Larvaverse

by
Witling

Part Five

He mapped sewer tunnels all day, talking back and forth with Gunn via a pair of dinky little ear roaches that probably cost a thousand dollars apiece and that Gunn said "make me feel like I'm working at Old freaking Navy." Gunn was good enough company if your mind was on your work, if you didn't have anywhere else to be but the warm, smelly tunnels under Cleveland City Hall. Wasn't the case. He knew he was being short, snappish, doing a sloppy job, and he didn't give a damn. If he fucked it up enough the poof would have to yank him, and then he could go home and see if the kid was still alive.

"Spike." They'd met up at a juncture to discuss a tricky turning; Gunn was folding his map back up, stowing it in the pocket of his big down jacket. "I heard about Xander. I'm sorry, man. That sounds medieval."

He said nothing, just folded up his own map and let his arms drop loudly to his sides. "Get on again, shall we?"

"I'm sorry he's out," Gunn said, examining his flashlight. "But if you keep slacking like this I'm going to punch you in the teeth myself." He looked up. "Do the job with me or go back and send someone who will."

They stood there for a minute or two, while something dripped quietly a hundred yards off. Then Spike forced himself to nod.

"Let's get on," he said, and held the ladder steady while Gunn climbed up it.

They finished at five thirty, past dark, and traipsed through the hotel lobby leaving sludge footprints behind. Gunn was shivering, blowing on his hands.

"Next time," he said, as they waited for the elevator, "I'm taking the warm route. I don't care what's laying eggs on the walls."

Spike snorted. They got the elevator to themselves.

"You want to take this stuff to his Lordship?" Gunn pulled the map out of his pocket, fished for the earpiece. Spike frowned.

"Fuck, no."

"Yeah, well, neither do I. I've got an hour even to shower, eat, and see if Fred remembers me before I have to go do your job out at the airport." He started to hand the stuff over, and Spike shook his head and held out his fist.

"What--?" Gunn stared at it a second, then gave Spike an exasperated look. "Man, you want to rock-paper-scissors over this?"

Spike kept his fist out.

"Fucking vampires," Gunn breathed. "You people are children." He put his fist out. "Count of three."

"First one's the winner."

"One, two--"

Spike was paper, Gunn was rock. Spike smirked and patted the flat of his hand over Gunn's fist, then held out his crumpled map. "Sorry, mate."

"Yeah, you're sorry. Right." He took the map and snapped his fingers for the earpiece. "He gives me some new job to do, I'm going to come find you and tell you what it is, so you can do it."

"Tell you what, I'll do your weapons shift tomorrow night."

"Yeah, that's a great idea, since you're supposed to do it already. Bake me some brownies or something, man." The bell dinged and the door opened, and they headed their separate ways down the hall.

Outside the suite door he paused for a second, listening. No sound of running water, no coughing. That was good. He slid the card and stepped in. It was warm and dim, the heat on full and the lights down low. The kid nowhere in sight. He closed the door with a quiet click, dropped the duster, and listened. Bedroom.

He could already hear the kid was sleeping, slow deep breaths and slow steady heart. The bedroom door was open, the night table light was on and turned to the wall, so it was just a warm yellow glow. The television was on too, muted, showing more news. The kid was a thin sprawl in the middle of the bed, half-buried under pillows and blankets.

He walked over near enough to see the closed, fluttering eyelids, the hair in black curls like ink strokes on the white pillow case, the fingers curled loosely by the open lips. He stood there a minute, watching the rise and fall.

Then he went back out, back to the bathroom where the tub was still full of blood-red water. The kid's ruined trousers were still in the corner behind the door, Angel's shirts on top of them. He put them all in the trash while the tub drained, then took a hot shower and scrubbed sewer from his pores. Washed his hair twice and stood sleepily, letting the heat sluice over him. If he stood there long enough he'd be a warm body in bed.

When he was clean again, and as warm as he was going to get, he towelled off and headed back into the bedroom. The kid was lying on the remote; he had to work it out gently to turn the television off. Woke the kid up, at least halfway.

"Spike." Sleepy half-open black eyes, black cowlick down his temple. One hand reaching out, warm heavy fingers on his stomach.

"How you feeling?"

The kid worked his mouth, licked his lips. "Thirsty," he murmured. Spike glanced around, saw a glass on the table, and handed it over. The kid sat up, wincing, and drank a few swallows.

"How's the side?" Spike leaned around to look at the dressing, which had come partway loose and was flapping. It was a small cut, no stitches, just a few butterfly bandages. Looked neat enough, and it must have been done fast, too. The Watcher was a decent surgeon. Might someday buy him a beer for that. Maybe.

He taped the dressing loosely back on, patted it, and took the glass out of the kid's fingers. "Go back to sleep."

"What time is it?"

"Time for you to go back to sleep." He lay down to set a good example. "Can't puke if you're sleeping."

"Wrong," the kid said, grimacing. But he lay down again with a sigh, and his other hand came around and rested warm on Spike's hip. "Wake me up when I'm dead, okay?"

"Will do," Spike murmured, and found the kid's waist with his hand, and fell asleep.

He woke up with empty hands, alone in the sheets. The light was still on. The kid was standing at the foot of the bed, hands out as if for balance, staring at the floor. Spike blinked.

"You all right?"

The kid shook his head minutely, swallowed hard, then took a deep breath and waggled a hand.

"You going to puke?"

Pause.

"Yeah."

Neither of them moved.

"I don't know." The kid lowered his hands, swallowed again, and glanced sheepishly over his shoulder. "No." He started to turn back to the bed and froze. "Maybe."

Spike sat up and fished for the remote. "Telly?"

Harris looked uncertain. "No food."

"No food." He flicked through the channels, and found the ocean. "Whales."

Harris gave the television a quick glance, took another breath, and nodded. "Whales." He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, rubbed his hands down his legs, and held onto his knees. "Whales."

They watched whales for about fifteen minutes, and then he got up, locked himself into the bathroom, and started puking again.

"If I'm not better by the time I'm..." He lay considering, his eyes closed and the cloth pressed to his head. "Forty. If I'm not better by then, I want you to kill me."

"Check." Spike flicked away from home shopping, skipped fast over Iron Chef octopus, and settled on the stock market. Ought to be harmless. "Still puking at forty, I tear your throat out."

"Thank you."

"No problem." He dropped a hand and tried to touch the kid's head, just smooth the damp curls off his skin, but the kid swallowed and clenched his jaw. Made him sick to be touched right now. Frustrating. "Go to sleep. I'm turning this off."

He turned the telly off and lay down carefully, trying not to move the bed. The kid opened his eyes, fixed him with a watery stare, and tried to smile.

"Did Angel kick your ass?"

"When? No."

The kid smiled wider, then turned a whiter shade of pale, grimaced, and shut his eyes in a hurry. "Thirty-eight," he muttered, pressing the cloth to his mouth. "Make it thirty-eight."

The next time he woke up it was morning, well past morning, the light outside the blinds was grey-white and strong. Must be-- He lifted his head and found the clock. Ten past nine. He was supposed to be in Angel's suite by eight for assignments. He dropped his head back into the pillow.

The kid was still sleeping, long slow regular breaths, lying on his back with his limbs starfished. His right hand was lying on the mattress by Spike's head, the fingers loosely curled. Dirty fingernails. Spike leaned forward and let his forehead rest against the kid's knuckles. Warm.

He dozed, mildly astonished there was no knock at the door, no phone call. Maybe the lot of them had dropped off the face of the planet. Or died. Risen could have got in, done some quiet throat-slitting, nobody'd be the wiser.

He couldn't get back to sleep again after thinking that, and after a couple of minutes of wrestling with himself--fucking stupid soul--he pushed smoothly off the mattress and found some clothes. Dressed, he went back and stood over the bed, stared down at the purple moons under the kid's eyes, the dressing half-peeled off his side again. He looked small. Which he wasn't, not anymore. Had muscles and bad tattoos and a temper. But he looked small, sleeping with his lips apart, his hair curled over his cheek.

Spike leaned down and kissed the kid's forehead lightly. Wanted to kiss his lips but that would wake him up, and he needed sleep. So, okay.

"See you later," he murmured, and walked out to see what the scut work was today.

Part Six

No bodies in the poof's suite, except Fred's. She was standing at the long table by the windows, making little scratches on a big blueprint, and she just glanced up at him when he came in. Didn't say anything.

He wandered through, peeked into the bedroom even though he could hear there was no one in there. Bed didn't look slept in. Glass still all over the carpet.

"Should have that cleared up," he said, walking back into the living room. "Liable to cut somebody's feet all to ribbons."

Fred adjusted her ruler, consulted a big dusty book at her elbow, and drew a line.

"Just you, then?" He looked around, sighed, and put his hands in his pockets. "Right, I'm going back to bed."

"They're mapping. And I need you to read these tables to me," she said, still not looking at him.

"Sounds fascinating, really, but I'm fagged--"

She straightened up, wincing a little, and stared at him. Glasses were a crying shame on her. And she could put a comb through her hair once in a while, get some of the knots out.

"You look like you could use a few hours yourself," he said, softening his tone a notch. And now that he noticed it, she smelled sick. "You feeling all right?"

"Wesley inoculated us this morning." She swallowed and pressed her lips together. "Against that larva."

"Ah."

"Take this." She leaned over, turned the tome, and pushed it across the table toward him. "I'm on row thirteen, column three."

He eyed it, saw a lot of tiny little squiggles and maths, and thought of the kid, warm and asleep in the next suite over. "Look, why don't you go have a lie-down, and we'll pick this up--"

She bent back over the map and started erasing something she'd just written, attacking the paper with short, frustrated strokes. He pursed his lips, stepped forward, and stared down at the book. Christ. Latin, half of it. "What is this?"

"Wards." She blew the eraser crumbs off, brushed the paper clean, and then just stood there, staring down at the smears she'd left. "Oh, no--"

He peered at it and shrugged. "'s okay. You can still read it."

"I'm not--" She flicked a look at him, and he realized with shock that she wasn't just angry and tired and sick, she was close to tears. "It's just, usually Wesley does this part--"

"You're doing fine," he said quickly, resisting the urge to step back, make an excuse, get the hell out. "Look at all those..." He squinted at the map. "Things. Really. Good job."

"If I get this wrong, it can come right down the tunnels after us," she whispered. They stood in silence, staring at each other.

"Let's get to work, then," he said at last, hefting the book up in his arms so he could read it properly.

He read and she scribbled. At one point he looked up from the book to see her staring at him, frowning as if she were trying to figure something out.

"What?"

"Nothing." She shook her head and looked back down at the map. That put a bug in him; they'd been getting along all right for a while now, and suddenly she was giving him the fish eye when she thought he wouldn't notice. Not like any of it was any of their business, and not like he ever poked his nose into their affairs. Didn't sit around wondering what went on behind closed doors in the suite she and Gunn shared.

"Bloody Americans," he muttered, glaring down at the colums and rows. "It's not illegal."

She paused, then glanced up at him with one finger still on the map, marking her place. "I was just wondering if you ever wore glasses," she said softly. "Because--" She nodded at his hands, and he looked down. The book was inches from his face.

He lowered it with a jerk. "Vampire, love. Perfect vision."

"Right. Sorry." She dropped her gaze back down to the map and scratched her nose quickly. "Okay, next row."

"Glasses," he said scornfully, and squinted at the tiny little figures.

At noon she ate a piece of toast and turned the other way while he drank a pint of the poof's special reserve. She still smelled queasy, and the toast only sat for a few minutes before she excused herself and disappeared into the bathroom. He thought about doing a runner, seeing if Harris was awake yet, but before he could make up his mind she was back, paler than ever.

"You all right?" He hung back, a step away from the rank aura. Christ, the whole lot of them at once, too. No fuck-ups--what a joke.

She nodded, wiped the back of her hand across her lips, and started for the table. "Row forty, right?"

"Watcher did himself, I hope."

She gave him a weary look. "He went first, to make sure the dose was right."

"Hope it was high."

She picked up her ruler and pencil, sighed. "It was."

He grinned and went back to the little figures.

At three o'clock they were out of tunnels; Fred scratched a last symbol over the mouth of the line they'd exit from, and stepped back from the table. He closed the book gently and peered down at the blueprint. It was thick with pencil marks, sums in odd corners and little numbers and signs over every juncture connected to every juncture connected to everywhere they'd have to be. He couldn't make half of it out.

"You think it'll hold?"

She took a deep breath and slid the pencil behind her ear. "If it doesn't, we'll find out pretty fast."

She was white as paper now, her eyes dull with fatigue. "You should get some rest," he said. "You look knackered. No offense."

"So do you." She smiled, and he smiled back. "I should check this over--"

"Later."

She wavered, then took her glasses off and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Okay. You're right." She walked over to the couch and sank into it while he collected the duster. "How's Xander feeling?"

"Empty, I'd wager."

She gave him a rueful smile over the arm of the couch. "Gunn threw up on Angel's shoes."

"Knew I liked him."

"And Wes threw up on a book."

"Which one?"

"I'm not sure. He was very upset."

He folded the duster over his arm and started for the door. "Right, well. You need me, I'll be next door."

"Okay. And--thank you." He paused and turned back; she was dragging the throw down off the back of the couch, tucking her knees up to her chest. Looked about twelve years old.

"You're welcome." He was not going to tell her to sleep tight. Vampire. Didn't say that kind of thing. "Here, look." He veered into the poof's bedroom, yanked the blanket off the bed, and walked quickly back into the living room. Dropped it over her before she had a chance to do more than look surprised.

"Thank y--" she started.

"Right, bye," he snapped, and got out fast, without a backward look.