| After: Transit of Venus 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 previous stories can be found here: http://www.geocities.com/kuzibah/AfterMenu.html - - - - - The kitchen door hissed as it opened, and Angel and Spike, asleep in one another’s arms on the counter, came instantly awake. Their eyes looked first at the window near the ceiling, saw daylight, then looked towards the door. The doctor who had taken Gunn, Silas, poked his head in and looked around. The first one he saw was Illyria, perched on a butcher block, motionless, and he started at the sight of her. “She won’t bite,” Spike said, not moving from where he rested on Angel’s chest, and the doctor started again, turning towards the two vampires. “She’ll beat your brains in soon as look at you,” Spike went on. “But you’re safe from biting.” “What… is she?” Silas asked. “Her name is Illyria,” Angel said quietly. “Once this world trembled before me,” Illyria announced. “Now I have been reduced to a mere shadow of what I once was.” In a graceful movement, Spike was up, off the counter, and standing to face the doctor. “She’ll go on like that for hours, if you let her,” he said. “Lots of clichéd evil overlord banter. All ‘omnipotent’ this, and ‘worshiped for eons’ that.” “You are a maggot,” Illyria said. “Once you would have died for even thinking such things.” “See what I mean?” Spike said with a smirk. Silas turned to Angel, who was pulling on his boots. His expression said he was clearly hoping Angel was the helpful one in the group. “And the two of you are vampires, I take it.” “Right in one,” Spike said. “Give the man a kewpie doll.” Illyria cocked her head. “…Kewpie..?” “We are,” Angel confirmed. “I’m Angel and this is Spike.” “I’m his boyfriend,” Spike said cheerily, earning him an exasperated look from Angel. “Well… I, uh, had rather… assumed,” the doctor said faintly, and his flustered manner so reminded Angel of Wesley that he ached with it. “How is our friend?” Angel asked, hoping for distraction, and mercifully the doctor came back to himself. “Recovering,” Silas said. “Unfortunately, he’s lost a lot of blood, which we’re in rather short supply of.” Spike gave Angel a disappointed look over the doctor’s shoulder, and Angel was grateful he stood behind his back. “The priests are using healing spells, though, left and right, and we expect to be on our way by nightfall.” That got Spike’s attention. “On your way where?” he demanded. “Who are you guys anyway? And what have you got to do with Wolfram and Hart?” “All excellent questions,” Angel said levelly, “and when you’ve answered those, I have more.” ”I might ask the same of you,” Silas shot back. “Rather strange how you just walked into a warded building from the middle of a battle.” “Yeah, about that,” Angel said. “I own this hotel.” “You do?” The doctor’s brow furrowed. “We understood this was owned by Wolfram and Hart. Which as of about twelve hours ago became a rather impressive pile of rubble.” “Well, I…” Angel looked over at Spike, who shrugged. “That’s on you, mate,” he said. “I’m the one who did that,” Angel said. “But before I decided to take out the senior partners, I was the head of the L.A. branch.” Silas seemed physically shaken by this news, and Spike moved in closer. “Your turn,” he said. The doctor looked at the vampires nervously, then drew himself up and began. “We are the Order of St. Michael,” he said. Now it was Spike’s turn to look confused. “I thought the pope disbanded you guys during the Spanish Inquisition..” At Angel’s look of surprise, he added, “not all of us were Irish peasants.” “Because we disagreed with him,” Silas said earnestly. “Rome decreed that those who did not conform were our enemies, but we had battled against real evil. We knew the difference between a hell-beast and a village herb woman.” “So you continued all this time in secret,” Angel surmised. “Not so secret,” Silas admitted. “After the Reformation we were invited back to carry out missions for the Vatican. On a strictly informal basis, of course.” “Is that what this was?” Spike asked. “Take out Wolfram and Hart for His Holiness?” Silas gave them a grin that was startling in its bloodthirstiness. “Oh, no,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for the chink in their armor for a very long time. We never thought it would come from inside. We are in your debt.” “Well, we thought we’d be dead by now, so let’s call it even,” Spike said. “What about the other demons?” Angel said. “The flying ones.” “I don’t know their name,” Silas said, “but they have long coveted Wolfram and Hart’s power, like many others.” He grinned again. “I fear the senior partners will be far too busy for further schemes for quite some time.” “Score one for us,” Spike said. “Many others,” Angel repeated. “How many others?” “I’ve no idea,” Silas said. “Hundreds of orders and tribes, I expect.” “Hundreds!” Spike was shocked. “Wolfram and Hart has made many enemies,” Silas said. “And many of them can be very patient.” “It’s gonna be chaos,” Angel said. “It is the nature of things to fall to chaos,” Illyria said. “Order comes only with great effort.” Angel spared her a glare, then turned back to the doctor. “I need to see my friend,” he said. “I need to know that he’s well and plan our next step.” Spike glanced toward the ceiling. “A hot shower wouldn’t hurt, either.” Silas looked uncertain. “I need to speak to the priests,” he said. “Do that,” Angel said. “And not to get petty, but it is my house.” “I’ll bear that in mind,” Silas said, and he headed back towards the lobby. Angel and Spike followed as far as the doorway to observe the activity. Things seemed to be more organized than the previous night; the dead had been removed, it wasn’t immediately apparent where. The wounded had all been stitched up, their wounds carefully bound, and they rested in row after row of cots. Priests and doctors moved among them, offering comfort and kind words. They were able to spot Gunn, awake and half-propped up, speaking to a nurse who was attending to the dressings that wrapped his torso. They then followed Silas’s progress as he took aside one of the priests, and then led the way to Gunn’s bed. They exchanged words, and Gunn turned towards the kitchen, raised one hand in an attempt to dismiss Angel’s fears, then turned back to a discussion with the priest that went on for several minutes. “What do you expect they’re talking about?” Spike asked. “‘What are vampires doing here? How soon can we get the vampires to leave?’” Angel guessed. Illyria stepped up beside them. “The one called ‘Father’ is insisting Gunn take something called ‘the host’ before he speaks with you,” she said. “You can hear them from here?” Spike was surprised. “Damn, he’s clever,” Angel murmured. “I’m glad he’s on our side.” “More or less,” Spike amended. At Gunn’s bedside, an agreement was reached, and the priest produced a silver box from somewhere in his robes. He sat on the edge of the bed, opened it, placed a wafer on Gunn’s tongue, and tipped a small flask to his lips. Silas helped Gunn to his feet and slowly lead him to the doorway. Gunn reached to take Angel’s hand. “I’m okay,” he said, but Angel and Spike both shrank back. “What’s wrong?” Gunn asked, leaning again on Silas’s arm. “It’s the host,” Angel said. “You’ll burn us if we touch you.” “God damn,” Gunn said. “How long does it last?” “Until you commit a sin,” Silas said, rolling his eyes. “Congratulations. You lasted all of a minute and a half.” “Thanks for the timely blasphemy,” Spike said, stepping forward again. He and Angel reached out for Gunn and led him to one of the kitchen chairs, Silas close behind. “How do you feel?” Angel said, giving a cursory examination of Gunn’s bandages. “I’ve had worse,” Gunn said. Angel glanced at Silas, who gave a curt nod. “We need to decide what we’re doing next,” Angel said. “There may be hundreds of groups trying to fill the void left by Wolfram and Hart. We don’t… we don’t have prophecies to guide us now, and…” Angel’s voice broke a little. “And we don’t have Wesley to help us anymore.” Spike put one hand on Angel’s back, and Angel took a breath and began again. “But I believe we’re still in a position to influence events for the better.” “I agree,” Gunn said, and he looked to Silas himself. “And that’s why I’m joining the order of St. Michael. I talked to Father Martin last night. And it will be better for you without me. You won’t have to wait for me.” “I never thought that,” Angel said. “I know you didn’t,” Gunn said. “But I want to do this. I think this is my place, now.” “Sometimes you just know,” Spike said. “I get that,” Angel said. “I’m sorry I’m letting you down,” Gunn said. “You’re not,” Angel told him. “I’ll miss you, but I don’t doubt the order has its own part to play.” “We do,” Silas affirmed. “And we will.” Gunn looked back towards the lobby. “We’ll be gone in a few hours,” he said. Angel said nothing, and Spike gave him a reassuring pat. - - - - - Angel, Spike, and Illyria watched as the Order mobilized. Amid the activity of moving wounded and equipment, Gunn was on one knee, taking the oath and receiving the emblem of his service. Angel had to admit he wore it more comfortably than any since his sister’s death. By the time darkness fell, the lobby was empty, a shattered door-lock the only sign that they were ever there. The wards collapsed as the last man crossed the threshold, and the three supernatural beings entered the hotel proper. Illyria quickly retreated to the cave-like inner office with its sliding door, and began her descent into the semi-trance state that served as both sleep and sustenance, while Spike led Angel, in a trance state all his own, upstairs to the bedrooms. He found what he took to be Angel’s former quarters, looking very neglected, and settled Angel on the bed against his token protests, while he explored the other rooms for things they might need. He was grateful for the acute sense of smell and hunter’s instinct that helped him find a few odd towels, nearly empty bottles of shampoo, and soap. He retuned to find Angel leaning on his knees, head in hands. He walked past to the bathroom and dropped the things in the sink, returned to Angel’s side. “I got soap and whatnot,” he said. “You can take a shower if there’s hot water.” Angel looked up, refusing to indulge himself in a good brood as though by force of will. “There should be,” he said. “They got the electricity on, so…” He trailed off and dragged himself to his feet. “I won’t be long,” he said. “Take your time,” Spike said. “I may join you in a bit.” He was pleased to see this remark made Angel smile, a small one without much mirth, but there. “Go on then,” he prompted, and Angel withdrew. The ancient fluorescent light gave the old black-and-white bathroom a strange greenish cast. Angel turned on the taps, heard the pipes deep in the old building rattle and complain before giving up a few spurts of mud-colored water and then beginning to run. Angel stripped out of his clothes, examined the healing bruises around his torso, livid in the harsh illumination, checked the shower to find a tepid but serviceable stream, and stepped in. He rubbed the gritty, cracked sliver that Spike had found roughly over his skin, recognized the milk and almond scent that Cordelia had favored when she’d lived at the hotel, and felt the sorrow at her passing press out against his ribcage. Something cracked inside him, and he drew a breath to steady himself as his hands started shaking. And then the world went white. The vision exploded behind his eyes, and images pummeled his brain. They came towards him, leaving him no escape, as though he stood at the bottom of a narrow shaft while rocks were rained down over him. He came out of it crumpled on the floor of the shower. Spike, still dressed as the water streamed over him, looked down worriedly. “Jesus,” he swore as Angel’s eyes opened. “What the hell happened?” Angel tried to push himself up, felt his arms like rubber, and lay back down. “Vision,” he said. “There’s another clash coming. A demon god is going to open a portal and send his followers through.” Spike turned off the water, dragged Angel to a sitting position and began to dry him with a towel. “So what’s that have to do with us?” he said. Angel gave him an incredulous stare. “We can’t let that portal open,” he said. “Even if the demons don’t ultimately take control, they’ll murder hundreds of thousands in the process.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Well, hell,” he said cheerily, “we can‘t have that. What do we need to do?” “Destroy at least one of the three crystals that will be used to focus the portal,” Angel said. He pounded one fist against the tile wall. “Damn it! I thought I was done with these visions!” Spike touched his cheek and gave him a sympathetic look. “Not your luck, pet,” he said. “Good thing for you I’ve got experience taking care of crazy clairvoyants.” He helped Angel to his feet, steered him towards the bedroom. “So what’s our timeframe?” “Five days,” Angel said miserably. “But they’re in Montana.” “Not a problem,” Spike said. “We’ll get a good day’s rest, I’ll get us a car tomorrow night. Now you lay down, let me shower proper, I’ll be back to take care of you in two shakes.” Angel caught Spike’s hand, held him until he turned his attention back. “They’ll be looking for us,” Angel said. “Anyone who thinks we might be against them…” “I.e., everyone,” Spike muttered. “We aren’t exactly inconspicuous, Spike,” Angel finished. Spike shook his head. “We have plenty of time to work on that,” he said. “Sleep now. Fight later.” Ten minutes later Spike was clean, dried, and slipping in beside a restless Angel. He was pleased to note that his skin against Angel’s seemed to relax the older vampire, and he chanced a kiss on the back of Angel’s neck. “That’s nice,” Angel murmured, and Spike kissed him again. - - - - - Angel woke the next day alone, but with the covers nested around him as he’d always tucked in Spike. He found his clothes and made his way downstairs. He could see Spike with Illyria in his old office, heard Spike’s deep voice. “Still too much like her,” Spike was saying. “Do it shorter, darker. More, almost black. Now the eyes, they have to be a color found in nature. Try a grayish-blue. And darker lashes, like Angel’s.” Angel approached the doorway very slowly, wanting to see what Spike was up to unobserved, himself. He found Spike leaning on the desk, directing Illyria to alter her own appearance. She was still slight and long-limbed, but she looked less like a graduate student and more like the vampire wanna-bes who hung around outside the malls wearing black PVC clothes and smoking clove cigarettes. In fact, with her bobbed and banged hair it struck Angel that she looked like a modern Goth-kid version of Louise Brooks. “Nice job,” Angel said quietly when the transformation seemed complete, and Spike gave him a look of barely-concealed pride. “I saw ‘Beggars of Life’ about twenty times,” he said fondly. “This haircut irritates me,” Illyria said. “Really? I think it’s very flattering,” Spike soothed. “And if we don’t want every demon in existence with a petty grudge or delusions of godhood…” “Let them come,” Illyria said. “I would welcome the chance to crush their petty…” “Yeah, well, we wouldn’t,” Spike interrupted, turning his back on her. “And when the two of us are dust, who are you gonna have to listen to all your tales of the good old days?” Illyria shut her mouth and gave Spike a confused glare. “I despise this reliance on lesser beings,” she said. “Suck it up,” Spike told her. “Much as I hate to interrupt,” Angel said, “we need to get on the road tonight, and you and I, Spike, still need to disguise ourselves.” “What’d you have in mind?” Spike said. “Dark glasses?” Angel looked slightly pained, but pressed on. “You need to get rid of your hair,” he said. He’d been expecting a fight over this, at the very least screams of outrage, but Spike merely gave a resigned shrug. “I know,” he said. “Not looking forward to the dishwater blond again, but…” He gave Angel a thoughtful look. “You need to change, too,” he said. Angel patted his hair self-consciously; it was still in disarray from being slept on wet. “I was going to comb it flat,” he said. “No, real change,” Spike said. He glanced past Angel at the afternoon light streaming in the windows. “I’ll go to the drugstore,” he said, “and I need to hit a butcher-shop, too. You’ve tunnels here. Tell me how to go.” Angel nodded, led him to the basement. - - - - - Spike was back within an hour, found Angel sorting seemingly random items of clothing on the bed, an inadequately small pile of other supplies on the dresser. Angel looked up as Spike came in. “I found Gunn’s old electric clippers,” Angel said. “They still work. Should do a good job.” “I should get started, then.” “No,” Angel said, leaving his sorting. “We’ll eat first, then I want to do it.” Spike grinned slowly. “Good,” he said. “’Cause I’ve got plans for your hair, too.” Angel crossed to the kitchenette, took down and rinsed two tall glasses. Spike joined him and unpacked the plastic containers filled with animal blood, poured it into the glasses. They sat opposite each other, clinked glasses, and drank deep. Spike’s face had taken on the demon aspect when he set the empty glass down, poured out more. “God, I’m starving,” he said around jagged fangs. “Even this crap tastes good.” “Come on,” Angel said when the blood was gone, and Spike followed him into the bath. He snapped the “2” attachment onto the electric clippers, started running them through Spike’s hair. Handfuls of bleached locks came off into Angel’s hand, and Spike noted he collected it all in a Ziploc baggie. “You’re a sentimental old fool,” Spike told him, but there was no anger in it. “Humor me,” Angel said, taking off the last of Spike’s hair and transferring the bag to the pocket of the khaki cargo pants that he wore. He rubbed a palm over the soft velvet nap that covered Spike’s scalp, pained at how vulnerable his… lover? Offspring? Something else, maybe? How vulnerable *Spike* looked, he revised in his head. “Rub the Buddha for luck,” Spike said with forced gaiety before jumping up. “Your turn,” he said. “Get your kit off and sit down.” He fetched the drugstore bag from the kitchen, came back to find Angel staring at him. “Take off your shirt,” Spike said deliberately. Angel smirked, lifted his t-shirt over his head. “Pants, too,” Spike said, rolling his eyes. “I usually prefer my seduction a little more subtle,” Angel said, dropping his trousers and sitting down. “Think of it as Irish foreplay,” Spike said, giving Angel his most charming grin and pulling a bleach kit out of the bag. Angel shook his head, laughed. “This is revenge for all the times I made fun of you, isn’t it?” “No, not really,” Spike said, mixing together the bleach and peroxide. “For starters, your hair’s too dark to get as blond as mine… was. We’re just going for a sun-streaked look. Divert the casual observer from considering you never actually get real sun.” He slid a comb through the solution, straddled Angel’s lap and began working it through his hair. “You sound like an expert.” After thirty years of DIY, I damn well better be.” Quickly, efficiently, he tossed the bleaching mixture through Angel’s locks, until, satisfied, he stepped back and pulled bottles of shampoo and conditioner out of the bag. “Get in the shower, wash really well and use a lot of conditioner.” Angel caught Spike’s wrist. “Join me.” Spike smiled. “Okay,” he said. Spike washed Angel’s hair for him, his long fingers pulling through the strands, and Angel was content to stand still and let him do it. When Spike had completed this task, he turned Angel toward him, tipped his head and kissed him, gently, almost shyly, over and over. After a moment, he tasted salt in the drops of water on Angel’s lips. Spike pulled back. “Angel,” he whispered. Angel cradled Spike’s face in his hands. “You’re all I have left,” he said. “Angel, I…” “Don’t.” Angel touched Spike’s lips to quiet him. “You’re more than I hoped for. More than I deserve.” He reached past Spike, shut off the water. “It’s dark now. Time to go.” - - - - - Spike took the clothes Angel handed him and gave them a dubious look. “Where’d these come from?” “You don’t want to know.” “They aren’t really my style.” “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? And, anyway,” he held up an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt, “I’m wearing this.” “Gag gift?” “Undercover work.” They dressed quickly and Angel ran his hands through his drying hair. “How do I look?” Spike smiled. “Almost forgot,” he said, going through the drugstore bag again, pulling out a one-time use Polaroid, and snapping Angel’s picture. “Give me that,” Angel growled, and Spike tossed it to him with a laugh, posing with his hands on his hips as Angel shot him. They both watched as the pictures developed. Angel examined the photo of himself: flowered shirt, rumpled khakis, streaky golden-brown hair. “The hair looks good,” he said. “The rest…” he gave a dramatic shudder. Spike looked at his own photo, the severe crew-cut, white t-shirt and faded overalls, and was even more blunt in his assessment. “I look like trade,” he said. Angel took the photos, placed them in his pocket with the bag of hair, then turned and began shoving items judiciously into a gym bag: towels, two blankets, sweats and tees. “We can get whatever else we need on the road,” he said. Spike frowned. “Just the one bag?” “Illyria’s carrying the weapons,” Angel said. “Your bag is over by the door.” Spike looked over, saw the denim backpack, picked it up and unzipped it. Inside was Wesley’s “book of all books” and stack after stack of cash, neatly bound. “Bugger me,” Spike breathed. “How much is here?” Angel rubbed his forehead, distracted. “I’m not sure. I’ve been hiding it around the hotel, you know, in case. A few hundred thousand? Maybe?” “Bugger me,” Spike repeated. “It won’t be enough,” Angel said, zipping the gym bag closed and pushing past Spike, who shouldered his own bag and followed. Illyria was waiting in the lobby, a pack filled with their swords and the few weapons that remained in the hotel across her back. Angel noticed, with grim amusement, that her sullen expression suited her new Goth-girl look. “I am prepared,” she said. “Good,” Angel told her. He turned to Spike, who was crossing the marble floor. “We need to get a car.” “Not a problem,” Spike said. “I spotted a few good prospects the other night. You want power or speed?” And Angel pulled the door shut behind them as they left. |