Emelye (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
emelye_miller) wrote2010-07-21 11:22 am
emelye_miller) wrote2010-07-21 11:22 am
Entry tags:
Life Could Ever Grant Me 6/12
Title: Life Could Ever Grant Me
Author: Emelye
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: Mature
Summary: Sequel to The Resolute Urgency Of Now, and Such A Part Of You.
Disclaimer: Not mine, all theirs.
Warnings: None.
A/N: Artwork by the lovelykatekat1010
Recovery. A very polite term for the hour following surgery wherein the medical staff monitor one’s every breath until they are reasonably sure they haven’t accidentally stapled one’s kidneys to the lower intestine or left a scalpel somewhere embarrassing.
One blissful hour in which Xander and Spike were left alone in their room with the peacefully sleeping infant to adjust to their strange new lives.
A peace that was broken by the arrival of the nurses pronouncing him more or less well and the baby healthy.
As the door swung open, Spike crawled onto the narrow bed beside Xander, their son still sleeping on Xander’s chest, prepared to shield them bodily if need be.
Much of that day was a blur for Spike, the memories returning to him in bits and pieces. Jessica’s tears as she held her grandson for the first time, Tony’s proud smile, his own mother’s bright joy as she gently cradled the baby in her lap, more like her old self than ever. Joyce and Rupert politely held to the back until Spike was forced to bring the baby to them himself. He didn’t remember seeing the Watcher’s mage about, but he recalled overhearing something about police detainment and noise ordinances.
Xander was looking a bit worn around the edges by the time the girls got their turn, artlessly pointing out the baby’s lack of a name. Spike rubbed his face wearily. He didn’t see the point of naming the baby before they’d met him, and Xander agreed. What was the point of calling him Charlie if out he came and he wasn’t a Charlie at all? Maybe he’d be a Stephen, but it’d be too late to do anything about it and the poor kid would have to go by the wrong name his whole life.
Seeing that Tara had the baby he handed Xander his water and took a seat on the bed beside him.
“Gonna hover over me for a while?” Xan asked. Spike ran a hand through Xander’s hair, sighing as he leaned into his touch, exhausted.
“Just looking out for my best interest.” Xander’s eyes closed and Spike noticed the bruised-looking circles underneath. Deciding it was time to shift everyone out he glanced back and for the first time noticed Angel standing in the corner of the room. And wasn’t that a testament to his state of mind? His sire smiled not unkindly. Spike nodded his acknowledgement, then turned back to the others, seeing someone he didn’t recognize in conversation with Rupert, a tall, thin, scruffy looking fellow with glasses.
“Right, you lot. We’re about done in, here,” he announced. Joyce sympathetically began herding the girls out as Jessica returned the baby to Xander. Xander sank back onto the pillow with a beatific smile and was out like a candle.
“Spike, may I have a word?” Rupert had remained, his sire and the unfamiliar man beside him.
“State your business,” he told them, only recognizing he’d slipped into his court mannerisms after the fact with a shake of his head at his own exhaustion.
“This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, an associate of Angel’s in LA and a former Watcher. He believes he may have uncovered a prophecy regarding your son.”
Spike’s blood ran colder. “What kind of prophecy?” he demanded icily, unconsciously placing himself protectively between the hospital bed and the others.
The underfed looking Watcher spoke. “Um, yes, well, it seems to have originated with the Essenes in Qumran, though it’s in a rather odd dialect of Hebrew and Aramaic, rather like—”
“Don’t need a linguistics lesson, Percy.”
The weedy little man stiffened. “Perhaps you ought to tell him, Rupert.”
Giles rolled his eyes. “Yes, well it seems there’s the slight possibility that your child might be the Antichrist.”
Spike felt the air go out of the room. His fists clenched. The Wyndam-Pryce fellow took a step back as Spike’s fangs instinctually dropped. “You’re not going to touch my son,” Spike growled.
Giles made a placating gesture. “We have no interest in harming your child. We merely wished to warn you that if others knew of this prophecy, it could prove potentially dangerous for you all. But, Spike, you must understand, prophecies are never certainties. One theory states there could be many potential antichrists at any given moment in history. Even if your son does fulfill the requirements of the prophecy it is unlikely he would be the only one.”
From behind him, a strangled, “What?” Xander’s voice was shaky and tear-filled.
Spike was barely restraining himself from tearing the men apart for upsetting Xander and Angel was whispering in his ear. “Calm, boy. Calm, yourself.” His fangs receded and in that moment he felt every one of his hundred and fifty seven years.
He glared at the Watchers pointedly as he sat beside his consort and child. “Listen to me Xan, and listen good. Our little one ain’t the bleedin’ Antichrist.”
“How do you know? It’s not like we have a better idea why this happened and Wesley—”
Spike cut him off. “Because there can’t be an antichrist named Ambrose.” Spike gave him a moment for that to sink in.
Xander shot him an irritated glare. “We are not naming the kid Ambrose.”
Spike arched his eyebrow imperiously. “You’d rather have Rosemary’s baby?”
The others let out various noises of disbelief and dismay but Xander took Spike’s blunt declaration of intent to carry on, come whatever may and ran with it. His expression was comically cowed as he asked, “Family name?”
“Uncle on my mother’s side,” Spike confirmed.
Xander looked down into the swaddling and his warm finger caressed the baby’s cheek. Xander smiled and looked up at the three men standing there before addressing the bundle.
“Ambrose Jesse,” he declared softly, then addressed the room at large.
“We’ll call him AJ.”
Spike and Xander’s house was situated on a tree-lined street in an older neighborhood limping toward gentrification. Large Victorian houses, long since split into apartments were the norm. They lived across the street from several UC Sunnydale students, one of whom drove an old Gremlin with no muffler and burned oil. On one side of them was a small cottage with an older woman and a passel of cats. On the other, lived the Thompsons, an older couple who’d lived in the neighborhood since the fifties and whose obvious pride in their garden was a big selling point to developers.
The younger demographic of the neighborhood kept student hours. They slept on the weekends and stayed out nights after spending days on the campus. It was ideal for Spike and Xander whose lifestyle might have gone remarked in one of the more fashionable areas of town, but found here their comings and goings weren’t even a blip on the radar of their neighbors.
Except for one.
Bob Thompson stood watering his lawn watching the steady flow of people in and out of the Harris boy’s house with a shake of his head. A floppy-skinned demon rang their bell and was admitted with a large package.
“Excuse me,” came a voice beside him. Bob looked up into the blue face of a smiling Brachen demon. “Can you tell me where 423—”
“Next door,” he directed. The Brachen thanked him and walked off. Bob turned off the water and began weeding.
Back in his day, the demons kept to themselves and the vampires stayed in the cemeteries where they belonged. He didn’t think much of the vampire who’d let himself get caught by the government and was of the opinion that taking up with the Harris boy was one of the smarter things he’d done. Xander had a set of Craftsman ratchets he wasn’t shy about lending out and he claimed to love Margie’s cooking which showed him to be as shrewd as he was big-hearted. The boy was a good egg.
Even if he was still finding shell casings in his hibiscus, he thought, fingering one of them and slipping it into his pocket.
Xander sat propped up in their bed, bassinet beside him. AJ slept soundly, swaddled in the baby blanket Anne painstakingly crocheted and embroidered for him. Spike sat at the foot of the bed, methodically writing thank-you notes as Xander checked off names and gifts from the sea of cards and paper between them.
They’d come home from the hospital to find a mountain of gifts stacked in the foyer, and at Xander’s insistence, they’d had everyone over for an impromptu shower. His father surprised him with the gift of a beautiful, hand-turned high chair. There were clothes from Cordy, of course. Buffy found them a top of the line baby carrier and diaper bag. Wills and Tara enchanted a set of crib sheets and blankets with calming and protection spells. Alvaro shyly presented them with a hand-woven basket chest for toys or blankets for the baby’s room.
Though Xander hadn’t intended to make a big deal out of it, Spike insisted on showing the others the crib Xander made for AJ, and he had to admit his pride at the oohing and ahhing over his woodwork had inspired him to give Spike his gift in front of the others. Forbidden from heavy lifting, he had Alvaro bring it in from his shop in the garage. As the others looked on, he pulled the large lawn bag off the rocking chair to the sounds of gasps.
It was ebonized walnut. The back and seat were upholstered in red velvet. His jigsaw had cut the intricate, gothic scrollwork on the arms, stained and polished to a mirror shine. Along the top were painstakingly carved gargoyles, referenced from ones Xander found that were less frightening and almost cherubic in appearance. It looked like nothing so much as a throne that happened to rock.
Spike was biting his lip as he caressed the carvings, trying to pull himself together, Xander knew from long experience.
Spike sat down and Willow handed him the baby. He smiled, finding the arms were at precisely the right height to support him as he held AJ. The gargoyles looked down on them both protectively and Xander found himself holding his breath at the picture they presented. He looked regal, dangerous and yet paternal. The Prince of Darkness and his heir apparent.
“Most exquisite, Xander,” said Ethan appreciatively. “I wonder if I might commission a piece from you in the future.”
“Not a chance.”
Ethan appeared momentarily taken aback. “I assure you I can compensate you—”
Xander lowered his voice and nodded to the Watcher staring with open admiration at his craftsmanship. “For Giles, right?” Ethan nodded. “I don’t charge family,” he told him. “I’ll make him anything you want.” Xander suddenly remembered who he was talking to as Ethan erupted into a broad smile. “Within reason,” he amended.
Xander found Spike’s gift to him later that night as he went to put the baby to sleep. On the wall was a photograph of him nine months pregnant, framed in moonlight as he looked out the nursery window.
“Told ya you looked beautiful, git,” Spike explained in hushed tones as Xander studied the picture. He was shirtless, in jeans, clearly believing himself to be unobserved. It was the day he’d finished assembling the crib. His back had ached and one hand rested on his lower back as a breeze blew the curtains toward him. He’d been proud of how the crib had turned out and there was a small smile on his face as he stood in the open window letting the night air cool him. His other hand rested gently on the swell of his pregnancy.
He looked content and kind of unearthly. The look on Spike’s face though, as he looked at the picture, was almost ecstatic. “I must have been,” he decided, fondly, moved by the love that transformed him into an object of worshipful adoration in his husband’s eyes.
It still wasn’t enough to get him out of writing thank-you notes, however.
Spike paused with the end of the pen between his lips. “What’d Angel give us?”
Xander scanned down the list of names and gifts beside him. “Leather bound baby book.”
Spike nodded appreciatively. “Watcher?”
“Teddy bear. Oh, and savings bonds.”
Spike went back to writing when Xander’s stomach cramped painfully and he let out a grunt.
“Xan?” Spike asked.
Probably just post-op pain. I should take a pill. Xander shook his head. “I’m fine. Who’s next?”
Spike looked down at the stack of envelopes yet to be filled. “Looks like…ah. Dru.”
Xander snorted. “Dead bird.”
“Nice cage though, yeah?” Spike pointed out defensively.
Xander rolled his eyes. Suddenly it felt as if someone had stabbed him and he couldn’t help doubling over with the searing agony.
“Xander!”
Xander knew he should respond, but he was afraid he might scream if he opened his mouth and wake the baby. He squeezed Spike’s hand instead and heard the bones pop.
“That’s it, I’m calling—”
“Anya,” he managed to squeeze out through clenched teeth. “Get Anya.”
“You need a doctor, Xander,” Spike protested.
“No! This is, I think I’m…changing.” The roiling, burning pain felt like it was consuming him.
Spike placed a hand on his forehead, then reached below to gently touch his scar. The gentle touch was excruciating and Xander bit back a scream, muting it into a harsh moan. Spike’s brow furrowed. “You’re not feverish. An’ the scar’s cool to the touch. I’ll send for demon girl.”
Before Spike could reach for the phone, however, several things happened at once. A long, bellowing roar echoed from the street and a sound like a stampeding elephant. A commotion rang up from the first floor where he’d been holding court during Xander’s recovery. Alvaro ran into the bedroom and Xander fainted.
“Master! Una Behemoth!” He shouted frantically.
Spike leaned over Xander and checked that he was still breathing. The noise woke the baby who was now howling his displeasure.
“Xan, XANDER!” He tried, desperately. He was still breathing and his pulse was strong. With a growl he turned to Alvaro. “Are the wards holding?”
As he asked, a shudder racked the house, rattling the windows and toppling the picture frames on the dresser.
“So far,” Alvaro answered.
Spike picked up the squalling infant, soothing him unconsciously as he wrapped him tighter in his swaddling before passing him to Alvaro and hoisted Xander over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
They ran down the stairs to find Clem and the Brachen clan leader nervously conferring with Angel. “Spike, there’s a Behemoth in your front yard,” Angel observed casually as they passed.
“So I gathered. Is this all that’s here?” he asked over his shoulder. Clan leaders and allies had been in an out all week to pay their respects and bring gifts and Angel had stuck around to help field the lesser dignitaries so Spike could focus on Xander and AJ.
Angel nodded and pitched his voice for Spike’s hearing. “Can Clem fight?”
Spike nodded. “Oh yeah, he’s got this…tentacle thing,” he explained, gesturing to his face.
“Why is Xander unconscious?” Angel asked as if just noticing the man draped over his shoulder.
The Behemoth roared and charged the wards again. The chandelier swung on its chain above them. Spike sent Angel a harried look. “Reckons his parts are changing back. Pikes are on the weapons racks downstairs. I’ll meet you out front.”
Spike charged through the backdoor without waiting for Angel’s response.
Bob was in the garage putting gas in the mower when he heard a sound like a mad elephant and an unholy crash next door. He set the gas can down and hurried into the living room. Margie was on the settee in her curlers watching the ten o’clock news. She looked up, worried.
“Bob? What’s going on?”
He shook his head. “Looks like the boys are having some trouble next door.”
“Well, you better get over there,” said Margie.
Bob let out an annoyed breath. “’Spose so.”
“You be careful, Bob.”
Bob nodded and went back to the garage for his Stoner 63.
He found the rest of the household standing in the middle of the street armed and arguing as the beast battered at the magical forcefield around the house, sending showers of sparks every which way whenever it lowered it’s head and charged.
“What’s the situation, gentlemen?” He interrupted.
Spike broke off his argument with the tall fellow. “Got something to kill here. Don’t reckon that thing’s going to be much use to you,” he said, with a dismissive gesture to his rifle. “Got a hide might as well be steel plated.”
Bob nodded. “I got a bayonet. Vulnerabilities?”
“Who the hell is he?” The taller man asked.
“My neighbor. Ex Navy Seal. Bob, my grandsire Angelus. Peaches, Mr. Thompson.”
“Spike, you can’t just throw your neighbors at a Behemoth—and is that a Stoner?” he asked, suddenly interested. “You know, I had one for a little while back in 65—”
Spike interrupted him. “Hate to cut this episode of Guns We Have Enjoyed short, but that thing’s trampling the bloody jasmine and if it goes for the roses I’m going to have hell to pay. Eyes, mouth, squishy bits,” he answered Bob.
Angelus muttered something that sounded like “Mama’s boy.”
Spike ignored him. “On the count of AYEAAA!” he shouted, launching himself onto the back of the monster.
A moment later they charged after him and a moment after that it lay dead in the roses, a pike in each eye and his bayonet lodged in its throat. Angelus pulled it free and wiped it off on his bandana. “Thanks for your help,” he said. It was a dismissal, but he wasn’t rude about it and Bob was too old to be getting on with much else anyway.
Bob left the demons to clean up their own and returned to his home.
The smell of the dead carcass was rank enough to have Spike thanking any and all deities that he didn’t have to breathe. His axe bit into the hide with a wet sound and a spray of foul blood. Angel met similar resistance where his sword met the joints as they worked to dismember the Behemoth. Clem and Gary the Brachen demon had buggered off after helping to load it onto Xander’s truck.
Anya had arrived at the house shortly after the beast fell and was tending to Xander while his mother looked after the baby. Which left him to puzzle out the question of the damn thing’s arrival on his doorstep.
“Behemoths aren’t local. They don’t even exist on this plane anymore,” Angel reminded him needlessly.
“I know,” he said with another swing of his ax. Angel was clearly waiting for him to say something but he was at a loss.
“Which means,” Angel continued, “That someone sent it. And probably every other bizarre demon you’ve had for the last year.”
Spike threw down his ax. “I know that.”
“Well? This is your town Spike. This is what you wanted. Are you even looking into it?”
“Of course I’m bloody looking into it,” he muttered.
“Really? So you haven’t been completely preoccupied by Xander and his mysterious pregnancy, which, by the way, you haven’t figured out either—”
“Oh sod off, Angel! You want this job? Bloody take it! All right? Just take it. I’m sick to the fucking teeth with it all! I’m sick and tired of this bloody town!” Spike raged, hacking at the corpse with a feral yell and splattering himself with gore in the process. He screamed and tore flesh and sinew with hands when the blade became too dull. His hands became slick with blood and he couldn’t grip sufficiently to rend bone and suddenly desperation and rage turned to exhaustion as he fell back and into the ready arms of his sire who held him together against the fear and despair that threatened everything he’d become.
Angel held him tightly as Spike panted unnecessary breaths, a keening moan on every exhale. “Shh,” he soothed. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”
“I hate this town.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” Spike laughed at the absurdity of it all. He pulled back and rested his hands on his knees, looking up at Angel. He looked like a great immovable lump of statue, not a hair out of place, face as stoic as ever. “I’ve no idea what I’m doing,” he confessed with a desperate laugh. “No idea why they’re coming here. No idea who’s sending the lot of them. A straightforward attack on the Hellmouth would make sense. A power struggle I understand. This…they’re a nuisance, Angel. Not a real threat. A distraction maybe, but from what? And Xander—” He trailed off, afraid to voice his fears.
“There’s no telling what the game is until we know the players, Spike. You know that,” Angel reminded him.
Spike nodded and for a moment, indulged himself in thought for the days when he hadn’t a single bloody responsibility. Course, he thought, that pretty much boils down to the three years between Dru and Xan. Not happy times, those.
Spike made a decision. “Sire, I can’t do this alone. I’ve got a little one, an’ a consort and my mum and a whole bloody town to be looking after. I don’t have the time or the patience for a spy caper right now.”
“Not to mention you’re as subtle as a whore in church.”
Spike let that slide. “I need you here, Sire.”
Angel cocked his head. “You’ve got Buffy and the others.”
“An’ they’ve got me. Even if I am only a poor substitute,” he added.
Angel groaned. “Don’t play that card. You were doing fine without it.”
“Thought it’d appeal to your hero complex.”
Angel put his head in his hands. “I’ve already got Wesley looking into the situation, but it’s not likely we’re going to find anyone behind this unless they tip their hand.”
Spike grinned. “Sire?”
“I’m not moving back here,” he snapped, repressively. “I’ve got visions and a mission and—and I just can’t, all right?”
Spike nodded. “Didn’t expect you to, Sire.”
“Yeah, well I thought about it, and would you stop with the submissive childe act? You’re irritating the shit out of me.”
Spike smirked. “Sorry, Sire.”
Angel unclenched his fists. “I’ll give you two weekends a month and one weeknight.”
“Three weekends and every other Thursday.”
“Two weekends and two weeknights—at my discretion.”
“Done.” Spike held out his hand to shake on it.
Angel cuffed him in the back of the head before draping an arm around his shoulders and leading them off toward the clearing where Xander’s truck was parked. “And I’m teaching AJ Gaelic.”
“Over my dust, you will.”
Chapter Seven
Author: Emelye
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: Mature
Summary: Sequel to The Resolute Urgency Of Now, and Such A Part Of You.
Disclaimer: Not mine, all theirs.
Warnings: None.
A/N: Artwork by the lovely
katekat1010Recovery. A very polite term for the hour following surgery wherein the medical staff monitor one’s every breath until they are reasonably sure they haven’t accidentally stapled one’s kidneys to the lower intestine or left a scalpel somewhere embarrassing.
One blissful hour in which Xander and Spike were left alone in their room with the peacefully sleeping infant to adjust to their strange new lives.
A peace that was broken by the arrival of the nurses pronouncing him more or less well and the baby healthy.
As the door swung open, Spike crawled onto the narrow bed beside Xander, their son still sleeping on Xander’s chest, prepared to shield them bodily if need be.
Much of that day was a blur for Spike, the memories returning to him in bits and pieces. Jessica’s tears as she held her grandson for the first time, Tony’s proud smile, his own mother’s bright joy as she gently cradled the baby in her lap, more like her old self than ever. Joyce and Rupert politely held to the back until Spike was forced to bring the baby to them himself. He didn’t remember seeing the Watcher’s mage about, but he recalled overhearing something about police detainment and noise ordinances.
Xander was looking a bit worn around the edges by the time the girls got their turn, artlessly pointing out the baby’s lack of a name. Spike rubbed his face wearily. He didn’t see the point of naming the baby before they’d met him, and Xander agreed. What was the point of calling him Charlie if out he came and he wasn’t a Charlie at all? Maybe he’d be a Stephen, but it’d be too late to do anything about it and the poor kid would have to go by the wrong name his whole life.
Seeing that Tara had the baby he handed Xander his water and took a seat on the bed beside him.
“Gonna hover over me for a while?” Xan asked. Spike ran a hand through Xander’s hair, sighing as he leaned into his touch, exhausted.
“Just looking out for my best interest.” Xander’s eyes closed and Spike noticed the bruised-looking circles underneath. Deciding it was time to shift everyone out he glanced back and for the first time noticed Angel standing in the corner of the room. And wasn’t that a testament to his state of mind? His sire smiled not unkindly. Spike nodded his acknowledgement, then turned back to the others, seeing someone he didn’t recognize in conversation with Rupert, a tall, thin, scruffy looking fellow with glasses.
“Right, you lot. We’re about done in, here,” he announced. Joyce sympathetically began herding the girls out as Jessica returned the baby to Xander. Xander sank back onto the pillow with a beatific smile and was out like a candle.
“Spike, may I have a word?” Rupert had remained, his sire and the unfamiliar man beside him.
“State your business,” he told them, only recognizing he’d slipped into his court mannerisms after the fact with a shake of his head at his own exhaustion.
“This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, an associate of Angel’s in LA and a former Watcher. He believes he may have uncovered a prophecy regarding your son.”
Spike’s blood ran colder. “What kind of prophecy?” he demanded icily, unconsciously placing himself protectively between the hospital bed and the others.
The underfed looking Watcher spoke. “Um, yes, well, it seems to have originated with the Essenes in Qumran, though it’s in a rather odd dialect of Hebrew and Aramaic, rather like—”
“Don’t need a linguistics lesson, Percy.”
The weedy little man stiffened. “Perhaps you ought to tell him, Rupert.”
Giles rolled his eyes. “Yes, well it seems there’s the slight possibility that your child might be the Antichrist.”
Spike felt the air go out of the room. His fists clenched. The Wyndam-Pryce fellow took a step back as Spike’s fangs instinctually dropped. “You’re not going to touch my son,” Spike growled.
Giles made a placating gesture. “We have no interest in harming your child. We merely wished to warn you that if others knew of this prophecy, it could prove potentially dangerous for you all. But, Spike, you must understand, prophecies are never certainties. One theory states there could be many potential antichrists at any given moment in history. Even if your son does fulfill the requirements of the prophecy it is unlikely he would be the only one.”
From behind him, a strangled, “What?” Xander’s voice was shaky and tear-filled.
Spike was barely restraining himself from tearing the men apart for upsetting Xander and Angel was whispering in his ear. “Calm, boy. Calm, yourself.” His fangs receded and in that moment he felt every one of his hundred and fifty seven years.
He glared at the Watchers pointedly as he sat beside his consort and child. “Listen to me Xan, and listen good. Our little one ain’t the bleedin’ Antichrist.”
“How do you know? It’s not like we have a better idea why this happened and Wesley—”
Spike cut him off. “Because there can’t be an antichrist named Ambrose.” Spike gave him a moment for that to sink in.
Xander shot him an irritated glare. “We are not naming the kid Ambrose.”
Spike arched his eyebrow imperiously. “You’d rather have Rosemary’s baby?”
The others let out various noises of disbelief and dismay but Xander took Spike’s blunt declaration of intent to carry on, come whatever may and ran with it. His expression was comically cowed as he asked, “Family name?”
“Uncle on my mother’s side,” Spike confirmed.
Xander looked down into the swaddling and his warm finger caressed the baby’s cheek. Xander smiled and looked up at the three men standing there before addressing the bundle.
“Ambrose Jesse,” he declared softly, then addressed the room at large.
“We’ll call him AJ.”
Spike and Xander’s house was situated on a tree-lined street in an older neighborhood limping toward gentrification. Large Victorian houses, long since split into apartments were the norm. They lived across the street from several UC Sunnydale students, one of whom drove an old Gremlin with no muffler and burned oil. On one side of them was a small cottage with an older woman and a passel of cats. On the other, lived the Thompsons, an older couple who’d lived in the neighborhood since the fifties and whose obvious pride in their garden was a big selling point to developers.
The younger demographic of the neighborhood kept student hours. They slept on the weekends and stayed out nights after spending days on the campus. It was ideal for Spike and Xander whose lifestyle might have gone remarked in one of the more fashionable areas of town, but found here their comings and goings weren’t even a blip on the radar of their neighbors.
Except for one.
Bob Thompson stood watering his lawn watching the steady flow of people in and out of the Harris boy’s house with a shake of his head. A floppy-skinned demon rang their bell and was admitted with a large package.
“Excuse me,” came a voice beside him. Bob looked up into the blue face of a smiling Brachen demon. “Can you tell me where 423—”
“Next door,” he directed. The Brachen thanked him and walked off. Bob turned off the water and began weeding.
Back in his day, the demons kept to themselves and the vampires stayed in the cemeteries where they belonged. He didn’t think much of the vampire who’d let himself get caught by the government and was of the opinion that taking up with the Harris boy was one of the smarter things he’d done. Xander had a set of Craftsman ratchets he wasn’t shy about lending out and he claimed to love Margie’s cooking which showed him to be as shrewd as he was big-hearted. The boy was a good egg.
Even if he was still finding shell casings in his hibiscus, he thought, fingering one of them and slipping it into his pocket.
Xander sat propped up in their bed, bassinet beside him. AJ slept soundly, swaddled in the baby blanket Anne painstakingly crocheted and embroidered for him. Spike sat at the foot of the bed, methodically writing thank-you notes as Xander checked off names and gifts from the sea of cards and paper between them.
They’d come home from the hospital to find a mountain of gifts stacked in the foyer, and at Xander’s insistence, they’d had everyone over for an impromptu shower. His father surprised him with the gift of a beautiful, hand-turned high chair. There were clothes from Cordy, of course. Buffy found them a top of the line baby carrier and diaper bag. Wills and Tara enchanted a set of crib sheets and blankets with calming and protection spells. Alvaro shyly presented them with a hand-woven basket chest for toys or blankets for the baby’s room.
Though Xander hadn’t intended to make a big deal out of it, Spike insisted on showing the others the crib Xander made for AJ, and he had to admit his pride at the oohing and ahhing over his woodwork had inspired him to give Spike his gift in front of the others. Forbidden from heavy lifting, he had Alvaro bring it in from his shop in the garage. As the others looked on, he pulled the large lawn bag off the rocking chair to the sounds of gasps.
It was ebonized walnut. The back and seat were upholstered in red velvet. His jigsaw had cut the intricate, gothic scrollwork on the arms, stained and polished to a mirror shine. Along the top were painstakingly carved gargoyles, referenced from ones Xander found that were less frightening and almost cherubic in appearance. It looked like nothing so much as a throne that happened to rock.
Spike was biting his lip as he caressed the carvings, trying to pull himself together, Xander knew from long experience.
Spike sat down and Willow handed him the baby. He smiled, finding the arms were at precisely the right height to support him as he held AJ. The gargoyles looked down on them both protectively and Xander found himself holding his breath at the picture they presented. He looked regal, dangerous and yet paternal. The Prince of Darkness and his heir apparent.
“Most exquisite, Xander,” said Ethan appreciatively. “I wonder if I might commission a piece from you in the future.”
“Not a chance.”
Ethan appeared momentarily taken aback. “I assure you I can compensate you—”
Xander lowered his voice and nodded to the Watcher staring with open admiration at his craftsmanship. “For Giles, right?” Ethan nodded. “I don’t charge family,” he told him. “I’ll make him anything you want.” Xander suddenly remembered who he was talking to as Ethan erupted into a broad smile. “Within reason,” he amended.
Xander found Spike’s gift to him later that night as he went to put the baby to sleep. On the wall was a photograph of him nine months pregnant, framed in moonlight as he looked out the nursery window.
“Told ya you looked beautiful, git,” Spike explained in hushed tones as Xander studied the picture. He was shirtless, in jeans, clearly believing himself to be unobserved. It was the day he’d finished assembling the crib. His back had ached and one hand rested on his lower back as a breeze blew the curtains toward him. He’d been proud of how the crib had turned out and there was a small smile on his face as he stood in the open window letting the night air cool him. His other hand rested gently on the swell of his pregnancy.
He looked content and kind of unearthly. The look on Spike’s face though, as he looked at the picture, was almost ecstatic. “I must have been,” he decided, fondly, moved by the love that transformed him into an object of worshipful adoration in his husband’s eyes.
It still wasn’t enough to get him out of writing thank-you notes, however.
Spike paused with the end of the pen between his lips. “What’d Angel give us?”
Xander scanned down the list of names and gifts beside him. “Leather bound baby book.”
Spike nodded appreciatively. “Watcher?”
“Teddy bear. Oh, and savings bonds.”
Spike went back to writing when Xander’s stomach cramped painfully and he let out a grunt.
“Xan?” Spike asked.
Probably just post-op pain. I should take a pill. Xander shook his head. “I’m fine. Who’s next?”
Spike looked down at the stack of envelopes yet to be filled. “Looks like…ah. Dru.”
Xander snorted. “Dead bird.”
“Nice cage though, yeah?” Spike pointed out defensively.
Xander rolled his eyes. Suddenly it felt as if someone had stabbed him and he couldn’t help doubling over with the searing agony.
“Xander!”
Xander knew he should respond, but he was afraid he might scream if he opened his mouth and wake the baby. He squeezed Spike’s hand instead and heard the bones pop.
“That’s it, I’m calling—”
“Anya,” he managed to squeeze out through clenched teeth. “Get Anya.”
“You need a doctor, Xander,” Spike protested.
“No! This is, I think I’m…changing.” The roiling, burning pain felt like it was consuming him.
Spike placed a hand on his forehead, then reached below to gently touch his scar. The gentle touch was excruciating and Xander bit back a scream, muting it into a harsh moan. Spike’s brow furrowed. “You’re not feverish. An’ the scar’s cool to the touch. I’ll send for demon girl.”
Before Spike could reach for the phone, however, several things happened at once. A long, bellowing roar echoed from the street and a sound like a stampeding elephant. A commotion rang up from the first floor where he’d been holding court during Xander’s recovery. Alvaro ran into the bedroom and Xander fainted.
“Master! Una Behemoth!” He shouted frantically.
Spike leaned over Xander and checked that he was still breathing. The noise woke the baby who was now howling his displeasure.
“Xan, XANDER!” He tried, desperately. He was still breathing and his pulse was strong. With a growl he turned to Alvaro. “Are the wards holding?”
As he asked, a shudder racked the house, rattling the windows and toppling the picture frames on the dresser.
“So far,” Alvaro answered.
Spike picked up the squalling infant, soothing him unconsciously as he wrapped him tighter in his swaddling before passing him to Alvaro and hoisted Xander over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
They ran down the stairs to find Clem and the Brachen clan leader nervously conferring with Angel. “Spike, there’s a Behemoth in your front yard,” Angel observed casually as they passed.
“So I gathered. Is this all that’s here?” he asked over his shoulder. Clan leaders and allies had been in an out all week to pay their respects and bring gifts and Angel had stuck around to help field the lesser dignitaries so Spike could focus on Xander and AJ.
Angel nodded and pitched his voice for Spike’s hearing. “Can Clem fight?”
Spike nodded. “Oh yeah, he’s got this…tentacle thing,” he explained, gesturing to his face.
“Why is Xander unconscious?” Angel asked as if just noticing the man draped over his shoulder.
The Behemoth roared and charged the wards again. The chandelier swung on its chain above them. Spike sent Angel a harried look. “Reckons his parts are changing back. Pikes are on the weapons racks downstairs. I’ll meet you out front.”
Spike charged through the backdoor without waiting for Angel’s response.
Bob was in the garage putting gas in the mower when he heard a sound like a mad elephant and an unholy crash next door. He set the gas can down and hurried into the living room. Margie was on the settee in her curlers watching the ten o’clock news. She looked up, worried.
“Bob? What’s going on?”
He shook his head. “Looks like the boys are having some trouble next door.”
“Well, you better get over there,” said Margie.
Bob let out an annoyed breath. “’Spose so.”
“You be careful, Bob.”
Bob nodded and went back to the garage for his Stoner 63.
He found the rest of the household standing in the middle of the street armed and arguing as the beast battered at the magical forcefield around the house, sending showers of sparks every which way whenever it lowered it’s head and charged.
“What’s the situation, gentlemen?” He interrupted.
Spike broke off his argument with the tall fellow. “Got something to kill here. Don’t reckon that thing’s going to be much use to you,” he said, with a dismissive gesture to his rifle. “Got a hide might as well be steel plated.”
Bob nodded. “I got a bayonet. Vulnerabilities?”
“Who the hell is he?” The taller man asked.
“My neighbor. Ex Navy Seal. Bob, my grandsire Angelus. Peaches, Mr. Thompson.”
“Spike, you can’t just throw your neighbors at a Behemoth—and is that a Stoner?” he asked, suddenly interested. “You know, I had one for a little while back in 65—”
Spike interrupted him. “Hate to cut this episode of Guns We Have Enjoyed short, but that thing’s trampling the bloody jasmine and if it goes for the roses I’m going to have hell to pay. Eyes, mouth, squishy bits,” he answered Bob.
Angelus muttered something that sounded like “Mama’s boy.”
Spike ignored him. “On the count of AYEAAA!” he shouted, launching himself onto the back of the monster.
A moment later they charged after him and a moment after that it lay dead in the roses, a pike in each eye and his bayonet lodged in its throat. Angelus pulled it free and wiped it off on his bandana. “Thanks for your help,” he said. It was a dismissal, but he wasn’t rude about it and Bob was too old to be getting on with much else anyway.
Bob left the demons to clean up their own and returned to his home.
The smell of the dead carcass was rank enough to have Spike thanking any and all deities that he didn’t have to breathe. His axe bit into the hide with a wet sound and a spray of foul blood. Angel met similar resistance where his sword met the joints as they worked to dismember the Behemoth. Clem and Gary the Brachen demon had buggered off after helping to load it onto Xander’s truck.
Anya had arrived at the house shortly after the beast fell and was tending to Xander while his mother looked after the baby. Which left him to puzzle out the question of the damn thing’s arrival on his doorstep.
“Behemoths aren’t local. They don’t even exist on this plane anymore,” Angel reminded him needlessly.
“I know,” he said with another swing of his ax. Angel was clearly waiting for him to say something but he was at a loss.
“Which means,” Angel continued, “That someone sent it. And probably every other bizarre demon you’ve had for the last year.”
Spike threw down his ax. “I know that.”
“Well? This is your town Spike. This is what you wanted. Are you even looking into it?”
“Of course I’m bloody looking into it,” he muttered.
“Really? So you haven’t been completely preoccupied by Xander and his mysterious pregnancy, which, by the way, you haven’t figured out either—”
“Oh sod off, Angel! You want this job? Bloody take it! All right? Just take it. I’m sick to the fucking teeth with it all! I’m sick and tired of this bloody town!” Spike raged, hacking at the corpse with a feral yell and splattering himself with gore in the process. He screamed and tore flesh and sinew with hands when the blade became too dull. His hands became slick with blood and he couldn’t grip sufficiently to rend bone and suddenly desperation and rage turned to exhaustion as he fell back and into the ready arms of his sire who held him together against the fear and despair that threatened everything he’d become.
Angel held him tightly as Spike panted unnecessary breaths, a keening moan on every exhale. “Shh,” he soothed. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”
“I hate this town.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” Spike laughed at the absurdity of it all. He pulled back and rested his hands on his knees, looking up at Angel. He looked like a great immovable lump of statue, not a hair out of place, face as stoic as ever. “I’ve no idea what I’m doing,” he confessed with a desperate laugh. “No idea why they’re coming here. No idea who’s sending the lot of them. A straightforward attack on the Hellmouth would make sense. A power struggle I understand. This…they’re a nuisance, Angel. Not a real threat. A distraction maybe, but from what? And Xander—” He trailed off, afraid to voice his fears.
“There’s no telling what the game is until we know the players, Spike. You know that,” Angel reminded him.
Spike nodded and for a moment, indulged himself in thought for the days when he hadn’t a single bloody responsibility. Course, he thought, that pretty much boils down to the three years between Dru and Xan. Not happy times, those.
Spike made a decision. “Sire, I can’t do this alone. I’ve got a little one, an’ a consort and my mum and a whole bloody town to be looking after. I don’t have the time or the patience for a spy caper right now.”
“Not to mention you’re as subtle as a whore in church.”
Spike let that slide. “I need you here, Sire.”
Angel cocked his head. “You’ve got Buffy and the others.”
“An’ they’ve got me. Even if I am only a poor substitute,” he added.
Angel groaned. “Don’t play that card. You were doing fine without it.”
“Thought it’d appeal to your hero complex.”
Angel put his head in his hands. “I’ve already got Wesley looking into the situation, but it’s not likely we’re going to find anyone behind this unless they tip their hand.”
Spike grinned. “Sire?”
“I’m not moving back here,” he snapped, repressively. “I’ve got visions and a mission and—and I just can’t, all right?”
Spike nodded. “Didn’t expect you to, Sire.”
“Yeah, well I thought about it, and would you stop with the submissive childe act? You’re irritating the shit out of me.”
Spike smirked. “Sorry, Sire.”
Angel unclenched his fists. “I’ll give you two weekends a month and one weeknight.”
“Three weekends and every other Thursday.”
“Two weekends and two weeknights—at my discretion.”
“Done.” Spike held out his hand to shake on it.
Angel cuffed him in the back of the head before draping an arm around his shoulders and leading them off toward the clearing where Xander’s truck was parked. “And I’m teaching AJ Gaelic.”
“Over my dust, you will.”
Chapter Seven
no subject
no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-07-21 07:25 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-07-21 08:16 pm (UTC)(link)And poor AJ having to learn Gaelic. Pity that Angel wasn't Chinese. It would be much more useful.
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-07-21 08:17 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Angel can come teach my child Gaelic anytime. If and when I have a child, that is.
no subject
Angel wouldn't be a bad one to learn Gaelic from, but I think you'd probably find the lessons heavier on the proper way to order booze and wenches than a more universal vocabulary. ;-)
no subject
no subject
From Dancindarby
(Anonymous) 2010-07-22 10:46 pm (UTC)(link)Re: From Dancindarby
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-07-23 10:05 am (UTC)(link)RYL
no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-07-23 07:34 pm (UTC)(link)The relationship between the two is great and I like how you've set Spike up as Master of the Hellmouth. You've presented Spike and Xander as complex characters, but you've also brought a depth to characters like Tony and Anya that are often left as something like cardboard caricatures of the bad father and the bitchy ex.
no subject
TJ again, with feeling!
(Anonymous) 2010-09-05 06:53 am (UTC)(link)Love the entire thing!
Did I mention that I can't wait for the next one? In case you were unsure of my enthusiasm and your awesome, fantastic web of incredibleness.
Re: TJ again, with feeling!