leaned back and stood up. "Because you brought him to me," he said simply. When Spike looked up, there was a hand out for him to take. He wanted to bite it. He took it, and stood up.

"You're worse with him than you were with Dru," Angel said, staring at him like he was some kind of curiosity. And that was rich, that was worth fighting over all over again, except he could hear the kid puking now, and that took all the fight out of him.

"He's not Dru," he said shortly, and took a step toward the door. Angel moved to block him, and he held his hands up in frustration. "Too late now anyway, isn't it?"

Angel pursed his lips and nodded, and opened the door for him.

The Watcher was alone on the couch, fitting a glittering hypodermic back into the leather case and flipping it closed. He looked up as they came in. His face was pale, a little green. There was something on the coffee table in front of him, wrapped in gauze and bleeding through in spots.

"You got it out?" Angel asked, glancing at the package. Wyndam-Pryce followed his gaze, swallowed, and looked back down at the leather case in his hands.

"Yes. He'll be very ill at first, then less so. And then he'll need some time to recover, of course."

"How long till he's back in force?" Angel asked, picking up the package as if it were a cell phone someone had forgotten on the table. Wyndam-Pryce looked relieved to have it gone.

"A week at least. He'll need rest. And the first while will be fairly miserable, I'm afraid." He looked at Spike as he said it, and there was an apology in his tone. Spike set his jaw and stared back. "Right. Well, he's bandaged, I gave him some painkillers to take once the nausea lets off--"

"Thanks, Wes." Angel picked the bloodied towel up off the sofa, checked the upholstery under it. "Go back to bed."

Wyndam-Pryce nodded, collected his case and bag, and started out. As he passed Spike, he paused and took a breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "This is my fault. I should have thought to inoculate all of us against the bug, knowing we'd be in the sewers so much."

Spike swallowed and tried to make his jaw unclench. "He picked this up in the sewers?"

"Probably. The eggs are very common in sewers in the midwest, but they aren't usually a problem unless the host is debilitated." He gave a thin, humorless smile. "We've all been so tired lately, and there have been so many injuries--"

"It's not your fault, Wes," Angel said. Spike said nothing.

Wyndam-Pryce glanced at Angel, then looked back at Spike. In the bathroom, the tap began to run full force.

"I'm sorry," Wyndam-Pryce said again, and left.

They both stood there in silence, listening to the blast of water and the wrenching sounds beneath it. Angel's face was stony.

"Are you going to go in there with him, or should I?" he said at last, hefting the bloody package in his palm.

Spike sneered and couldn't make himself move. Then he could, and did.

Part Four

Turned out the kid didn't want him in there. That was on some level a relief. He could understand it, at least. If it was him in there heaving his guts up through his nose, he'd want a little privacy as well. On the other hand, it left him standing looking at a blank hotel bathroom door, locked out like a stranger while the kid gave every impression of dying on the other side.

"I just want to know you're all right," he said quietly through the wood, his forehead resting on the frame, one hand on the knob. Cheap lock, easy to break. There was a pause, an exhausted sigh.

"If I stop puking for more than five minutes," Harris said, "consider me dead."

Then he started puking again.

Spike patted the knob with the flat of his hand, turned on his heel, and went back to the living room. Angel was on the couch, watching Iron Chef. For a couple of minutes Spike stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally he asked, "What is that, anyway?"

"Taro root," Angel said, without looking around.

"Bad deal." But he went over and took the opposite end of the couch, and they sat watching together in silence.

"How's Xander?" Angel asked, eyes on the screen.

"Throwing up, thanks."

"Today I need you to help Gunn map routes. Put him on the streets, and you take the sewers."

Spike said nothing. A pair of hands chopped peppers incredibly fast, like an illusion. It sounded like the kid was crying now, a little bit.

"And Fred needs someone to take delivery of another shipment from LA. Eight thirty, at the airport."

"Send the Watcher."

"He's translating the codex."

"Send Gunn."

"I'm sending you."

"I'm staying put."

"I'm not asking."

"Does it ever bother you that any of these little ones might get killed, working for you?"

"All the time." Angel turned his head and looked at him straight on. "That's why I need you to do what I tell you. No fuck-ups."

"No fuck-ups." He said it with heavy irony, and left a significant pause so they could both hear the kid. Angel didn't blink.

"He'll be okay in a few days. And I'll make sure Wes inoculates the others."

"Bit late for him, though, isn't it?"

Angel stared at him, dead set expressionless stare, and after a second Spike had to look away. He knew his jaw was twitching, and he couldn't stop it. Hated it. Never had learned that thing the poof did, where the garage door just came down and nothing ever showed.

"I'll send Gunn for the package," Angel said finally, turning back to look at the television. "But you'll take his weapons duty tomorrow night."

Spike examined the fraying knee of his jeans and said nothing. They went back to watching taro root.

After about forty-five minutes, the water in the bathroom shut off and the door opened. They both looked around. The kid took a minute to appear in the doorway, and when he got there he stood with his fingers pressed to the wall, his expression abstracted, as if he were trying to decide whether he was going to turn right back around.

"Xander," Angel said quietly. He smelled, even from here, like raw bile and tears and blood and iodine. There was a white square of bandage taped off-kilter to his side, and the top button of his jeans still wasn't done up. His belly looked starved, his eyes were huge and black and circled. He was shivering.

"Hey." He raised a hand, waved it slightly, and swallowed. "I'm gonna...go."

"I'll take you," Spike said, standing up. It was early morning now; there were people passing in the halls. Business travellers. Insomniacs. They were both shirtless. He turned back to the poof. "Give us a couple of--"

"Bedroom closet," Angel said, flicking channels until he found the news. "Xander, you want something to drink?"

Spike caught the kid's shudder out of the corner of his eye, on his way into the bedroom. Glass all over the floor, so he had to step carefully. Well, the one cold comfort was that they'd managed to trash the poof's suite pretty thoroughly.

He came back with two International Male samples from the closet, and saw right away that the kid was in a decline. He was stooped, shaking, staring intensely at the floor. Angel was standing next to him, not touching him, but close.

"You can stay here today if you want," he was saying. "If you don't think you can make it back--"

"Come on," Spike said, throwing one of the mainsails over Harris's shoulders and shrugging the other on, himself. "Thirty seconds, home sweet home."

The kid took a deep breath and straightened up. "Angel," he said, as Spike started leading him to the door.

"Yeah?"

"I want a raise."

Angel nodded. "Five per cent, plus a finder's fee for the Littleman's."

"Ten."

"Eight."

"Twelve, or I yak on your floor."

"Done." He put a hand on the door and held it open after them. "Feel better."

"Fuck off and die," Spike muttered, getting an arm around the kid's waist and glaring laser death beams at the flotilla of Japanese businessmen waiting wide-eyed for the elevator.

Back home, the kid disappeared into the bathroom again at a staggering sprint, and didn't come out. Spike stood around aimlessly for a minute or two, then sank into the couch and tried the television. Early morning news shows by now. New York City crowds and weight-loss regimens and pollution counts. The water was going full bore, but it didn't mask the sounds of wretchedness on the other side of the wall. They went on and on, until he was ready to shoot Katie Couric between the eyes. He was due back in Angel's suite at eight to map routes.

At a quarter till, he hadn't heard anything too awful for a while; it had actually been pretty quiet. He went over and tapped on the door.

"You alive?"

"No." The kid sounded flat, weary, hoarse.

"Can I come in?"

There was a pause, and then the water snapped off. "I'm coming out."

He stepped back and the door opened, the kid came out, and he was white, exhausted, trembling. Stank of puke. Hair standing up all over, huge circles under his eyes, brown blood spotting the bandage on his side. Some hinge in Spike's throat swung open, and he had to swallow hard.

"It's a look," the kid whispered, wiping a shaky hand across his mouth.

"Where's Angel's shirt?" Spike asked, to buy himself a minute. His own hands were shaking. They wanted to reach out.

"I puked on it."

"Good job."

Then they just stood there, looking at each other. After a few seconds, Spike looked away. "I've got to go. Got maps to make, apparently." He was tired, up all night like that, he couldn't see straight anymore. He wiped the pad of his thumb under his eyes and examined it for irritants. Nothing.

"Okay."

"You'll be all right?"

"I'll be puking."

"Okay." Fuck it. He looked back, settled his shoulders, and reached out. Got a hand on the kid's shoulder, felt the cool smooth skin, shivering under his fingers. "Come here a minute."

He tugged, and there was a second of nothing, just long enough for him to think he'd fucked up, thrown his last tantrum, and he wasn't going to get any more of Harris than he'd already had. Which wasn't enough. He tugged harder, and when Harris stepped forward and folded into him, the relief was like warm air filling his lungs.

"You--" He had his face in the kid's neck, breathing him in, fingers combing the tangles in his hair. Smell of sick, smell of rich red blood, heart still hammering away. Smell of his skin, his hair. He was going to be all right, that was something.

They stood there a couple of minutes, just leaning into each other, the kid's arms wrapped loosely around Spike's waist. The television yapped in the other room. In the hall outside, Japanese drifted.

Finally the kid lifted his head, wiped his eyes, and started to push away. Spike caught him and tried to kiss him, and he turned his face away with a grimace.

"I'm disgusting--"

"No, you're not." He tried again, and the kid suffered a token brush of the lips, then pulled free and stood running his hand over the back of his head, staring at the floor. Still shivering, but not as badly now. Spike studied him a second, then forced himself to turn away.

"I'll be back later. Tonight, probably."

The kid nodded.

"You want anything?"

"A new mucous lining."

"See what I can do." He wanted another kiss before he left, a proper kiss, but the kid was already looking troubled and green and turning back to the bathroom door. Spike paused, realized he was still wearing the poof's borrowed shirt, and took it off. "Here." He tossed it at Harris's chest. "See if you can puke on that one too."

That got him a little smile, and if he couldn't have a kiss that had to be the next best thing. He smiled back and headed for the bedroom to find something to put on.