| After: All Hallow's Eve by Shiver |
| Rating: NC-17 Pairing: A/S Spoilers: Everything, including “Not Fade Away” (AtS: S5) Notes: The show is now over, but since I received so many positive comments on the series, I’m going to continue with it as long as the Muse cooperates and there is continued interest. Hell, I probably won’t even need the interest. My Muse is kind of a bitch that way. Thanks, and thanks for reading. - - - - - The Exploited Children Rescue Network, or, more correctly, their insanely wealthy author/lawyer/entrepreneur- founder/benefactor, arranged for Connor and his three companions to fly out of Kansai airport an hour before dawn. They would layover, briefly, in Seattle and arrive in New York City overnight. Connor would make his 9 a.m. Fine Arts class at Cornell, and Gwen, Angel, and Spike would be met by representatives of the ECRN and taken to meet with their recruiters. When they left Kaemon’s apartment, Angel noticed Gwen leaving a light-blue cardboard box under the table, and realized her time in Kyoto before their arrival had been well-spent. Navigating out of the district proved to be somewhat tricky, as the demon clans, seeing their last chance at returning to their home dimensions vanished, were taking their revenge wherever they could. The chaos put Spike in mind of the Boxer Rebellion, though it could also have been all of the Asian people running around. Well, that and the fires. Spike had expected them to be targets, but the plan for closing the gateways had been centered around Angel. When Toshiro had taken his identity, their recognition of him went, too. To the demons in the streets, he was just another vampire. Within minutes of the first demon attack, members of the Quadrivium Society who’d been prepared for this eventuality fought back. They contained the perimeter, quenched fires, and healed the wounded. Within an hour, the advance forces of the Order of St. Michael roared into the district on their motorcycles. They clashed with bands of demons in temples and parks. Angel watched from the apartment window, hoping for a glimpse of Gunn’s dark head, but did not see him. He hoped he was still alive, and safe, somewhere far away. By midnight, the Slayers had begun to arrive. Less organized than the knights, they more than made up for it with ruthless and deadly efficiency, and soon had pushed all but the most foolhardy demons into retreat. With a growing dread, Angel and his companions realized that the spell that protected them from focused attack cut the other way, and their potential allies would not know anything of them. The demons would ignore them; to knights and Slayers, they were another potential threat. In the end, they just made a run for the airport, avoiding what they could, fighting and retreating when they had to. By the time they boarded the plane, Spike and Angel in the last row, Gwen and Connor a row ahead, they were all exhausted in body and mind. As the plane rose into the air, Spike felt himself pulled into Angel’s arms and held tightly, possessively, a living security blanket. He couldn’t find it in himself to even tease the big lug. Eventually, Angel fell into a deep sleep, where there were mercifully no dreams. - - - - - Later, when he awoke, he could hear Spike’s chuckle, low and throaty. “I swear by all things holy and unholy,” he said, “a God-damned puppet. Felt and stuffing and little button eyes…” “I did not have button eyes,” Angel growled. “Oh, hello, pet,” Spike said cheerily. “We were just talking about you.” “Seriously?” Gwen said. “That may be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” “I don’t know,” Connor said with a shudder. “Sounds creepy to me. I mean, soul-sucking toys? That’s just wrong.” Gwen gave a sympathetic smile and patted Connor’s hand. “So, Spike,” Angel said. “Maybe you should tell them the diabolically clever way the Nazis managed to capture you…” - - - - - They stumbled through the terminal at JFK, bleary-eyed and stiff from the flight, but finally feeling that this part of their mission was complete. “I’ll get some taxis,” Connor said, heading for the exit, but Spike caught his arm. “Connor,” he said quietly. “I have to take your dad away from here.” “Spike…” Angel began, but Spike held up a hand to quiet him. “Shut up, Angel,” he said. “I’m talking to your son.” He turned back to Connor. “We’re done for now. Your father needs to rest, and heal. We both do. But I don’t want to take him away from you. I would never do that. So just give me your address and I’ll write when we’ve settled in somewhere.” “Spike…” Angel tried again, but Connor cut him off by pulling a business card from his inside pocket. “That’s my land line, cell, e-mail, and IM,” Connor said. “I want to hear from you by tonight.” Angel gave an exasperated sigh and decided not to argue. He was too tired anyway. “Well, I kind of thought this would happen,” Gwen said, “so…” She pulled an oversized envelope from her backpack and handed it to the two vampires. “This is for you.” Angel took it warily. “What is it?” “Access cards for a numbered Swiss account,” she said. “I figure fourteen million ought to set you up for the first couple decades. Then you’re on your own.” “Gwen…” Angel said, but Spike clapped her arm. “You foxy thing,” he said. “What’d you boost?” She gave a casual shrug. “Just a bunch of 12th-century scrolls from the Kyoto Museum. Some kind of poetry. The buyer was real hot to get them, though. Anyway, enjoy!” Angel pulled his son into a hug. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.” He held him again at arm’s length. “I’m very proud of you,” he said. “I love you, Connor.” Connor gave a quick grin. “I know,” he said, and stepped away. “Take good care of him, Spike.” He started to turn, when Gwen put her arm across his shoulders. “I could use a high-test cappuccino,” she said. “Care to join me?” Connor looked uncertain. “Come on,” she urged. “There’s gotta be a Starbucks around here somewhere.” And she led him off, arm dropped to his waist, now. Spike and Angel watched them go. “So,” Spike said when they’d been lost to view. “A million’s the one with six zeros, right?” Angel nodded dumbly, and Spike hoisted his bags. “Let’s go to long-term parking, then,” he said. - - - - - Spike, fully intending to cover their tracks by not only ditching the car they stole but making sure it was never seen again, carefully picked the car he deemed most likely to have been abandoned in long-term parking: a rust-colored, mid-seventies sedan. He ignored Angel’s protests, which were half-hearted anyway, and had the doors open and the engine running within a minute and a half. He bundled Angel into the passenger seat and hit the highway at an unusually moderate rate of speed, in deference to the vehicle’s possible imminent self-destruction. He went west, and south, his rudimentary knowledge of American geography telling him this was away from the population densities. As Angel dozed fitfully, or sat quietly, Spike turned onto roads that seemed more woods than buildings, more sky than streetlight. A little more than two hours later, they followed a twisting highway through hills of stone, and along a river that reflected the nearly-full moon in a thousand shifting faces. At the bottom of the valley, the road passed by a small town park, and a train stop with an old steam engine. At a silver diner car, it turned abruptly left, between a row of shops and city hall, both mid-nineteenth century. Spike slowed the car to read the orange banner that stretched above them between two light poles. “Pumpkin Festival,” it read, then below, “Crafts, Food, Jack-O-Lantern & Costume Contests ~ Oct. 30th, 11-8.” The shops and buildings that lined the road were Victorian era, and many had obvious Irish roots. “The Emerald Inn,” was one. “Molly Maguire’s Pub,” another. He pulled the car in near the inn. “Wait here, pet,” he told Angel. “I’ll get our room.” He climbed the stone steps and crossed the dining patio that overlooked the town. A thin, gray-haired woman at the desk looked up as he entered. “Can I help you?” she said. “Yeah, need a room,” Spike said, and she frowned. “We’re all full,” she said. “I’m sorry. Between the Pumpkin Festival and the Homecoming game…” Spike realized he must have ill-concealed his disappointment because the woman quickly shifted gears. “Hold on,” she said. “Let me make a few calls around town. There are a few B&Bs that might not be completely booked.” She pulled a laminated yellow card out of a desk file and dialed the top number. “Hi, Tom, it’s Helen. Listen, I just had a walk-in…” - - - - - Four phone calls later, Helen was saying, “thanks, Bob, I’ll send them up now. Give Sheila my best.” She hung up the phone and came around the counter. “There’s a brown Victorian with a wrap-around porch around three blocks up, on the right. It’s a B&B, nice couple, just got into the business a few years ago. Beautiful property, but they’re trying to keep it authentic, so no TV or phone in the rooms. Sounds restful to me, but the tourists don’t like it.” She walked Spike back outside and pointed up the hill. “There isn’t a sign,” she said, “but the name of the place is the Golden Angel, so there’s a statue in front of, well, a golden angel. Oh, by the way…” She lowered her voice as though she might be overheard, though at this hour the street was deserted. “Sheila’s a little bit flaky, but she’s harmless, you know. Enjoy your stay.” Spike thanked her and went back to the car. Angel, who had been dozing, came half-awake, rubbing his eyes like a child. “Where are we going?” he said. “Lodging house up the road,” Spike said, starting the car. “And you’ll never guess the name.” - - - - - Moments later, the two vampires stood on the porch of the Golden Angel, looking and feeling very much like beggars. A bearded man and a woman with red curly hair greeted them, invited them in, and introduced themselves at Bob and Sheila. “This is Liam,” Spike told them as they were led into the hallway. “And I’m called Will.” Bob gave them a quick tour of the house, the restoration he was doing mostly on his own, but Sheila was quiet, looking at Angel intently. No, Angel realized after a moment. Looking *past* him. They came to the bedroom they were to take. The “Golden Angel” theme had been carried throughout, in pictures and bric-a-brac, but here it was dominant, with a huge oil painting above the bed and another statue in the dormer window. “The bath is through there,” Bob indicated. “No shower yet, I’m afraid, but there is a nice big bathtub.” “Thank you,” Angel said. “And may I ask the rate?” Bob looked uncomfortable, his profession of innkeeper still too new for an easy fit. “It’s eighty a night on Friday and Saturday,” he said. “Sixty a night the rest of the week.” Angel nodded, considering. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll pay you a thousand a week if you’ll let us meet here with people we need to do business with. That’s a full thousand, even if we leave mid-week. Is that alright?” Bob looked stunned. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you,” Angel said again. “And William and I are both night owls, so if we don’t see you before late afternoon… don’t disturb us.” - - - - - Spike checked out the bathroom, delighted at its size and the large bathtub after so long on the road. Sheila had left a basket on the chest of drawers with toiletries (full size, not the little slivers wrapped in paper they got at hotels) and Spike announced he was going to run a hot bath, and would Angel join him? Spike helped Angel sink into the warm water, filled with bubbles and scented with chamomile and lavender, then climbed in on top of him, laughing. He slicked them both with soap, and twined around his lover like an otter. - - - - - Angel was asleep as soon as Spike pulled the feather blanket over them, but Spike was still wired from the flight and the drive and lay awake a while longer, half-sprawled on Angel’s chest. In the corner of his vision, he thought he saw a spot of light moving near the window, but it vanished when he turned to look. “Are you here, ghost?” he asked the silent room, and he thought he saw a curtain twitch. “It’s alright,” he said then. “I’ll take care of him, now.” And just outside the range of his sight, he thought he saw the light flare, and vanish. - - - - - They descended the next afternoon to find their hosts arranging six jack-o-lanterns along the top rail of their front porch, which was broad and flat. When they saw their guests were up, Sheila brushed off her hands and came inside. “Just getting ready for the twilight pumpkin walk,” she said. “Most people along the street put them out. It’s pretty impressive to stand down at the corner of Bridge and look up the hill to see this long line of pumpkins.” She checked the mantle clock. “The festival’s still going, if you wanted to walk down,” she said. “Maybe in a little while,” Angel said. “When the pumpkins have been lit.” “Let me make you some tea, then,” she told them, heading towards the kitchen. They sat in the parlor, the last dusty light of the afternoon sifting through the colored leaves outside and the parlor’s lace curtains to make shifting patterns on the flocked wallpaper. Sheila brought out a tray with pot and cups, and served them each, sitting down to join them. “What you’ve done here, it’s very authentic,” Spike told her. “Had the house been preserved from the time it was made?” Sheila laughed lightly. “Oh, no, quite the opposite,” she said. “The whole town, after the coal mines closed, more or less emptied out. So many of these grand ladies were boarded up and abandoned. This house, before we bought it, had a motorcycle gang living here. They’d done so much damage, chain-sawed the kitchen cabinets apart and moved them into other rooms, driven their motorcycles up and down the stairs. It was a mess.” Spike looked around again and smiled. “In that case the restoration is remarkable,” he said. “You must have done a lot of research.” “A bit,” Sheila admitted, “but mostly it came from the house’s original owners.” Angel and Spike glanced at one another and frowned. “You mean…” Spike prompted, honestly not knowing what she meant. Sheila blushed charmingly. “I’m very sensitive to spirits,” she said. “The original owners are still in residence.” Angel rattled his teacup, but Spike smiled at their hostess. “How interesting,” he said. “You talk to ghosts, then?” Sheila nodded. “I don’t like to call them ghosts, though,” she said. “They are simply the spirits of the departed.” Angel put his cup down with shaking hands. “Are there any here now?” he said. A look of understanding passed over her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said, then took a sip of her tea and murmured, “not anymore.” - - - - - Once the sun had gone down, Angel And Spike did attend the Pumpkin Festival, enjoying the children’s costume parade, with awards of gift certificates from the town’s shops for the most beautiful, the funniest and scariest, and other awards for best home decoration and best jack-o-lanterns. After, they drank hot cider and ate ginger cookies shaped like bats and witches. “So we’re staying here, do you think?” Spike asked as they rested on a corner bench near the town’s community playhouse. Angel looked up and down the street: the once-faded glory of a wealthy coal town now arising as a community for artists and writers who could buy houses cheap, and a destination for tourists, shoppers, and sportsmen. It was small town, and determined to remain so, isolated in its mountain valley. He took Spike’s hand, leaned close in the darkness with the dry leaves blowing underfoot. “We’re staying here, I think,” he said. - - - - - Two weeks later: Spike checked his email and was pleased to see that the ebay buyer for one of their battle axes had already come through with a Paypal payment. He must have really wanted it, Spike thought, and in his “thank you” note directed him to some of their other auctions. He was going to call down and tell Angel the good news, but he could hear that he was on the phone to Connor, telling him that he didn’t care what Connor’s English Lit professor said, Angel had actually *met* the man, and he was a worthless laudanum drinker who cheated at cards. They had been living in the house four days. The Monday after arriving in town they’d met with Mary Reade, a realtor friend of Sheila’s, and gone through her loose-leaf binders with their beautiful pictures of area homes. They’d gone through the motions of visiting a number of them, but really there was only one that had grabbed them. They’d known it the minute they’d seen it. It was an old Victorian, five bedrooms, one and three-quarters baths, but unlike the Golden Angel, this house had remained more or less unchanged over time. The façade had been repainted plain white at some point, as had most of the interior walls, but the hardwood floors, wooden paneling, and multiple fireplaces were still intact. A wide wooden staircase wound up through three stories, and a huge claw-footed bathtub stood in the master bath. Out back, the garden rose steeply into the mountains, and the once-careful plantings were overgrown and wild. A broad, wooden porch, half a story above the sidewalk, surrounded the house on three sides. Since the house was empty, they were able to buy it right away, and the next evening Spike braved the lengthening afternoon shadows to get to an antique shop in town before it closed and inquire about the wooden sleigh-bed he’d seen through the window on one of his and Angel’s now-customary evening walks through their adopted town. Angel had hired a seamstress to make heavy curtains for every window, eventually, beginning with the master bedroom. He purchased Venetian blinds of dark wood besides, and he and Spike set about planning what each room would be and how it would be decorated. Sheila had been extremely helpful in putting them in touch with suppliers of reproduction and vintage fabrics, wallpapers, and carpeting, and also in letting them know which stores in town had the best reputation and fairest prices. Angel had retained a man and his son and daughter to do the interior work. Each day they brought swatches of fabric and books of wallpaper samples before setting to work, and Angel surveyed them all like the lord of the manor. But after the decorators left, he spread the samples out on the floor and engaged Spike in lively discussions about what should go where. They also employed two brothers to tend to the gardens and repaint the outside of the house. Each day they could see progress, and hoped things would be in order by the time Connor visited for Christmas. Spike found Angel in the living room, which so far consisted of a red leather chair, a floor lamp, and a black rotary phone sitting on the floor. Angel looked up as Spike entered and waved him closer. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Connor,” he said. “Good luck on your test.” He hung up the phone and lunged forward, pulling Spike down into his lap. He kissed him firmly, and hugged him tight. “Sold the axe,” Spike said between kisses. “Great,” Angel said. “Rebecca dropped off a stack of carpet samples for your TV room…” - - - - - After darkness had fallen, Spike and Angel decided to take advantage of the warm weather of the last of Indian Summer and go for a walk. The shops were starting to decorate for Christmas to appeal to the early-season shopping tours, and the vampires peered through the windows at the ornamented lighted trees. Spike had the idea they should go down to Molly Maguire’s for a beer, but when they got to the Wonderland Cyber Café, the owner’s daughter, Desiree, called to them from the porch. “Will! Liam!” she said. “Come on up. I’m making Margaritas.” They went up, and Spike gave Desiree a fond hug hello. “I didn’t know you served drinks here,” he said. “We don’t,” she laughed, “but we’re having Mexican night. You pay for the food and your Margaritas are free. That way we stay legal.” Angel declined the drink, ordering an espresso instead, but Spike got nachos grande and a slice of Mexican wedding cake, and finished off two Margaritas by himself. When the café started to empty, Angel pulled some paint chips from his pocket. He invited Desiree to join them, and asked her opinion for the guest room. - - - - - They got home after midnight, and both walked wordlessly through to the mudroom behind the kitchen. They stripped out of their good clothes and changed into loose, black outfits. They continued out through the back door and up the steep garden path. They faded into the woods like shadows. They moved up through the darkness, weaving among the trees silently, until they scented the recent passing of deer. And then the hunt was on. |