Larvaverse

by
Witling

Part Seven

The shower was running in the suite when he got back, and he cocked an ear for sounds of trauma. Nothing. Kid must be up and mobile, getting cleaned up. That was a good sign.

He wandered into the bedroom, worked his boots off, dropped the duster, and considered digging a pint out of the minibar. It was on the other side of the room, though, and he was exhausted. He fell face-first into the sheets, propped himself up to flick the kid's damp cloth out from under his cheek, and then lay back down and closed his eyes.

When he opened them next, Harris was walking into the room with a towel around his waist, using another one to dry his hair. He looked thin as a whippet, tired in the face. Spike lifted his head an inch off the mattress.

"Hi."

Harris scrubbed at his hair a second longer, then threw the towel into the chair. "Hi."

"Still puking?"

"Trying to quit, actually."

"Watcher gave the others their shots. They're all sick as dogs."

A ghost of a smile touched the kid's lips. "That's too bad."

"Crying shame, yeah."

With a sigh, the kid picked up the remote and settled onto the bed, his back against the wall. He smelled of soap and clean water, now, and of his own skin. The nasty was almost gone. Always had been good at bouncing back.

Spike pushed himself up the mattress until he could lie with his head propped against the kid's leg and still see the telly. Entertainment garbage; starlets on the carpet with their tits hanging out, grinning bricks with suits on. And this was the world they were trying to save. After a minute, the kid's fingers came down and ran through his hair. Felt good. He closed his eyes and drifted.

When he woke up again the television was off and the kid was slumped sideways, dozing, his hand still moving slightly in Spike's hair. Spike lifted his head and rolled it to lose the kink in his neck. Five thirty, by the bedside clock. Harris was blinking sleepily at him.

"You hungry?" Spike asked. Kid shook his head, sighed, closed his eyes again.

The towel had come loose, showing the square muscle of his hip, his leg all the way up to the joint. Spike considered it for a minute, then reached out and gently pushed the towel off. Bad tattoos aside, kid had a beautiful body. Strong white legs, flat belly, dark crop of hair and sweet dark cock between. Never would have thought he'd take a second look, much less want that body in his bed. In him. But he did. All the time, now. And the hollow of the kid's belly nagged at him, because it was a sickness that could have been worse. Same as the white butterfly bandages on his ribs, same as every little scar on his arm and side and neck. Too many close calls, all the time now, too.

He slid down the bed and rested his head on the kid's thigh, put his nose to the skin there, and breathed in. When he looked up, the kid's eyes were open. He reached down and touched Spike's hair, rubbed a thumb over Spike's eyebrow.

"Hey," he said quietly.

Spike turned his face back down and breathed in again, shifted a little and breathed in the darker, heavier smell between the kid's legs. Good live smell. And the kid was getting hard now, next to his cheek; that was good too. That was what living people did. And him as well, somehow. He got hard for the kid all the time, against all the rules. Go figure.

He took the kid's cock in his mouth, slow and wet and gentle, and for a long time just tasted him. Little pulls, like breathing. The kid's hands in his hair, softly combing. Shifting once or twice to sit more comfortably against the wall. Outside in the hall, people went by. Talking. Unimportant.

He felt the changes in the kid's body, felt him getting harder and longer and then tired, the edge a lot closer now than it usually was. Wasn't going to go anywhere else, this, but it was enough. More than. He fitted his hands under the kid's back, pressed into the big muscles at the base of his spine, and rolled his tongue.

"Spike--" The kid's hand on his shoulder, warning him. He ignored it. "God, Spike--" He came in a sudden, short push, gasping as if he'd been slapped. Spike stayed where was, swallowing, tasting, until the kid's hands pulled him up.

He looked glassy, exhausted, two high pink circles in his cheeks. His arms went around Spike's neck loose and warm. He kissed Spike's jaw and chin, and then his mouth, still breathing hard, sharing breath. Amazed eyes.

"I love you," he whispered, and Spike stopped kissing back. "God. Spike." Lips on his cheek, warm clumsy fingers in his hair. Spike patted him on the shoulder.

Kid was keeling over, half-asleep, didn't know what he was saying. Trying with one warm hand to find him in the sheets, jerk him off in return, and Spike caught his wrist firmly and put it back in his own lap.

"You need to sleep," he said, and pushed the kid down into the sheets. "Later. Get some rest."

Warm sleepy smile, heavy eyelids. Gone in a minute.

Spike sat up awake, staring at the kid's reflection in the dead TV screen. Flat, sated, happy. And alone.

Part Eight

Fortnum and Pill is big and quiet. Gives him the willies, wondering what kind of big cats they've got upstairs. Even the poof's walking lighter than usual.

He was the first one to the poof's suite the next morning, bright and early, had already been wandering the hotel halls for the better part of an hour. Reconnoitering was always a good idea, and so far he'd been too tired and busy to get much of a lay of this land, find out where the service elevators were and where you could take a quick step to the left and be out in the alleys before anyone knew you were missing. That was useful information. Poof always used to make him do that first thing, whenever they took a new house or hotel. Now they had Watcher spells on their side, but still.

He stood outside Angel's door, bouncing slightly on his heels, hands jammed in the pockets of the duster. Kid had been asleep when he'd left. Slipped out of bed like a bad first date, dressed quietly, and walked out without looking back. He had a tight nasty feeling in his belly, ball of twisted emotional hardwiring, and fuck if he was going to lie there staring at the ceiling listening to the snores.

Angel opened the door, shirt still unbuttoned, hair wet from the shower, and stared at him. Spike stared back. After a few seconds, Angel turned away and went back to his shirt. Spike walked in and kicked the door shut.

"So. What's on today, then?" He walked over to the bar and considered pouring himself a drink just to piss Angel off, but the thought of a drink at this hour made his gut clench hard as radiator pipes. He fingered the bottles, glanced in the mirror and grimaced, and went instead to the windows.

Angel was sitting on the back of the couch, fighting with his buttons. "Trial runs. You and Wes are a team, Fred and Gunn and I are a team."

Spike touched the closed venetians and scowled. "Me and the Watcher?"

"Are a team," Angel said firmly. "If you have a problem with that, repress."

"They done upchucking?"

"They may be slow." Angel finished his shirt and ran his hand over his hair. Looked a lot less embarrassing like that, before he put all the crap in it. Someone should take pity and tell him. "If they need to rest, we rest. But we do this today."

"You're the boss." He pried the blind apart a few millimeters and peered out. Big cold city, snow-flat roofs and cold boilings of grey industrial smoke. Never thought he'd miss California, but this was fucking Manchester. In February.

"How's Xander?" Angel was walking over to the kitchenette, opening cupboards. They made their own coffee in the mornings.

"Asleep."

"Feeling better?"

"Better than what?"

Angel said nothing, but after a minute the coffee pot started to growl and burp, and he left it and walked back into the living room. "You want to talk about it?"

"Fuck off."

"Fine." He went straight to the table with the big blueprint, clicked on the overhead light, and started examining marks.

Spike kept staring out the window until his fingertips hurt, and then he had to let the blinds close and find something else to do. He did a circuit of the suite, running his hands over things, pocketing a couple of twenties left lying on the coffee table. The glass in the bedroom had been cleaned up. They'd done something about the blood in the carpet, too. He stood over the spot where it had been, staring down at the clean pale nap.

"You could make yourself useful," Angel said, "by reading these tables to me."

"Nah. Did that yesterday. Know the ending already."

He was hoping Angel would push it, so he could refuse and make a fight out of it, but it didn't happen. He stood there at a loss, staring around the room and thinking with some part of his mind about Harris, same part of his mind that was always thinking about Harris these days, damn it all to hell. Ought to be a rule about this sort of thing. Him and Harris, Fred and Gunn. Getting all wrapped up in each other, preoccupied, bad for the overall mission. The poof was getting irresponsible in his dotage.

"Fred get her package?" he asked, just for something to say. Angel nodded without looking up. "Got everything she needs now to shove a stick of dynamite up that fucker's arse?"

Angel nodded again, running his finger along the blueprint. "All she needs now is the match to light it with."

"And someone to do the shoving," Spike muttered, walking back over to the table despite himself. "So where do we get this match?"

"We don't," Angel said, still not looking up. "We wait for it to come to us."

"That's very Near East of you, yeah--"

"It's at Fortnum and Pill." Angel's finger ran down a line, paused at a symbol, then carried on. Spike stared blankly at the paper.

"Fortnum and Pill," he repeated. "Fortnum and Pill, the ones we stole the book from?" One finger on the tome beside him. "Fortnum and Pill, the ones with the scary suits, know everything about us?"

Angel nodded, frowning in concentration. Spike stood silently, his fingers tightening on the corner of the book. Fortnum and Pill, the ones who took such a liking to Harris last time we visited, he wanted to say. But didn't, because he'd said plenty already and Angel knew exactly what he was thinking anyway.

"Yeah," Angel said, reaching without looking for the pencil, and erasing a tiny tick off the corner of one symbol. "Those ones. They have our match, and sooner or later they're going to pay us a visit to get this book back."

"Rather not be here when they do," Spike breathed, and Angel looked up.

"Don't worry," he said. His eyes were hard, and he was smiling slightly. That old, familiar, catch-me smile. "We'll be ready."

It was reassuring and irritating at once, like a hard hand dropping onto the back of his neck: Angel always stronger, always older, always the one who knew what to do. Part of him kicked back sulkily, but it was a minority. The rest of him was easy. Comforted, thrilled, smiling back almost shyly. Angel was almost laughing now, obviously pleased, obviously planning something. Just like old times. Relief expanded in Spike's chest, sublimated the knot of fear and anger. He dropped his eyes down to the poof's big hand holding the thin orange pencil and said quietly, still smiling, "I don't know where my head's been lately. I mean, Christ." He looked up, caught Angel's look again, and shrugged. "Harris. Of all people, Harris."

Angel's smile seemed to hesitate, and he raised his eyebrows. "You and he are--" he started to say, and then his eyes went to the door and there was a knock. Spike looked around. "Wesley," Angel said, dropping his eyes and checking his watch. "It's eight o'clock. Go let him in."

He did have a problem with being on the Watcher's team, had a problem with teams in general and especially with teammates who jabbed needles full of poison into people's sides. The only real consolation was how bad the Watcher looked, himself. Green-white and skinny, panting helplessly in the nasty sewer air. He'd already thrown up twice, and they were only just getting started.

"Not going to get very far at this rate," Spike said mildly, turning back to see if he was upright yet. Not quite. Still hunched over, gripping an exposed rebar for support. He'd taken his jacket off, and the back of his shirt was marked with a dark line of sweat, right up his knobby spine.

"One minute--" he gasped, and retched again. Spike sighed and turned away, studying the map. Somewhere on the other side of town, Angel was dragging Gunn and Fred through tunnels just like this one, timing them from point to point, checking for unmarked tunnels, blockages, anything that might fuck up the plan. Like they were supposed to be doing. He glanced at the watch Angel had given him. Apparently it was going to take them twenty minutes to navigate five hundred meters of sewer line. Better hope the wards held.

"All right." The Watcher was standing up, pushing off the wall, wiping his mouth shakily. "Let's go."

Spike made an after you gesture and followed behind. One good thing about the sewers was, everything already smelled so foul that he hardly noticed the puke.

"Which way from here?" They were at an intersection, and he had the map. He unfolded it, squinted, and pointed right. The Watcher trudged right.

"So," Spike said, after a minute or two. "Cleveland. You liking it so far?"

The Watcher gave him an incredulous look. "I hardly think I've seen its best side."

"I came through twenty, twenty-five years ago, and it wasn't half bad. Good restaurants. Excellent steak. Rare, practically twitching on the plate. Dru liked the...what do they call it, tartare? When it's raw. And oysters, she could eat a bucket of oysters at a go, slippery little snots--"

The Watcher was wavering, slowing down and reaching out a vague hand to steady himself against the wall. Spike caught it by the wrist.

"Don't want to do that," he said gently. "Never know what you're going to rub up against down here." They both looked at the slick and gleaming wall. The Watcher swallowed.

"Spike," he said, "I know you're upset about what happened to Xander--"

"Nah," Spike said, letting go of his wrist. "'m not upset. Kind of funny, actually."

"--and I've apologized for my oversight--"

"Can't think of everything, can you?"

"I'm glad you understand that. I made a mistake, and we're all paying for it now. I'm sorry."

"No skin off my back."

"No, I suppose not. Except of course for your relationship with Xander."

They stood looking at each other for a few seconds, and Spike found himself ridiculously at a loss for words. Wasn't like they didn't already know, wasn't like there'd been any hiding it. Probably all kinds of stuff in those Watcher books about William the Bloody and Angelus, for that matter. Any way the wind blew, Darla used to say.

"I'm sorry," the Watcher said again, and this time he was clearly apologizing for something else. For having mentioned it in the first place. Which was another whole world of irritating, because he wasn't fucking ashamed of it, and if they thought that they could go hang, he did what he wanted and the hell with everyone else. He was suddenly very tired of being around humans.

"Let's just get this done," he said, and started walking again. The Watcher followed. For a few minutes there was splashing and silence, while the bloody fucking soul or conscience or whatever it was, damn it to hell, ate away at him like a rat in a cardboard box. "Decent job on the ribs," he said finally, jamming his hands into his pockets.

"What?"

"Decent job on the--" He sighed and turned around; the Watcher was straggling, sweat darkening the hair on his forehead. "Look, take a rest if you need it."

"Thank you." They stopped, and the Watcher looked around, then stumped wearily over to an access ladder in the wall and sat on the bottom rung. Spike hesitated, then walked over and sat on a dry pipe next to him. He had his flask in the duster, and after a moment's internal wrestling, he dug it out and handed it over. The Watcher's fingertips were cold and wet, and his hand shook a little when he opened it.

"Fred still needs a match," Spike said glumly, staring away down the tunnel. He could hear the Watcher swallow, cough slightly, and wipe his mouth.

"A match?"

"For the fireworks. Still need a final bit of hardware, sounds like. And guess who's bringing it to us?" He turned his head back, propped his cheek on his fist, and stared at the Watcher's wet white face.

One worthwhile thing Wyndam-Pryce had learned from the poof; not to waste time on stupid questions. His eyes read Spike's expression and widened. Penny, down. "Oh, no."

"Oh yes." Spike looked away, back down the tunnel. "Remind me why I do this job again, will you?"

The Watcher screwed the cap back on the flask and nudged him with it. "Because no one else will have it," he said, and stood up. "Let me just throw up once more, and then we'll carry on."