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16 August 2010 @ 09:43 am
Parallax (4/8)  


Title: Parallax
Author: whichclothes  
Chapter: 4/8
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Characters: Spike, Angel 
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Warnings: Dub-con, angst
Summary: After the battle with Wolfram & Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.
A/N: Thank you to silk_labyrinth  for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to sentine  for another awesome banner! This fic is complete and I'll post 2 chapters daily.

Previous chapters here.





 

Four

 

Angel and his crew arrived at the Hyperion in a noisy flourish. Spike happened to be in the lobby when they showed up; he had been making his way to the office to nick a book or two. But then Angel swept in, and when he came face-to-face with Spike, they both froze for a moment. Angel had been limping and his clothes were uncharacteristically disheveled and Spike could smell his grandsire’s blood, but he had that triumphant look on his face.

“Beat the bastards, did you?” Spike finally asked, coolly.

“Yeah.” There was a moment of awkward silence. “Without you.”

“Wasn’t invited, was I?” Spike managed to smirk instead of snarl.

“No.” And Angel walked by him, almost but not quite bumping against Spike’s shoulder as he passed.

An hour or so later, a meeting was called in the lounge. A debriefing, Spike expected. He wasn’t invited to that either, but he went anyway and skulked near the door as usual. Angel and Lilia sat next to each other on the sofa, and although they carefully didn’t touch, Spike could tell at once that they’d been shagging. He wondered how that had gone. Angelus was nowhere in sight, so apparently Lilia hadn’t made him perfectly happy. Angel avoided looking at Spike entirely, but the one time he forgot himself and let his glance fall near the door, Spike lifted his eyebrows and curled his tongue behind his teeth, and then laughed at the mighty frown he received in return.

After the meeting, during which Angel had nattered on endlessly about his great heroics, everyone headed up to their rooms. They looked knackered. But Angel grabbed Spike’s arm and dragged him away, over near the old reception desk.

“Soul still safely stuck on?” Spike smirked at him.

Angel put his face very close. “This isn’t your goddamn business. Stay out of it.”

“I don’t care who you shag, Peaches. Fuck the whole lot of them if you like. Blake’d bend over for you in a second.”

Liam was probably the sort whose face went all red when he was angry, back when he was human. Now he just pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “Don’t do this, William,” he spat.

“Not doing anything.” Spike leered in a way he knew infuriated his grandsire.

Angel growled like an angry Rottweiler and his hands clenched into fists. Spike braced himself for a blow. Waited for it. But then Angel only roared inchoately and spun about and marched back outside.

 

***

 

Spike felt like a right ponce.

He’d spent nearly half an hour dithering over what to wear before deciding on the new outfit he’d acquired. Then he’d painted his nails black and took forever messing about with his hair, wishing desperately for a reflection. He’d smeared a bit of eyeliner on, then swore and washed it off. He put on three wide rings and the chain with the thick silver links.

He reminded himself a hundred times that he was not a seventeen-year-old girl and this was not a sodding date.

Then he painted his eyes again.

He told himself he was just walking quietly, but the truth was, he slunk down the stairs and across the lobby. Not quietly enough though, because just before he made it out the door, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Spike spun about.

Angel had mended in the three days since he’d returned from Canada. His clothing was impeccable, if boring, and his hair was back in all its gelled glory. He looked Spike slowly up and down.

“What?” Spike finally exclaimed, hoping he sounded belligerent instead of defensive.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your bloody business, is it?”

Angel took a step back and crossed his arms on his chest. “You’re all...dressed up.”

“So? Maybe I’ve somewhere to go more interesting than this morgue.” He waved his arms about a bit.

“Are you...seeing someone, Spike?”

“No. But what if I was?”

“Who is it?”

Spike had a sudden and vivid mental image of Angel sitting down at a table with Trevor and telling the man every stupid thing Spike had done for the past 150 years. The two of them laughing at him. Trevor leaning back in his chair and saying, “So, Angel, why don’t you tell me what a real vampire’s existence is like.”

Spike growled at Angel and marched out into the night. Angel didn’t try to follow.

Trevor had given Spike his address and careful directions, which was good because the house was in some bloody canyon or other, in one of those neighborhoods where you couldn’t see the houses themselves; only their tall, ornate gates. Spike brought the Valiant to a halt in front of what he reckoned was the right gate and pressed the buzzer. Trevor’s voice came out through the intercom. “Hey, Spike. Glad you made it.” The gate clicked open and Spike drove through.

The drive twisted around some trees and a few hillocks, so Spike didn’t see the house at first. When the structure did come into view, he whistled. It was a mansion, a sprawling modern thing that was all glass and steel.

Trevor was waiting for him outside the enormous front doors, wearing a pair of smart wool trousers and a thin navy jumper. He waved at Spike, who pulled the car to a halt. “You can just park right there,” Trevor called. Spike nodded and got out.

Trevor trotted over and flung an arm about Spike in one of those masculine embraces. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show the place off.”

Trevor had to give Spike a formal invitation at the door, of course, but he did so cheerfully. They entered directly into an enormous living room, all bright, open space, and along one wall a fireplace big enough to roast a pig. The furniture matched the house: sleek, modern, expensive. Trevor tugged at Spike until they found themselves in the kitchen, which rivaled a good restaurant’s in size and equipment.

“I don’t even cook,” Trevor laughed, heading for the fridge. “But the place came like this, so....” He stuck his head into the fridge, rooted about for a moment, and then emerged with a glass carafe full of thick red liquid.

Spike’s eyebrows rose.

“You want some?” Trevor asked, waving the carafe a bit. “I’ve got a friend at the hospital, and he promised me this stuff was fresh. Um, the labels said it was A-Positive. Is that okay? I don’t know if it makes a difference.”

“A-Pos is lovely,” Spike replied.

“You like it cold? Or body temp, maybe?”

“Warmed.”

Trevor fetched an oversize green mug and filled it with blood, then popped it into the microwave. A few seconds later, he handed it to Spike.

“Cheers,” Spike said and took a sip. It was fresh. Very.

Trevor watched him drink without any trace of disgust on his handsome face. “So, does all blood taste the same?”

“No. Human’s different to animal, of course. But then, each human is unique. Depends on their diet, their health, all that.”

“Like different provenances of wine.”

Spike nodded. “Yeah. More or less.”

“Cool!”

“Ta for the nosh.”

“Hey, I try to be a good host, you know. Do you want some more, or maybe some scotch? Or how about the two-penny tour.”

Spike set his empty mug down on the granite countertop and smiled. “Guide away.”

It took some time to see the entire house. As the tour progressed, Spike felt himself relaxing more, enjoying Trevor’s easy company, laughing at the man’s small jokes. They peeked outside at the swimming pool—it had one of those infinity edges, with a view of the city, and the water sparkled prettily. Then they went back inside, through the living room, and into a smaller space that Trevor called his media room. Most of one wall was taken up by a huge screen; a whole flock of speakers hung from the ceiling and there was a bar in the back, lit up in blue.

Spike sat on one of the sinfully comfortable sofas while Trevor fussed about in the bar; a moment later, Trevor sat next to him and handed him a glass of amber liquid. Trevor himself had his usual bottle of ale. He picked up a remote control that looked complicated enough to run a television network, and punched at the buttons. The lights dimmed, sound roared through the speakers, and the screen lit up.

Trevor had promised him an action film, something with bloody murders and car chases and girls in skimpy clothing. Spike couldn’t recall the name of the thing. And although he was enjoying the film, he wasn’t really keeping track of the plot either. There was certainly loads of fast movement, and there were explosions and crashes ,and flashes of bare skin; but he couldn’t have said who the actors were, or the names of any of the characters, or even what anyone in the film was trying to do. It was all a sort of noisy blur, albeit a fascinating one.

And then, well, things got even fuzzier. Somehow Trevor’s arm was around Spike’s shoulders, warm and heavy. And then they were kissing, Trevor’s beer-tasting tongue inside of Spike’s mouth. A flash—lost time?—and they were in a bedroom on a bed, and Spike was naked and Trevor was in him, and Spike wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to say he didn’t want this, except he did, or at least a part of him did, and in any case he couldn’t seem to make his mouth work properly; and then his mouth was working, but only to make animal grunts and mewls and then a howl as he climaxed.

The world seemed to sharpen up again shortly after. His clothing was back on and he was standing near the front door. He could almost have imagined the entire incident never happened, except his arse was sore and he felt sticky and...used. Spike blinked up at Trevor, who clapped him amiably on the shoulder. “That was fun, Spike. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

“But...but....”

“Hey, you’d better hurry. Sunrise is early this time of year.”

And Spike was back in the Valiant, waiting for the gate to open and let him out.

 

***

Spike woke up that afternoon with the smell of another man all over him. In him. He leapt out of his bed as if it were on fire and ran into the loo, turned on the shower tap as hot as it would go, and stood under the steaming water for a very long time.

He didn’t understand what had happened the night before.

He wasn’t attracted to blokes. He certainly didn’t want to be buggered by one. But Trevor was only human, and couldn’t have forced Spike to do anything if he was truly unwilling. And Spike had enjoyed it. Not just his body, although his body had thrummed under Trevor’s touches like a well-tuned guitar. But also something within himself. His soul, perhaps? His psyche? He didn’t know. Whatever it was, he had felt used and taken and possessed the previous night. And he had liked that very much.

Nearly parboiled, Spike finally turned off the water. He toweled dry and pulled on some clothing—his old jeans and a tee, not the outfit Trevor had bought him—and headed downstairs.

Everyone was gathered in the lounge again, looking unhappy. They appeared to be waiting for Yuri to find something on the computer. When Spike entered the room Angel scowled, but continued pacing back and forth, not saying anything.

“What’s the crisis du jour, kiddies?” Spike asked. “Nothing good on sale at Hot Topic?”

There were a few rolled eyes in response, but that was all until Rudy perhaps took pity on him. “Yuri thinks he’s found a pattern that worries him.”

“A pattern?”

Rudy nodded. “In demon attacks.”

Yuri swiveled around on his chair. “There have been more attacks than usual lately.”

Spike shrugged. “Happens. Full moon or summat.”

“But they are not random. I am finding news articles now. I think attacks happen in...in cluster, yes? “ His earnest face scrunched up in concentration. “Where is Angel, is more demons.”

It was Spike’s turn to frown. “You mean, they’re targeting him? ‘T’s nothing new, is it? Demons can’t resist the pouf.”

“But none of these have been very dangerous,” Angel said. “Some of them have even been pretty peaceful types. Like last night, we got jumped by a pod of Kreggers. Kreggers!”

That was odd, Spike had to admit. Kreggers generally seemed more interested in collecting junk mail to line their nests than they did in harming anyone. “Have you been using a new cologne, Liam?”

Angel huffed at him. “I think they’re trying to distract us.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know!” Angel sounded so angry, Spike half-expected his grandsire to start pummeling him. But Angel didn’t, instead spinning about and stomping off toward the opposite end of the room.

All right. A new scheme. Perhaps a new apocalypse. Same old, same old. Spike sauntered over to a vacant chair and threw himself down.

He stayed for several hours, through the afternoon and into the evening, as the others went round and round, speculating about the newest crisis. They all shot him curious looks now and then, as if they were wondering why he was there, but mostly they ignored him. He concluded pretty quickly that none of them had the faintest idea what was going on and he certainly didn’t have anything to add, but he listened. He didn’t fancy going out that night.

When everyone was frustrated and knackered, the group broke up. Some of them mentioned something about dancing and left the Hyperion. Rudy said he was going to go act like a detective and see if he could dig any information up. And Lilia grabbed Angel’s hand and dragged the big vampire toward the stairs. Angel gave Spike an odd look—part threat, part something Spike couldn’t identify—and allowed himself to be towed away.

Spike felt restless. For a time, he went up to his room and tried to watch the telly. Nothing was on though, at least nothing that held his attention for more than a few minutes. He moved about his small room like a caged cat, picking things up, putting them down. He fetched a paper and pen and began to write, but crumpled the paper into a tight ball when he realized his poetry was even more horrible than usual.

At close to two in the morning, he admitted it to himself. He was craving Trevor, the way an addict craves a hit. “Bloody hell!” he shouted and swept an innocent lamp off his chest of drawers, smashing the thing to bits.

A while later, he skinned off his jeans and lay down on the bed and began to wank. He tried to think of Buffy, of Dru, of Harmony, of some of the other birds he’d shagged over the years. But what kept flashing into his head were images of Trevor, grinning at him, dripping sweat onto him as he fucked him, casually suggesting another round.

With a roar of rage, Spike flung himself out of bed. He yanked his trousers on over his aching erection and stomped off in search of alcohol.

 

***

 

Spike knew he was love’s bitch. And he knew his choices had been beyond foolish. What kind of idiot vampire falls for a Slayer? His track record was lamentably poor.

But at least his previous choices had been understandable, to a point. They were beautiful and powerful. Dru had plucked him out of miserable, plodding obscurity and given him eternity. She’d made him the monster that he was. And Buffy, even when she hated him, long before the soul, had brought out the best in him, had made him feel like he was still a man.

This thing with Trevor mystified him. Not just because Trevor was a bloke, because Spike was willing to admit that perhaps—perhaps—he’d play for the other side, for the right bloke. But there was nothing extraordinary about Trevor. He was handsome, but Spike could have found an even more handsome man within minutes, nearly anywhere in this city. He was rich, but Spike didn’t admire all those toys and perqs as more than passing amusements. Spike had been enjoying his friendship, to be sure, but that wasn’t the same as love.

And in any case, Spike didn’t love Trevor. He...needed him. Needed to belong to him. To serve him.

And that was just batshit barmy.

Spike decided that this entire incident was a brief moment of insanity. A flashback to his newly souled days perhaps, or a bit of a legacy from Dru. He would just ignore it and it would go away.

As soon as the sun set, Spike marched resolutely out of the hotel and to his car. He growled when he realized he could smell Trevor even there, as if the man’s scent had worked its way into the threadbare upholstery. Then he started the ignition and, with his jaw set in defiance, drove to Vesuvius.

When Spike saw that Trevor wasn’t there, an unnerving mixture of relief and disappointment swept through him. He sat in his usual seat and ordered his usual Jack from Sallee and made a point of admiring her twitching pink tail. He drank and he watched the other demons and he tried to keep his mind as carefully blank as possible.

He did not flinch when Trevor sank into the chair opposite him.

“Hey, Spike,” Trevor said with his usual smile, as if he hadn’t fucked Spike at all. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Spike said, which was a complete lie.

Trevor’s smile didn’t dim. “Glad to hear it.” Sallee came by just then with a bottle of ale, which she plunked onto the table before walking away. Trevor took a long sip. He was dressed tonight like a Brooks Brothers model—gray trousers, white and blue checked shirt, charcoal jumper tied about his neck.

“What do you want?” Spike asked wearily.

The other man shrugged. “Just hoping for some company. Thought you might be too. I mean, company other than Angel and his gang. They’re back, right?”

“Forget bloody Angel!” Spike shouted, making a few nearby patrons turn and stare. He glared at them.

Trevor smiled on, unperturbed. “How about we head over to my place?”

Spike didn’t want to. Didn’t want anything to do with this bloke. “All right,” he said, and stood.

They took separate cars, Spike following the taillights obediently even as the gate swung open and they entered the familiar driveway. Trevor pulled his BMW around the side of the house, most likely to the garage entrance, and Spike parked near the front door. He stood outside uncertainly for a few minutes, wondering why the hell he was there, when the front door opened and Trevor called to him. “Come on, Spike!” Compliantly, Spike did.

Once inside the house, Trevor didn’t bother with the niceties of drinks or tours or films. He simply led the way to a bedroom—Spike had the idea it was a guest room, and not Trevor’s own—and within moments Spike was naked and on his knees, unzipping Trevor’s posh trousers.

Spike didn’t feel as fuzzy as he had last time. In fact, his impressions of what he was permitting Trevor to do to his body were dismayingly clear. But the fact was, he was permitting them, was wanting them even while he hated them. He was fairly certain that he would have begged for them if Trevor had asked him to, and he was profoundly grateful that Trevor didn’t.

Hours later, as Spike limped back to his car, he turned and looked at Trevor, who was as blandly happy as always. “What are you doing to me?” Spike asked plaintively.

“Nothing you don’t want. Pretty sure that was you screaming for more, a little while ago.”

“But—” How, Spike was going to ask. Or perhaps, why. But Trevor went back inside, and Spike heard the lock engage.

Angel was hovering in the lobby again, this time deeply in discussion with Rudy and Lilia. They all watched Spike as he entered the hotel, their eyes tracking him as he made his way across the lobby. He had just put his foot on the first stair when Angel called, “Spike!”

Wearily, Spike turned and looked at them. “What?”

“What have you been up to?”

Spike closed his eyes. He felt ridiculously as if he might burst into tears. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been going somewhere. A lot. And you smell…strange.”

“Cheers. Sorry I’m not up to your cleanliness standards, Peaches. I’ll make sure and buy some of that poncy soap you fancy so much. ‘Course, you don’t smell of the soap now yourself.” He leered and cut his eyes pointedly toward Lilia.

But Angel didn’t take the bait. “I swear, William, if you’re behind these demon attacks—”

“Oi! Soul now, remember? And mine doesn’t fall off as easily as yours, either. Haven’t done a single evil thing since Sunnydale, which is more than you can say, innit?” Truthfully, he was hurt that after all this time, after all the blood he had shed at Angel’s side, his grandsire still doubted him.

Angel scowled. “I know you’re up to something.”

Spike sighed. “Went out. Had a few drinks. Now I’m off to bed.” Angel didn’t need to know about the bit in between. It was none of his affair.

Spike didn’t wait for a response; he made his way up the stairs as quickly as his aching body would allow. He reckoned a hot bath before bedtime would be brilliant.

 


 

 

 
 
Kevin Jonesmulder200 on August 16th, 2010 05:58 pm (UTC)
I knew it! Trevor is up to something but what is it?

I can't wait to find out.
whichclotheswhichclothes on August 16th, 2010 08:44 pm (UTC)
Trevor is up to no good!
relurkerrelurker on June 22nd, 2011 09:06 am (UTC)
I was going to give up on this story, because I thought that this was not Spike at all, but I'm "relieved" to see that it was all achieved by an evil masterminded scheme!
So I guess it's all part of the mind wiping thing, the fact that Spike never thought back to the fact that Trevor smelled somewhat off to him in the beginning. But now he knows that he's being imposed on, isn't he going to do something?
whichclotheswhichclothes on June 22nd, 2011 04:41 pm (UTC)
Poor Spike is really caught.