Larvaverse

by
Witling

Part Nine

"Fortnum and Pill." Harris was lying on his back in the middle of the sheets, legs splayed wide in grungy sweat pants, one hand loose around the neck of a bottle of fizzy water. "I don't like those guys."

Spike ran the stone along the blade again and said nothing. The television was on Sopranos, and neither of them was paying attention. Sound wasn't even on.

The kid swigged some fizzy water and paused to let it settle. "Fortnum and Pill," he said, "probably don't like us much, either."

Spike nodded thoughtfully. The edge was sharp enough now to slit his skin without pressure. He set it aside and picked up the little axe, the one Fred sometimes used.

"Fortnum and Pill," the kid said, "are scary corporate motherfuckers, and if they're coming to pay us a visit, we should really consider being elsewhere when they arrive."

"Thought you liked a fight," Spike said, thumbing a ding.

"I like my current number of orifices too."

"Poof says we'll be ready." Much as he hated to cite the poof, he hated the smell of fear more. "I wouldn't worry about it. Bark's worse than their bite, most likely."

Harris stared at his feet some more, then rolled his head to the side and stared out the dark window at the reflected room and the black, snowbound city. Spike started in with the stone again. Stupid to talk about it until they knew more, and Harris didn't need coddling. Or if he did, he wasn't going to get it. No soppy interpersonals. Policy.

He couldn't think of anything else to say, though, so he just kept scraping the stone along the metal, and the room got quieter and quieter. Made his skin itch. He glanced up and saw the kid was looking at him.

"Are you all right?"

"'m fine." He sounded defensive even to himself. "You're the one smells like the loo backed up." That was way too sharp, and wasn't even true, and he had no idea why he'd said it. It hung in the air, then sunk in, and the kid gave him a puzzled frown. He went back to the blade. "He could bloody hire someone to do this, he's got the money."

"I thought it was Gunn's turn to--"

"Was." He tested the ding again, scowled, and went back over it with the stone. "Doing him a favor."

"And why--"

"Because I bloody feel like it." Now he'd fucking sliced his thumb properly, and it was making a mess. He dropped the axe on the table with a bang and got up. In the bathroom, he yanked Band-Aids out of the box in a loopy accordian strip, got bloody fingerprints in the sink, on the counter, on his shirt. Band-Aids were fucking annoying little things.

Harris came and stood in the doorway, still hunched forward like he had a secret under his shirt, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"Be another show at ten," Spike muttered, trying to shake the staticky plastic film off his fingers.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me." He bandaged his thumb carefully, tightly, his lips pressed hard together so he wouldn't start cursing out loud. When he was done, he held the thumb up. "Good as new."

Harris just stared at him. He looked tired and pale. Not appetizing; if you saw that walking the streets, you'd pass it up and go find some plump-kneed red-cheeked mouthful instead. You sure as hell wouldn't hunt it down and chat it up and work your way into its life until you gave a damn what happened to it. Not unless you were a complete moron.

"I'm fine," he said again, working hard to make his voice less obviously not fine. There was blood on the Band-Aid box. Funny, it showed up in the mirror.

"You're fine," Harris repeated dully. He stood staring at Spike a minute longer, as if giving him a chance to contradict and retract. Spike tested his Band-Aid and said nothing. Harris's expression dropped a fraction. His eyes cooled. "Okay." He pushed off the doorframe and walked back to the bedroom. Spike heard him fall into the bed and click the light off.

He sat there for a good while longer, staring at his Band-Aid, feeling the little cut seal itself neatly under the plastic.

He was the only one at the poof's at eight the next morning. Ten past, even, due to a night on the couch not so much sleeping as channel-surfing and staring at the walls. Told himself he was out there so he could finish up the weapons without keeping the kid awake. Which was stupid, since he could hear the kid staring at the ceiling in the bedroom half the night anyway. Like a bloody married couple.

"Martin Luther King day, is it?" He bounced on his heels and looked around the empty suite. The poof's coat was laid out waiting on the arm of the couch, a few stakes on top.

"I gave them the day off because they're sick." The poof himself was studying maps, a cup of coffee in his hand. His hair already immobilized. "And you're late."

"Dock me."

"We're doing tunnels again today." He finished his coffee, pulled a map out of the pile, and folded it carefully down to pocket-size. "Here's where you bitch."

"What, about you being a great swaggering jackass thinks he runs the world?"

"Sure."

Spike shrugged. "Didn't say 'please.'"

Angel studied him for a few seconds, then walked past him and slid into his coat. "Stakes," he said, tossing a couple at Spike.

"Jackass," Spike muttered, stuffing them into a pocket.

They moved a lot faster without a lot of puking humans along for the ride, and inside an hour they were up to the edge of what they'd agreed to consider safe territory. Which probably meant they had another half mile before they had to worry, but still. It felt a bit strange looking down those tunnels, into the narrowing blackness that sooner or later had Risen in it.

"This Risen fucker," Spike said, fingering a cigarette he couldn't light. "Any chance he'll bugger off on his own?"

"Sure," Angel said. "Right around the time you start doing what I tell you."

"Right."

They stood there a second or two longer, and then Angel started down the tunnel. Spike hesitated. "Thought we were just mapping today."

"We are." Angel turned and walked backward a few steps. "We'll go as far as we can, to make sure it's all clear." He was smiling, old black lit-up smile. Spike started forward, flicking the dry cigarette into the gloom.

"How far is that, exactly?"

Angel turned back around so Spike couldn't see his face. "What's the most important thing I taught you, Spike?"

"Don't turn your back on your sire."

"Anticipate." He had a stake in one hand now, loose at his side. Strolling like it was a casual affair. "Plan ahead. Get the lay of the land."

"Must've missed that day," Spike muttered, but he had a stake in his hand now too, and he was catching up. Funny, the way he felt. Tight in the belly, hard arms and legs. And he was smiling. He glanced sideways, saw Angel's grin, and felt a quiver of excitement. "How far are we going, exactly?"

Angel didn't answer, but after a few more steps he started to whistle, quietly and cheerily. They kept walking. The tunnel forked and they turned left. Everything stank of sweet rot, everything gleamed wet and sickly in the weak orange safety lights. Hard to keep track of all the side tunnels they passed, all the openings that could hold something fast and nasty. The Risen's vamps were mad, scuttling bastards. Must be hundreds, maybe thousands of them in that hive it slept in.

"Is this really a good--"

Angel stopped walking and stood looking mildly ahead, as if expecting Wesley to walk around the corner. A second later, Spike heard the patter and splash. More than one. More than two. He couldn't tell, exactly. He looked sideways. Angel was grinning at him, one eyebrow raised. His call, apparently.

Unbelievably stupid, to go looking for trouble now, when they were a wick away from finishing the Risen off. Unbelievably stupid to risk warning it. So of course he nodded.

There were four vamps, two apiece. They boxed them; Angel slipped into a feeder tunnel and stepped out behind them, just as Spike stepped out in front. Mad, scuttling bastards. The one in front launched at his face the second it understood what was going on, and he was actually taken aback. Cultists were always freakishly strong. It got him up against the wall and he kicked its knees out, then staked it in the face, throat, shoulder, heart, a neat peppering of holes that made him feel completely, ecstatically insane. The second went too quickly; a yell and a poke in the chest, and it was gone. He stood watching the dust settle on the surface of the sludge, feeling strangely cheated.

Angel had already finished both of his, one two thank you, and was tucking the stake back into an inside pocket.

"We're done," he said curtly, brushing past Spike. "We're leaving."

Spike stood running his thumb over the end of the stake, studying the empty tunnel. After a second he pulled the useless Band-Aid off and dropped it into the sludge.

"Come on," Angel said over his shoulder. "We're getting out of here."

"We could--" He raised his eyes and gazed down the tunnel into the darkness. Behind him, Angel stopped walking.

"Spike."

He stood there a moment or two longer, feeling the long-lost sizzle in his arms and neck, the weird new thrill of a stake in his hands. He turned to look back at Angel. The familiar black grin was gone again. "You don't want to--?"

"We're leaving," Angel repeated.

Spike gave the tunnel one last glance, then scratched his neck and shrugged. They started walking fast for home.

Part Ten

He came in whistling, not thinking, studying the broken tip of one stake and tossing the other in the general direction of the hall table. Harris was in the living room, watching news under a blanket. He didn't say anything as Spike swung his legs over the back of the couch and slid down into the far end.

"World coming to an end?" He couldn't read whatever was scrolling along the bottom of the screen--you couldn't read it with your nose to the tube--but the picture was mostly white and the anchor sounded dazed. "What is that--snow?"

"Two feet since noon." Harris kept looking at the screen, as if snow were fascinating.

"Snow," Spike said, and hauled his feet up onto the coffee table. "We snowed in?"

"Looks like."

Spike watched the screen for a few seconds, then studied the stake in his hand, spun it over his thumb and smiled sideways at the kid. "Snowed in," he repeated. "Left to our own devices." The kid didn't move or look at him, and after a second he dropped the smile. "You all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Your side's all right?"

"Fine."

He studied Harris's profile, then reached over. "Let me see--"

"It's fine." Harris jerked back irritably, and Spike let his hand fall. "I'm fine. They'll dig us out." He tossed the remote into Spike's lap and stood up, dragging the blanket with him. "I'm going to sleep."

Spike sat silently at his end of the couch, holding the remote in one hand and the stake in the other, while the kid disappeared into the bedroom. The television screen was white, white, white.

Angel called--yeah, turned on the set already, saw it, thanks.

"Wes's on it."

"On what? It's snowing."

"Two and a half feet."

"Harris said two."

"It bugs me."

"Right, if the Watcher decides it's magic snow, ring back."

"How's Xander?"

"On the rag, apparently."

Pause.

"There are some things about this arrangement that I don't need to know."

"Then don't bloody ask."

The thing with cells was, you couldn't bang them down in a satisfying way.

He watched television for a while. It kept snowing. He could hear the kid wasn't asleep; could hear him lying there, just...doing what? Listening to the weather and staring at the ceiling. Thinking about California. In California, a Hellmouth was all earthquakes, faultlines, the chance of sliding right off the continent like a fried egg off a plate. Apparently in Ohio it meant snow.

"They get hurricanes in Ohio?" he called, without taking his eyes off the screen. Just to see if the kid would answer, really. It took a minute or two.

"Yeah. Or tornadoes, I forget." He paused. "Hurricanes."

"Hurricanes," Spike muttered. "Something to look forward to." He clicked the television off, dropped the remote on the table, and started for the bedroom. Snow pattered at the windows.

The bedroom door was open, and the light was off. The kid was lying under the sheets, flat on his back, eyes closed. He must have just closed them. Spike stood in the doorway, working at the heel of one boot with the toe of the other. Harris didn't open his eyes.

"Poof thinks it's magic snow," Spike said. He got one boot off and bent down to yank at the other. "Got the Watcher researching it."

"Great."

"You tired?"

"Very."

"Too bad." That opened the kid's eyes. He looked pissed off, a little affronted. Too bad, again. "Shove over."

"Spike, I'm not--"

He walked barefoot over to the bed and dropped down onto the mattress beside the kid, who pulled back as if they were on video. "Right, you're sleeping. Got it." He lay down on his own side of the bed, head on pillow, eyes on Harris. "Go on and sleep then."

Harris gave him a strange uncertain look, as if he didn't quite understand the language that Spike was speaking. Or like he understood it too well, and couldn't believe what Spike had just said. Spike had been about to put a hand out, touch the kid's warm shoulder, and smile. Suddenly that seemed like a very stupid idea. He closed his eyes and tucked his hands between his knees, tight and safe. "'m tired too."

In the darkness behind his eyelids, he heard the kid consider this, then finally swallow and blink and go back to staring at the ceiling.

Some time later, he woke up and it was dark in the room. He was curled around behind the kid's back, an arm around his waist, spooning. His face pushed into the back of the kid's neck, breathing in his skin and hair. When he slept like that, he always breathed. Even when he was asleep.

He dropped his hand automatically, unthinkingly, under the kid's shorts, past the rough brush of hair and down to the smooth skin of his cock. Half-hard, asleep like that. Funny how it filled to fit his palm. Funny how he liked the feeling. Not just the sex, the promise of sex, but something else he couldn't place. Familiarity, maybe. Some small kind of loyalty.

The kid stirred a little, opened his lips but not his eyes. Spike let his hand roll up, thumb stroking the tip, poor naked tip. So warm. He kissed the back of the kid's neck and mouthed it gently. The little wet hairs there, the hot blood and breath just inside the film of skin. He was hard now, too. He eased forward, so he could feel heat and pulse, so he could feel the kid push back against him just a fraction. Automatic, both of them. His hand was in its own rhythm now. The kid was awake, eyes open, staring into the darkness.

He should say something now, should say it, say it back and make it all right between them. It wouldn't be a lie. He wasn't an idiot, he knew what was wrong.

"Want to be in you," he said softly, his cock thumbing blindly toward warmth.

The kid's heart quickened, and he swallowed and said nothing. For a while longer they lay there, both of them breathing, one of the kid's hands on Spike's hip now, demanding. Spike mouthed the back of his neck and he went stiff all over, mouth wide, a trickle of sound echoing from inside him. His cock was rigid and wet.

"Yeah?" Spike said at last, his own eyes closed.

"Yeah," Harris said quickly. As if he'd just been waiting for one more word. He scrabbled in the bedside drawer without turning on the light, threw the bottle back over his shoulder.

He should say it now, one hand on the kid's shoulder and the other drizzling lube over his own cock. It could be magic snow, the poof could be right. Kid could brush up against something worse next time, or be too slow with a stake, or get in the way of the crossbow--

He stopped thinking like that. Stopped thinking. Pushed the kid over onto his belly and slicked his ass with lube while he corkscrewed into the sheets, the muscles in his back standing out, the back of his neck wet with spit and desperate sweat. It was almost too much like this. Made him think of that little Chinese girl. Made him hard and tender, afraid of what he could do next.

Harris knew what he could do. No soppy interpersonals, that was the policy. Just the two of them, here and now, and he braced one hand beside the kid's face and felt his way in with the other. Heat and heat and tight and the kid groaned, face buried, and he had to stop like that, trembling, for a dark timeless minute so he could maintain some vestige. Of something.

Then Harris arched back, took more of him, and gave a long low Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck that meant it was good. Good as killing, good as the best things. His heart felt light and bruised. He pushed in deeper and stroked the kid's trembling back. Inside, the kid relaxed a little. They stayed like that a bit, then started to move.

Playing the kid's body like this, playing his own, he could lose a lot of things. Lose that little Chinese girl, lose Dru's shadow, lose a long time spent breaking things he never should have touched. He could just rise up through the kid's pure whippet body, climb it like a ladder out of himself. Push just like that, to make him groan and then lose his voice completely. Tug his head back, bend his spine, make his shoulder blades into wings. Listen to him sob. He could do that. Look down on all of it from above, two guys having sex in a nice hotel bed, neither one particularly dirty.

When he came, though, it yanked him back down. Straight back down through his own spine like a jack back in the box, into the dark room where he felt murderously good. Where his cock was singing, his balls tight, and he was fucking a human. Shoving and taking and it felt good, he didn't give a fuck about anything else, and there was hot sweating flesh under his hands, and blood just under that. And the sobs were different now, just as good but different, and he felt the kid come, smelled it in the air, and dropped his belly onto the kid's curled back, mouth to neck. His hips snapping, closing his eyes and seeing not black but red. One hand in the kid's hair, his head yanked back, neck wide open.

Fireworks. Collapse. The pair of them a wet heap.

After a couple of minutes, he remembered the kid's side and lifted his head. "You all right?"

"Fine." There was no edge to it now; it was just dopey, half-asleep. No blood in the air.

He hadn't bitten the kid. He'd never bitten the kid. He never would.

He did the mantra till the kid fell asleep, then fell asleep himself.

The End