~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Denver was on fire. It was snowing, but everything was on fire.
At least that’s how it looked, approaching the city from whatever piddling
back road they were on now. Spike had lost track of the numbers long ago.
Route 12, Route 280, Route 2222, Rural Route 121212. It was all coalescing
into a large, rather terrifying blur. Terrifying because it didn’t really
matter what road they were on or what town they were in. Everything was
the same.
But something was different in Denver. There was fire in Denver. Light.
It was actually sort of beautiful, Spike thought. The combination of swirling
flame and falling snow. Beautiful, but not something he particularly wanted
to experience first hand.
“Which road do I take to go around the city?” he asked. He’d been driving
since the last time they stopped for gas, six or seven hours ago.
Angel was in the passenger seat, fiddling with the map and a tiny flashlight.
“We’re not going around,” he told Spike. “Who said we were going around?”
“I say. I’m the driver, and I say we’re going around.”
“Well, I’ve got the map. I’m direction guy, and I say we’re going to
Denver.”
Great. All the weeks cooped up in this stupid van had finally driven
the old pouf completely round the bend.
“Angel, it’s on fire!”
“What’s on fire?” Willow asked, poking her head between the seats.
“Just some buildings,” Angel said.
“Oh my gosh, it looks like the whole city practically!” Willow exclaimed,
horrified.
“Look, where there’s fire there might be people. People who need our
help,” Angel said, in his most patronizing, caped-avenger tone.
Spike sighed. There was no arguing with Angel when he got it in his
fat head that there were helpless people somewhere in need of his assistance.
But he had to try, for his own sanity if nothing else.
“Got a news flash, Batman, since you obviously haven’t been paying attention.
There are no more people. All we’re gonna find if we go in there are gangs
of looting, marauding demons.”
“That’s a pretty pessimistic view,” Angel said.
Pessimistic, perhaps, but it turned out to be pretty damn accurate.
The place looked like hell. Or, at least, the pictures of hell Spike
remembered from the ancient Catholic texts Angelus had insisted upon showing
him, back in the old days. It was strange. Even in their most unholy state
he’d taken it upon himself to convert Spike from the aberrant Anglicanism
of his human existence. As if any of it made a difference to them. As if
they weren’t damned either way.
It hadn’t taken Spike long to denounce all religious faith as a waste
of time, another restraint of human society that he was finally freed of
as a vampire. He’d never been able to understand the obsession Angelus
had for archaic religious iconography and symbolism. But now, he was starting
to.
There was certainly hellfire here, and horrible beasts so intent upon
their wrath of destruction they didn’t pay any mind to the dilapidated
brown van speeding through their midst. Not as many horrible beasts as
he’d feared there might be, but gads they were ugly. The only thing missing
from the picture was the suffering sinners, but Spike supposed they fit
that bill well enough. They still had all their limbs, though. That was
something.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” Angel said, as a flaming hunk
of building fell onto the road behind them.
“Yeah, you think?”
“Wait, turn down that street.” Angel pointed to the left, and Spike
followed his direction because nothing seemed to be on fire there.
They drove several miles on what remained of 19th Street, past the burnt
out remains of hotels and banks and restaurants that seemed to have been
abandoned by the demon hordes long ago, trying to make their way back to
the main road out of town. But eventually they reached a part of the city
that appeared relatively untouched. No fire damage, no visible demons,
and some of the buildings still had electricity. The first electricity
they’d seen in a town since leaving California.
“This looks almost normal,” Willow said.
“It does,” Angel agreed. “Strangely normal. Maybe there are people here.”
Spike knew what was coming next. There was no point in trying to deflect
it. They were going to have to investigate. Angel directed him to an empty,
creepy parking lot outside of a place called Luiso’s Italian Eatery, and
he parked the car with a disgruntled yank on the gear shift.
“Willow, stay in the car and lock the doors,” Angel said. “Spike, come
with me.” And then he was off, flouncing his way towards the restaurant,
his scrubs billowing in the wind.
As Spike was opening his door, Willow grabbed his sleeve.
“Steal me some spaghetti if you get a chance,” she whispered conspiratorially,
and he smiled.
“Will do.”
The restaurant was deserted, of course. And tacky. Velvet wallpaper
and shiny red plastic booths and old bottles of wine with candles stuck
inside. Sort of reminded Spike of his old crypt, back in Sunnydale. No
telly, though.
Spike let Angel investigate the restrooms alone because he had business
to take care of.
The kitchen was completely in tact, and very clean. The apocalypse must’ve
hit here long after the supper hour. Spike grabbed a big stainless steel
pot and started filling it with all the ingredients he could find that
weren’t rotten. Box of pasta, check. Canned tomato sauce, check. Bottle
of red to make the whole thing special, check.
Just as he was making a last sweep to see if there was anything they
actually needed in there, Angel pushed through the swinging door and barked
at him, “There’s nothing here. It’s time to go.”
He was carrying something, too. A big, rattling, cumbersome, metal…tampon
dispenser. He’d ripped the fucking tampon dispenser off the wall.
“What the hell is that?” Spike asked.
“She’s gonna need these soon. What the hell is *that*?” Angel chucked
his tampons onto the chopping counter so he could pull the pot from Spike’s
hands, and dig through the contents. “Wine?” He took out the bottle and
held it up accusingly. “No no no. Put this back, Spike.”
“Why?”
“Cause we don’t need it. It’s not practical. If you’re gonna take anything,
grab those bottles of Pellegrino.”
“We already have plenty of water,” Spike said, making a move to grab
the bottle. Angel jerked his arm back and placed the wine on the wooden
countertop with a loud, angry thump.
“We. Don’t. Need. Wine. Now let’s go.”
“Fine,” Spike sighed, and reached for the pot.
“Just leave it,” Angel told him.
“It’s food!”
“It’s dry pasta. She can’t eat it like that. And we can’t cook it.”
Spike hadn’t really thought about that, but surely there was a way.
Their pathetic excuse for a microwave had busted a long time ago, as Spike
well knew from the disgustingly cool blood he’d been drinking lately. But
water would boil over an open fire. Eventually.
Wanker just wanted Spike to come back empty handed so he could make
a grand spectacle of his lady products.
“We can cook it,” he said. “I’ll cook it.”
“Spike! Am I even here? I said it’s time to go. We don’t have time for
this.”
“Time for what? Just let me take it!”
“It’s pointless. You know that. God, why do you have to argue with every
word out of my mouth?”
Christ, all he wanted was a box of fucking spaghetti.
“Maybe if you didn’t say everything like it was a bloody pronouncement
from Moses on high, people wouldn’t argue with you all the time.”
“People,” Angel started, and moved a step closer. “People don’t argue
with me, William. Just you.”
Spike pulled his shoulders back and wished he’d worn his boots to the
apocalypse. He could sense where this was going, could smell it in the
air starting to gather around Angel, and it would’ve been nice to have
an extra inch or two.
“You don’t see Willow defying me all the time,” Angel continued. “No,
because she’s smart. Practical. She knows I’m right.”
Well that was just low, bringing Willow into it like that. Spike was
tempted to inform him that she’d been the one with the spaghetti idea in
the first place, but that would’ve been pathetic.
“Maybe she’s just afraid of you,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t
true. Willow knew Angel would never hurt her, never even raise his voice
to her probably, and so did Spike.
“Afraid of me?” Angel smirked. “She didn’t seem too afraid when we,
whaddya call it…oh yeah, had sex. No, that definitely wasn’t fear I was
smelling.”
Spike felt a fury creeping on him, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced
since the return of his soul. He’d been angry after that, of course. Angry
and sad about a great many things. But this was something else. This was
the demon, screaming inside him to work its will and bash Angel’s head
open like an overripe watermelon.
“Well then maybe she’s just too fucking nice to tell you to your face
what a thick-headed bastard you are, Angelus.”
The blow came quick and hard and pain shot through the left side of
his face. Fucker actually hit him first.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Spike demanded, and when
no answer seemed to be forthcoming he curled his left hand into a fist
and punched Angel square in the jaw.
He should’ve known better. He’d never, in over a century’s worth of
trying, been able to beat Angel in a straight up, one on one fist fight.
He wound up on his back, atop a steel chopping table, with Angel’s hand
on his throat and Angel’s dick pressing into his leg.
“I think that I’m teaching you,” he said, and shoved his body against
Spike’s for emphasis. The hand wasn’t tight. The fingers were almost caressing.
“Teaching me what?” Spike scoffed, and wriggled underneath him, willing
his willful cock to stay put.
“Who. Is in. Charge,” Angel growled through clenched teeth, thrusting
with every word. Spike could tell he was struggling to keep the demon at
bay.
“Get offa me, you fucker. Just cause you got the fattest ass, it don’t
mean you’re the smartest. Was your stupid idea to come here in the first
place.”
The hand tightened around his neck and Angel’s eyes flickered yellow
for an instant, then he swallowed and shoved himself off of Spike.
He backed away, wiping his face with a beleaguered sigh. His expression
was very familiar to Spike. He’d seen it on Angelus a thousand times, after
breaking his fingers or cracking his knees with a hammer or giving him
a particularly brutal flogging. The “why do you make me do these things?”
face.
Spike almost expected those very words to come out of his mouth, but
instead he said, “Now it’s really time to go,” and Spike raised an eyebrow
and pushed himself back onto his feet.
“I’m uh….sorry….that I hit you,” Angel said, his gaze flickering from
the giant oven to the row of pots hanging from the ceiling. Anywhere but
Spike’s face.
Spike shrugged. “S’all right. I can take it.”
“I know. That’s not the…this isn’t the way to deal with things. And
whatever resentment you’re harboring, we need to leave it behind here.
All right?”
Right. No apology would be complete without a condescending reprimand.
“This isn’t resentment. Just thought she might like a decent meal for
once.”
“I’m not talking about the pasta, Spike. It’s still bothering you and
you need to let it go.”
Christ, but he was tired of hearing about what he felt and what he needed
and what he was going to do.
“You’re wrong,” he said, even though he wasn’t. Entirely. “What’s bothering
me is your attitude.”
“My…Listen you idiot, I’m trying my goddamn best to keep this together.
To keep us from falling apart. And if you don’t like the way I’m running
things then you can go find your own damn vehicle and figure it out on
your own!”
So that was the way it was gonna be, then. With Angel or against him.
Submit or suck it.
“Angel, did you ever think that maybe this grand responsibility you’ve
taken upon yourself is something we should all be sharing? That maybe I
might have a good idea once in a while?”
“And cooking pasta without modern appliances is a good idea?”
“I’m not talking about the fucking pasta! You’re not any better than
us! You don’t know any more than we do! And if you do then fucking tell
me what it is, because this is just-”
“Shh!” Angel held up his hand, infuriatingly. “Do you hear that?”
Spike rolled his eyes and grabbed the pot, started filling it again.
There was nothing. Just Angel trying to distract him from the truth.
But then there was something. A scream, barely audible but definitely
there. Coming from the parking lot.
They ran outside, Spike still clutching the contentious cookware, and
found seven demon corpses on the snow covered ground surrounding the van.
They were blackened, as burnt out and lifeless as the fire scorched buildings
they’d seen earlier. They were only recognizable as demonic because they
were each in possession of two seared skulls. Seven bodies, fourteen heads.
And one tiny witch sobbing in the back seat.
She was on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking slowly
from side to side, and Spike knew exactly what was wrong. She’d used the
magic to burn them up, perhaps unintentionally, and it’d completely terrified
her.
He sat next to her quietly, touched her hair, and as soon as she felt
him there she turned into him and clutched his shirt. Wept on his chest,
and he held her as close as he could manage.
Angel knelt in front of them, looking vaguely panic-stricken.
“I’m sorry,” she moaned. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to use
it.”
“Shhh, s’all right, love,” he whispered.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t.” But motherfucking hell was he glad she had. They
were idiots, the both of them. Standing around bickering and posturing
and thrusting their dicks at each other while she was sitting out here
waiting to be attacked. He promised himself then and there that no matter
how angry he got, he’d never let it get in the way of looking out for her.
Never again.
She cried against him for a long time, until his shirt was damp through
to his flesh, and he ran his fingers through her hair over and over. Angel
watched, and Spike felt just a twinge of vindication.
Then, when she seemed to have run out of tears, she looked up at him
with a nearly desperate expression and asked, “Did you get the spaghetti?”
The twinge grew to an all over glow, and he smiled.
“Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”
She smiled back at him and clutched him tight around the waist. He tried
not to, because it seemed small somehow, but he couldn’t help smirking
over her head at Angel, who’d suddenly taken on the appearance of a constipated
chimpanzee.
“We need to get out of here,” Angel said, and started for the driver’s
seat. Spike stayed on the floor, holding Willow, as Angel drove them away
from Luiso’s Italian Eatery. He ran over what seemed like an inordinate
number of corpses on the way and the van rocked and jiggled.
Well that was fine. Let him have his sour grapes. As far as Spike was concerned, Denver was the best city in the world.