Death's Twilight Kingdom

Wesley stood and watched as the ship's hoist slowly hauled the coffin aboard. God knew how much he was going to have to pay the captain to keep his mouth shut about this - but then money was really and truly starting to become irrelevant, he had spent so much of it on this futile-seeming quest. The thought that it was finally coming to an end left an odd emptiness in him that he didn't care to examine too closely, and he pushed it aside as he had done the terrible feeling of weight under the ocean. He lit a blowtorch and burnt through the welds securing the sidebars, before turning to Spike, who hadn't spoken a word since Wesley had announced their success, his face as blankly emotionless as Wesley was trying to be - concealing what? Hope? Fear? Surely, he must be at least thinking something, even if whatever effect this was bound to have had not yet taken hold.

"Spike." He knew his voice was harsh, but he didn't have time to care anymore, seeing the end of his self-appointed task coming towards him, feeling it driving him on in the old rhythm of obsession. "Come on."

They slid the bars out and lifted the lid off the coffin, cutting the steel cords that were holding Angel immobile. Wesley felt his mouth twist up in a kind of sickened humour. If nothing else, Connor had learnt thoroughness in his years on Quortoth.

He stepped back, about to suggest they got Angel into the cabin, when Angel's hand shot up and grabbed Wesley by the throat, his eyes snapping open. Wesley met the drowned, unfocused gaze unflinchingly, his hand pulling Angel's away even as he felt the muscles beside his eyes begin to flicker with tension.

Angel, shockingly, let him.

Wesley rubbed at his throat, and rasped out -

"He needs blood. Help me get him to the cabin."

Angel glared at Wes, or maybe past him, as they got him to his feet. "I should have killed you."

And Spike stayed silent as Wesley, suddenly, shocking even himself, burst into laughter.

*

Spike had started forward at Angel's actions, a growl escaping his lips. He wasn't sure if he was more surprised at his own actions, or the fact that Angel released Wes so easily.

He helped Wes move Angel towards the cabin, but his Sire's next words set him on edge, "I should have killed you."

Yes, all gratitude, that was Angel.

Another rumbling growl threatened to burst forth when he heard something even more surprising. Wes was laughing. Actually laughing. Whether he simply thought Angel too weak to carry out the threat, or if it was from some strange sense of irony that Spike did not yet understand, its cause was a mystery.

"You alright, mate?" He eyed Wes, as he dropped Angel on one of the low bunks.

"What?" Wes looked somewhat surprised at the question. "Oh, yes. Quite."

"He'll need blood." Spike looked around, absently, as if expecting to see a supply lying about, then shook his head and looked up at Wes. "Got a knife, Pet?"

Childe's blood to the Sire, would not be as revivifying as Sire to the Childe...but it would help.

*

There was a very small part of Wesley that was capable of standing back in detachment from his emotions at any given time. He liked to think that it was the part that might have made him into a competent Watcher, one day, but was rather more bleakly convinced that insted it was the part that had forced him to believe that the prophecy about Connor was true, the part that encouraged self-sacrifice to an almost idiotic degree.

The greater good, he thought wryly. Because that's always been my forte. That and failure.

He pulled the knife from his belt, and turned it over, offering it handle-first. It was meant for cutting his diving rope, should he get caught, but it would work just as well for what Spike had in mind.

And that was going to be -

Bloody disastrous.

"You can't," he said abruptly, and seeing the brief anger on Spike's face, amended his curt statement to an explanation. "Think. I know it would be best...under normal circumstances. I do know that. I think you're right. But - not now. He doesn't know. He doesn't know you have a soul. And this - isn't the best way for him to find out. Not now, and not like this, please? For all our sakes."

Without waiting for agreement, heeding the practical, tired voice at the back of his skull that thrummed out a message of time and movement, he sliced into the inner side of his own left forearm, and held the cut down over Angel's lips.

Angel's hands came up to hold his arm in place as he drank, but his features remained human.

And somehow that was more terrifying than if Angel had morphed, and more alien by far, watching the blue-white, dead features, with the frayed holes in the skin where sea creatures had chewed at cold flesh, heal and take on colour as he felt the pull and drain of blood loss.

He was going to have to trust himself to know the point before it became too much.

He wondered, wearily, if he would even care when he reached it.

*

Spike stepped closer as Wes allowed Angel the healing comfort of his own blood.

"Idiot." He hissed under his breath. Wes had no idea what Angel might be capable of in his deteriorated condition. Or maybe he did. Maybe Wes knew exactly what Angel was capable of and didn't care. Because of his regrets, he was willing to take a chance with his life.

Well, Spike wasn't having it. The great wanker had better back off before there was any danger or Spike would be right in his face...Sire or no Sire.

He stepped closer, listening to Wes's heartbeat and watching carefully.

"Enough." Spike's voice was rough and low. "Enough, Wes...Step away. Angel let go..."

There was no reaction from either man.

"Bloody Hell..." He surged forward, ready to lamp the Poof if he didn't let go. "Now, Angel, ya great Wanker...let go!"

*

Wesley looked across at Spike, more involved with monitoring his own reactions than anything that might happen nearby. He knew that he was going to have to react somehow, if only to stop the threat of imminent violence that seemed to be hanging in the air, but it seemed of little importance compared to the fine-tuning of judgement he was trying to focus on.

"Not just yet," he said, hearing his voice come out smooth and even, detached from the speed at which his mind was working. "Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

Aware of Spike counting almost audibly beside him - what? Seconds? Heartbeats? Backwards from ten to stop himself hitting Wesley in frustration? - he moved his arm backwards with as little force as he could, meeting Angel's more-focused gaze with an almost unreal feeling of separation from what he had done, and stepping away towards his bag.

He took out his spare shirt, and wrapped it around his arm, tying it off as tightly as he dared.

"I'll go and talk to the captain," he said, his lips as numb as though they had been aneasthetised. "We'll need to use his car."

He considered it something of which he could always be proud that even when the boat tilted to the left, he didn't miss his footing once as he went up the gangway.

*

Spike frowned after Wes' retreating figure. The man could be as cold as ice. Anyone would have believed that almost being drained into unconsciousness was a inconsequential happening for him. Anyone but Spike.

Spike could hear the beat of Wes' heart - the race and thrum of it. The man was definitely unsettled... frightened even. And that was good. Self-preservation was always an improvement over apathy.

Meanwhile, there was his Sire to get sorted.

Spike looked at Angel, "We'll get more blood into you soon as we can."

Angel looked up at him, "What are you doing here?"

"Lookin' for you," was the simple reply.

"You've found me. You can leave now." Angel gave a scowl that was as rough as his voice.

"Not leavin'. Promised Wes I'd help." Spike's answer wasn't quite defensive...but the next thing to it.

"Right, Spike, and your promises are worth so much." Icicles had more warmth.

Spike's jaw was tight, his teeth grinding together as he bit back matching rough words.

And this was the man he had thought would help him? The man he had dragged his tormented mind and body across several continents to find? His Sire...his guide...his mentor in the matter of having a soul. Well, looked like he was going to be all on his own. Wasn't the first time that Angel had tossed him aside...he should bloody well be used to it.

"Don't matter what you want. Matters what Wes wants." And he left it at that - making his stand clear.

*

The drive to the Hyperion was conducted in almost complete silence. Silence, that was, other than Angel's attempts at what he evidently considered to be appropriate conversation.

As always, it could have won prizes for least-imaginable things that anyone needed, or wanted, to hear.

"So, Connor, huh?"

"Yes." Wes focused on driving, wondering if Angel really was brain damaged, or was just having a cosmic joke at everyone else's expense.

Silence.

"Um, yeah, so...I missed a lot, under the sea?"

"I wouldn't know." Cross over into the left lane. Remember which side of the road to drive on. "I haven't exactly been paying attention."

In the back seat, Spike snorted, before producing a cigarette out of apparently nowhere and lighting up.

The car filled with smoke.

Wesley rolled down his window, and forbore to comment.

"So, Spike." Angel sounded grim as the seventh circle of hell, this time. "Where d'you get the soul? And hey, doesn't that - Wes, the Shanshu prophecy, what happens to that now?"

Wesley nearly crashed the car. When he could speak without sounding like a man at the end of a marathon, he said in his most repressive voice,

"I seem to have given up prophecies for Lent. Again, I simply wouldn't know. Now how about letting me concentrate on driving."

Perhaps he could simply have chosen a more pragmatic course, and left the bloody Champion Of The World at the bottom of the Pacific. The only thing that kept him from just abandoning the car and walking off was the unexpectedly soothing touch of Spike's hand on his shoulder, as quickly withdrawn as it was there, and a reminder that this was not about him or what he wanted any more, if it ever had been.

Thankfully, Angel seemed to take the not-so-much-hint-as-downright-order, and was quiet for the rest of the journey.

The Hyperion, of course, looked the same as always - a somewhat derelict hotel that was about as inviting as a tomb. Wesley, wondering if this was what the often-used phrase 'running on empty' felt like, got out of the car, hauled Angel out of the car, wondered why this felt so horribly familiar, and dragged the vampire into the lobby, where he simply dumped him on the sofa, ignoring Gunn and Fred's exclamations, and turning to Spike.

"Right, " he said, using as little energy as he could, thinking of the drive home. "You should be fine, now. Thank you. For everything."

He backed away towards the doors.

"What do we do? Wesley..." Fred, of course, anxious and harried, coming after him. "Where are you going?"

He stopped, and turned back, facing her and waiting for the next blow. They seemed never-ending. "I'm done here." It was all he could think of to say. And it was horribly true.

"What took you so long to tell us about Connor?" Gunn, posturing, looming, always pushing for a reaction.

"You knew what he could do to us." And oh, God, the hurt in Fred's voice. She deserved an answer. They all did. Deserved better than a ragged ex-Watcher fighting for the strength to stay on his feet, deserved better than the appalling bloody things life kept throwing at them.

But they had better, now. They had Angel back, and Spike to help them with whatever fight came next. And he simply wasn't needed. "You're human," he said wearily, trying his best to explain what his thoughts had been, such as they were. "He wouldn't have hurt you. I thought you were safer not knowing."

"We were safer?" Fred's voice rose in utter disbelief. "You really don't care anymore, do you?"

There was no answer. He turned, and kept moving towards the door, unable to resist one final, Parthian shot as he pushed the door open.

"He'll need more blood. I'm fresh out." He didn't dare look at Spike.

And he let the door slam behind him.

*

Spike hovered near the lobby desk... his eyes shifting. He needed a smoke and began to pat down his pockets.

This wasn't right...wasn't right at all. He looked at the door again, then back to Angel. No...not right. Very wrong...very wrong...

He continued to pat his pockets finally finding his cigarettes and putting one in his mouth...more patting as he looked for the lighter.

"You can't light that in here," this from the Cheerleader, of course.

Spike ignored her, continuing to pat his pockets, "Gonna get the poof some more blood? Needs it, ya know��"

Cordelia frowned, but went off to the kitchen to warm some blood.

Wes had left and that was that. Left him with his Sire. His Sire who only wanted him gone...the Cheerleader, the Muscle and the Mouse. Wes had said he could use Spike's help. Guess that really had meant only until Angel was found. Then the ex-Watcher had left, dumping him figuratively the same way he had dumped Angel literally. Not a big surprise. Probably glad to get rid of him.

And there was his lighter at last. He lit the cigarette, taking a long slow drag.

The cigarette was suddenly snatched out of his hand.

"You were told not to light that damn thing, Blondie." The Muscle...getting up in his face with a scowl.

Spike returned the scowl then pulled out another cigarette, getting it almost to his mouth before it was slapped away.

"Hey!"

"What part of 'No Smoking' do you not understand?" Gunn shoved him back.

"Just get out of my face," Spike shoved back...and was instantly regretful as the searing pain of his chip sent him down to the ground with a howl.

"Didn't want to hurt him... didn't want to hurt him.... Can't hurt people... The wrong is there... it's there and it won't burn out... Oh, god....." It all babbled out of him...over and over. "Don't want to hurt anyone...Can't do it... Can't do it ever again... Just want to help..."

A snort of laughter from Gunn, "Oh, yeah...you'd be a big help."

Spike curled up in a ball, protecting all his vulnerable areas from the attack he was sure would be next. An attack he deserved. Deserved because he was useless for anything else.

*

Since she came back to her own world, a world that had not so much changed as shifted, moved, opened up into new theories and facts and possibilities, endless fractals and variations that reset given equations, Fred had catalogued things.

She catalogued the people (vampires, demons, Seers, Lorne, who seemed to be in a category all of his own), sub-divided them into where they fit and who they belonged to and how they belonged, and then slotted herself into those lists, how she felt, who she felt it for, how she thought and when she thought it. Lists headed 'Appropriate' and 'Right' and 'Don't Say Aloud'.

The list that Charles had once been a sub-division of, the one which began 'Angel' and 'Safety', and was now a little branch of its own merits, mixed up with 'Love' and 'Desire' and right now, 'Anger', because how dare he, how dare he, why did she have to be the one who worried about whether Connor ate and came home safe and wore clean clothes, whether Cordelia ever slept or got headaches again, or had strange marks on her that meant the demon-y bit was gone and she wasn't safe from hurt any more, that Fred was going to find her in one of the hotel bathrooms again, trying to put antibiotic cream on out-of-nowhere claw-marks and not-crying -

whether Wesley was alright, was the wound healing, was he ever going to come back for his things, when she told him not to come back, had he really thought she meant it

- where was Angel, why couldn't they find him, who was going to fight now if not her and Charles, and why did Charles have to be so young all the time, because when the monsters came out from under the bed, that really wasn't good any more, and she loved him like pancakes, more than, but Angel was back now, and Wesley had gone again, and whoever-it-was that she had sent to Wesley was hurting, and Charles seemed think it was funny, and -

she tasered Connor and tied him up, and that was right

- and Wesley had found Angel, drowned in a coffin under the sea, and where did that fit into the equation?

- because right now she didn't think 'I love you' when she looked at Charles, she thought of collars and things that felt like lightning, and not being human any more.

Before she'd even thought about what she was doing, or added the blond man to her lists. she was pushing past Charles and kneeling down on the floor, wondering when they had all become the ones who made the helpless, and didn't help at all.

"H - hey? Um, you didn't hurt him. Honest." She glared up at Charles, thinking of cattle-prods and fear and Wesley had backed away from them, not trusting them to have his back any more, no, keeping it to the door. "And he's goin', anyway. To check on Connor, right, Charles?"

Gunn blinked down at her, then nodded once, and went back into the office. Cordelia, oblivious, was helping Angel, and that was one less worry, because the answer to their equation was need, and that was okay too.

And maybe this man was crazy, like she had been, but he made sense, wanting everyone else to be safe, because wasn't that what they'd all started out wanting?

"We help," Wesley had told her. "We do the best we can, because that keeps a balance in the world."

She understood balance. Lines and logic and the smooth flow of getting the numbers right.

She wasn't good at explaining. But she could try, try to explain about havens not being in caves and what they did here, or had done, once. So she put her hand out and tried to find the words, words that would get past the pain of whatever collar they'd put on this man and was making his head scream.

"That's why Wes brought you back here, y'know? Cos of it bein' all safe?"