Something Old, Something New
Summary: Spike takes a left turn at Albuquerque
on his way back from getting a soul.
Author's Notes: Spike knows
Adam is an Immortal, but that's all he knows.
Spike had meant to go back to
Sunnydale. He had; was the whole point of the bloody
useless exercise in the first place, wasn't it? Get a grip, get a soul, get the girl,
all neat and tidy and Harlequin as you please.
So why he's sitting in a bar
in the middle of some redneck town just outside of Memphis, Tennessee is
something he's not willing to look at too closely. A roomful of soldiers, no less, he thinks with a sneer
for the corner tables full of Marines and sailors. He slams back his whisky, barely
repressing a shudder that he tells himself is due to the fact that he's pretty
sure he's now heard every song on Tim McGraw's latest CD. Twice. That he knows Tim McGraw's name is
something he curses Xander Harris to an early grave for as he orders another
He's hungry, been so for days
- not enough money, butchers, or untended animals in this part of the country -
and well on his way to drunk. Four
more shots, a chorus of increasingly-loud faggot jokes aimed in his direction,
and two Garth Brooks, three Brooks and
Dunn, and one LeAnn Rimes song later, Spike's got vivid enough images of
fingerpainting the woodwork on the bar in somebody's blood that the chip is
twinging sharply. The soul's mighty
silent - something that makes Spike simultaneously thankful and gleeful: he
*knew* Angel was just being a drama queen, and now he's got
There's an 'accidental'
bump-and-shove off the barstool that sets his head ablaze before he even hits
the floor and jumps back up, fists clenched. The pain sends nausea ripping through
his head and his belly, and he doubles over, heading outside into the rain
before anyone gets it into their head to use the 'pretty little English boy' for
a punching bag or worse.
He's leaning against a wall
that's no protection from the storm raging overhead, white sparks still flaring
at the edges of his vision, when someone comes around the corner and walks right
into him. Spike's too drunk on Jack
and pain to hold back again, and his fist is connecting with flesh with a
thrillingly dull, wet crunching sound before he's got time to remember it
There's a choked inhalation
and a muffled curse from whatever he hit.
Definitely a what and not a who, Spike realizes as he bounces on the
balls of his feet and prepares to swing freely: the distinct lack of blinding, searing,
intestine-twisting pain tells Spike that whatever it is that's getting ready to
fight him definitely isn't human.
There's blood on the back of
his fist; Spike licks it off, and the vague familiarity of the taste of it
distracts him long enough that he doesn't figure it out till he's pinned to the
brick like a large bleached butterfly, only it's a sword through his stomach
instead of a stickpin.
"Cheers, Adam," he croaks out
with a crooked grin. "Fine way to
greet an old friend you've got."
"Bloody hell," comes the
quiet reply as Adam comes near, wiping the rain out of his eyes with the hand
not holding the sword as he takes a good look, eyes widening. "Bloody hell," he repeats, and Spike
laughs around a cough.
"Bloody hell, and too much of
it's mine. You can take that great
shish-ka-bob of yours out of my stomach anytime
Adam shakes his head and
pulls back. "It's going to hurt,"
he says pointlessly before pulling his sword out of Spike's
"Thanks ever so," Spike
mutters. "I'd forgotten what it
felt like, being impaled by you."
He snorts at his own joke and looks up to see Adam's eyes twinkling at
"We can do something about
that, once you're back in one piece," Adam offers.
"Sod off. Not letting you near me with any kind of
pointy object anytime soon."
"Just trying to help," Adam
says, not bothering to hide his grin.
"What the hell are you doing in Tennessee, Spike?" he asks, not waiting
for an answer as he turns around.
Looking for something he can wipe the sword off with, Spike
Spike tries to stand up
straight. Black spots swarm between
the rain drops and send him back against the wall. He hits it with a damp thunk that pulls
Adam back to him.
"You can't have lost that
much blood," Adam protests. He
manhandles Spike flat against the bricks and pulls his shirt up to inspect the
damage. He waffles his head
slightly, frowning. "Worse than I
thought, but still not horrible enough for you to be swooning like a lady from
an Austen novel."
Spike pushes him away,
pulling down his shirt and glaring.
"Don't recall giving you permission to touch the merchandise, mate," he
says weakly as the alley starts to spin.
He didn't have that much to drink, he thinks, and notices that the black
spots have purple bedfellows just before everything whites out and he knows
nothing at all.
He wakes up a while later,
half-undressed in a bed that's surprisingly comfortable considering the lack of
quality of the room it's in, to the sight of Adam, obviously fresh out of the
shower, damp and towel-clad and smirking at him from the chair across the
"Hadn't realized vampires got
the flu," he says. "I'll have to
remember to make a note of that.
Update the known data, so to speak."
"Fuck off," Spike
grumbles. Normally, he'd throw the
covers off and make a great show of stalking away, but the early-afternoon sun
glimmering behind the blinds that are thin enough that Spike's grateful for the
distance from the bed to the window ensures that the shower's the only place
he's going anytime soon. And Adam
would just follow him in there, so there's not much point in wasting the
That it is an effort isn't
wasted on him, but Spike pushes the heaviness that threatens to turn into worry
away, tells himself that as soon as it's dark he'll be up and gone. He'll find something on the way out of
Thinking about feeding makes
him aware of the lack of gaping hunger he'd grown so accustomed to over the last
few weeks; a few more seconds' thought and he recognizes the faint buzz in his
veins. "You gave me blood," he says
angrily, pushing himself up on his elbows so he can glare at
"Yes. And it's at times like these when the
vampire who was starting to look like the corpse of a famine victim remembers
his manners and *thanks* the giver of food and life, and not
Spike interrupts Adam's
meaningless little tirade by flopping back into the pillows with a sigh and a
quick flip of his fingers.
Adam chuckles. "Ah, yes. *There* you
Spike can't muffle his snort
of laughter, settles instead for flipping Adam off again and rolling face-first
into the pillows. "Gonna give a
bloke the good stuff, mate, least you could do is wake him up for it," he
Something soft hits the back
of his head. "I believe 'the good
stuff' is why you *are* awake. Try
to show a little appreciation, you ungrateful
It's only a supreme force of
will and the knowledge that Adam would just laugh at him - and probably throw
something harder next time - that keeps Spike from flipping him off yet
again. He feigns sleep for a while,
but it's useless, what with Adam's stare boring two burning holes into his
Spike tries to ignore
him. Friend or no, he's not selling
the song of his troubles for a pint or two. "You're a nosy
"Thank you," comes the
infuriatingly smug reply.
Spike goes back to ignoring
Adam waits, his patience a
tangible, heavy thing that sinks Spike further and further into the mattress
until he's craving air he doesn't need.
He pushes up off the bed angrily and stomps across the room, shedding his
jeans in the process and throwing them at Adam as he enters the bathroom. "Miserable
He slams the door on Adam's
startled look and purposely runs the water too hot. His hair's barely wet when he hears the
rings sliding across the pole as Adam pulls the shower curtain back and steps
into the tub with him. Spike lets
his head drop.
A light touch down his spine
makes him jerk. "Heroin chic went
out a decade ago, my friend," Adam says quietly.
"Christ on a sodding
crutch." Spike takes a deep breath
and scrubs handfuls of water through his hair. Turns around and reaches for the
shampoo, then cradles the bottle in his hands, flicking the cap open and shut as
he meets Adam's eyes, finally decided on what he will and won't tell.
"Government knows about us,"
he says. "'Demons' us, that is;
don't know about you lot. Couple of
years ago, bunch of soldiers locked me up and tried to throw away the key. Got away, but not before they put a
bleedin' microchip in my head."
"What in the seven bloody
hells does the American government want with a computer chip in a vampire's
head?" Adam looks incredulous,
sick and furious. It was more than
a little gratifying, after years of 'Yeah, so?' for Spike to see someone be
pissed off about the chip on his behalf.
Spike snaps the cap off the
shampoo bottle; Adam takes it from him, turning him around gently, giving him
some privacy. "It was an
experiment," Spike gives in return.
"Wasn't meant to get away."
Adam says nothing, just
starts working what feels like enough shampoo for three people through Spike's
hair. He rolls his head back into
it, eyes closed. "Government got
theirs in the end, though: chip
keeps me from..."
He stops, frowns; Adam digs his fingers into the knots at
his temples. "S'posed to keep me
from hurting anything living, originally.
Think they mucked it up: I
can kill demons and animals, though that last's a new one. Not that I'm complaining," he finishes
with a wry glance down at the hollows beneath his hipbones.
"People?" Adam asks lowly, an undercurrent of
something dark rippling the hairs on Spike's neck while Adam's sudsy fingers
skim over his too-prominent ribs, raise goose bumps on his
Spike shakes his head. "It's bagged or on the hoof for me,
pet. Has been for years," he admits
quietly. Leaves off the part where
he's not entirely sorry any more.
Adam's human, or near enough to it to make no difference, but there's a
black quicksilver that runs through his veins sometimes, and Spike's reluctant
to tell him about the soul because of it.
He might have one of his own, but Spike's not certain whether Adam would
comprehend the need that drove Spike to win his back; he's got no wish to try to
explain it when he's not quite sure he understands it
The words are scarcely out of
his mouth when he's whirled and pressed against the tile. Adam pushes up against Spike hard, tilts
his head. It's all Spike can do not
to gape: for a fellow who can't be
killed for the most part, Adam's remarkably touchy about anyone being near his
neck. Makes sense, Spike reckons,
but it makes it that much harder for him to believe what he's being
"Take too much and I'll stick
you to the wall again," Adam warns him.
That's more like it, and Spike doesn't need a second threat before he's
sinking his fangs into Adam's neck.
Adam's hot, wet, pulsing,
almost-human neck, and Spike's hard before the first drops of blood hit his
tongue. Jesus wept, he'd forgotten
what this felt like. Warm,
whimpering human under his mouth and his hands, rich blood flowing in steady
pulses down his throat. He grabs
Adam's arms and moves them, turns till Adam's the only thing between the wall
and Spike's aching prick.
He slows his drinking,
drawing it out. Adds a push and a
twist and a caress here and there, and before long, Adam's bucking between
Spike's legs, clutching mindlessly at his shoulders as he comes.
Oh yeah, Spike thinks,
satisfaction, friction and an almost-full belly sending him twisting into his
own blood-hot orgasm. That's the
It's enough to remind a man
he's a vamp.