The Crypt: Outcast by Mithril

Author: Mithril

Title: Outcast

Pairing: Angel/Spike

Rating: Adult, Slash

Summary: Spike has lost all status and standing in the vampire community.

Distribution: Various S/A friendly lists.

Spoilers: Mid-season 5 AtV spin-off/AU. Spike appeared from the pendent at W&H, and later became corporeal again with Fred's help. Angel and Spike fought for the cup of Perpetual Torment (btw, did you ever wonder why it was called that when all other discussions about it make it out to be such a good thing, and whether that might have had something to do with Spike being determined not to let Angel drink from it (i.e. save him from perpetual torment) and thus finding the strength to beat him in that fight? Hmm...). Illyria/The Shell never happened – Fred is still with them. Hamilton is in place, but there has been no reference to the Circle of the Black Thorn. This is a Sire/Childe story – that's my thing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel or Spike or anything else from ME.

Feedback: Always welcome.

Part 3:

The five minute drive back to the Wolfram & Hart building alone with his own thoughts seemed longer than both trips to and from Long Beach that night.

* * *

Angel stepped out of the bathroom after taking an unusually hot, unusually long shower. And for someone that liked his water at almost scalding temperatures, and rarely ever was through before thirty minutes had elapsed, that was hot and long indeed.

He combed his fingers through wet hair as he moved into the dark living room to stare out over the city, glittering with lights like a Christmas tree. Without thought, he slid his hand lightly over the still glistening muscles of his chest. His nipples pebbled beneath the pads of his fingers and he sighed, glancing down at the erection straining beneath the black silk of his pajama bottoms.

Normally that would be gone by now. It wasn't for lack of trying that it wasn't. Over and over again, beneath the steaming spray, he'd called images to mind that should have completed the task quickly. First came Buffy, but then the Immortal's face popped up and that was the end of that. Nina was next, but for some reason that just didn't do it. Cordy... That was wrong on too many levels to contemplate.

Finally, frustrated beyond endurance, Angel let images from the past fill him, scenes of carnage and blood and pain. Angelus liked that a whole lot, there was no denying it, but the soul ached and in this instance his prick apparently was being led by the soul. And wasn't that a fucking irritating change of venue? But there was nothing to be done about it, so he'd sighed and reluctantly shifted the images once again, keeping the carnage and blood and pain, but replacing the human victims with his far more willing – well, willing for the most part, at any rate – vampire family; Darla, Drusilla, William...

Oh, yes...

William in chains, his pale flesh striped in red, his eyes glaring daggers at him as he took his punishment. William on his knees, his pretty, pouty mouth taking his cock all the way down, deep into his throat, just as he'd taught him. William beneath him, writhing like a whore, begging him, pleading to let him cum, his eyes hazy with lusty desire...

God, yes, that was it, that was all he needed.

Only suddenly William's face was replaced by Spike's, and instead of lusty desire, his glittering eyes were flat with sorrow and resignation.

And that was the end of that. He was still hard as a rock – that was a fairly common state for him, after all – only now it seemed he was incapable of doing anything about it.

Shit.

He glanced down again, and this time his eyes fell on the small table sitting a few feet away, beside the wall of glass. Two small leather chairs sat to either side and on the tabletop sat his old chess set. He'd had it forever, having found it in Florence during a trip there with Darla not long after his turning. He'd never learned the game as a human – he could picture his father's reaction had he ever suggested such a thing – but he had indulged in many things as a demon that he'd never considered as a human. He'd studied the game's strategies, set mock-up scenarios and walked through them at length, but he never really played it, as Darla didn't know how and had no interest in learning, and Drusilla... Well, Drusilla couldn't focus long enough for checkers, much less chess.

No, he hadn't really understood the game with all its intricacies and elegance until William.

William knew the game well; had played it all his life, it seemed. He hadn't been with them for more than a month before a daily game had been instituted. The nights were filled with the hunt, the days with sleep and passion, but the twilight time in-between belonged to him and William and their game. They'd talked endlessly then, Angelus instructing, William listening avidly and questioning constantly. He'd never felt more needed in his life or unlife. And as he'd expected during the long century when he'd admired the game in a purely academic manner, he found it in practice to be everything and more than he'd expected.

It was a delight that they shared through the good times and bad for twenty years until everything, chess and otherwise, ended. When he'd returned a few years later, seeking them out in China, he'd taken the chess set with him when he'd left.

Angel slid a finger over the dark marble of a bishop. The pieces had been hand-crafted and modeled after famous sculptures dating as far back as ancient antiquity and as recent as the Renaissance. Venus de Milo was the queen, David the King. The bishops were copies of Man in Bronze, and the Knights, instead of being horses, were Winged Victory, an elegant warrior of a different nature. The pawns were Roman Gladiators, shield and spear in hand, their legion standing side-by-side, ready to protect the rear-guard. Even the rook, which appeared much the same as in any given modern set with the exception of its rich stone, upon closer inspection revealed a degree of detail set along the castle walls and its ramparts that was amazing to behold.

The artisan who'd crafted these pieces was amazing. Angel had been so impressed with the work that he hadn't eaten him, and that was saying a lot given the insatiable and often uncontrollable nature of Angelus during his fledgling years. He'd never really lost the insatiable part, but he'd gained a degree of control over the years that could not be rivaled. Now, with some years behind him, and a degree of objectivity he'd never had before, thanks to the soul, he saw that it was that very combination of hunger and discipline that defined his greatness as a demon. Who knows, he though wryly, maybe that combination, with the added ingredient of empathy – again, courtesy of the soul – would ultimately define his greatness as a champion for good. And wouldn't that be ironic.

He hadn't played chess in over a century, and he wondered now if he ever would again. He sighed and turned away for his quiet bed. It would be a long night.

* * *

With the exception of that first day, Spike dutifully appeared at every meeting. He carried out the assignments given to him, but everyone noticed the change. The antsy, boisterous, smart-mouthed, charming vampire was subdued and silent. Every day before their team meeting began Angel would find Spike standing in the lobby, staring out through the glass windows at the city below. Once he appeared there an hour before the scheduled meeting time. Angel watched him surreptitiously through his open office door. Spike never moved or blinked the whole hour he stood there.

Four days after they'd cleared the ferals from the Long Beach piers, Angel received intelligence on another nest in the warehouse district. At the end of the daily meeting, knowing Wesley, Gunn and Fred would be busy with another project that evening, he took on the assignment for himself and Spike.

As before, he picked up Spike at his apartment. And as before, the drive was a silent one, and the fight short and sweet. It was a complete success, if you didn't count the one that got away. Spike didn't say anything this time, just looked at Angel askance, shook his head with disgust, and stomped off to the car. At the corner bar near his apartment, Spike again asked to be dropped off. They were the only words he'd spoken all night long. Angel nodded, pulled over, and let Spike out. As he pulled away and turned the corner, though, he noticed an open parking space along the side-street, and after a short hesitation, swore and pulled into it.

"Whiskey, Irish if you have it," Angel ordered.

Spike turned to look at him with surprise, then turned back to his beer, taking a deep pull.

"What are you doing here?" he asked a minute later, not looking at him.

"I was thirsty. Is that a problem?"

"Free world, or so they say," Spike said with a shrug. He took another long drink and continued to contemplate the sweating bottle.

After another agonizing ten minutes of silence, in which Angel finished his first whiskey and started on his second, while Spike downed three beers, Angel tentatively spoke.

"It's been good getting out a bit. Hands on. Haven't been for a while. Didn't realize how much I missed it," he said, staring down at his glass.

Spike shrugged again. "That place is insidious. It'll do you in," he finally replied.

Angel nodded in agreement, grimaced in anticipation and downed the last of the whiskey that was most definitely not of the Irish variety.

"Another problem's been identified in Santa Monica."

"Not Vampires again?" he asked, a slight tone of amazement breaking through the flatness of his voice.

Angel nodded.

"Bloody hell, where are all the damn fledges coming from?" Spike muttered, taking another long drink.

"Francesco's clan, apparently."

Spike stiffened beside him.

"That's why he came to us. He wanted me to leave him alone just long enough to build up a cadre of new childer. His plan was to move them all east to Cleveland and the new hellmouth once he had critical mass, then go into seclusion until they could become a trained force to take over the territory," Angel explained quietly.

"And you're wiping them out instead."

Angel nodded, running his finger around the lip of his now empty glass. "They're in our territory killing humans. We can't allow that, right?"

Spike shrugged. "Your call."

He emptied the bottle and ordered another, taking a long drink before he spoke again.

"So the lair in Santa Monica holds another batch of his fledges, eh?"

Angel shook his head slowly.

Spike caught the movement out of his peripheral vision and frowned.

"If they're not Francesco's fledges, who are they?"

"Francesco, Giovanni and other key members of his House. I'm thinking tomorrow might be good..."

Spike slammed down his empty bottle, stood up and headed for the door. "Pick me up at ten," he threw over his shoulder as he left the dark bar.

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