Author: Mithril

E-mail: taptap2@gmail.com

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 medallian 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 6:

"Drink, childe, and heal."

The words were echoing in his head as Spike woke at sundown the next day. Had Angel really said them or had he just imagined it? Certainly he hadn't imagined the blood. The tang of his sire's powerful life-force still sparked in his mouth and in his veins. But the words...

Had Angel actually called him his childe after so many years of pretending he was no more than a long-suffering, very distant acquaintance? The blood offering was amazing enough, but the words were almost unbelievable. As he lay in Angel's bed, surrounded by the scent of Angelus – the soul hadn't changed that a whit – he contemplated whether it was the blood or the words that meant the most to him and was ultimately unable to come to a conclusion.

He clearly remembered each time he'd been allowed Sire-blood; it was only twice, after all. Twice after his turning, that was it, and both times while in Europe during the scourge, when his incapacitation would have caused Angelus serious inconvenience in meeting the extremely difficult objectives he'd set for himself. They'd been close then, but William had always believed had it not been for that inconvenience, his sire would have made him heal in his own time, rather than share a precious drop of his powerful blood.

It just wasn't done. He'd never known Darla to give her childe any either, and she had obviously adored Angelus. He hadn't been surprised when he'd gotten none after his encounter with a pipe-organ in Sunnydale, though that hadn't stopped him from feeling bitterly disappointed. Things were different now, but despite the working relationship he and Angel had managed to maintain – for the most part, at least – over the last months, he still couldn't believe he had been offered this rarest of gifts.

That hadn't stopped him from accepting, though. There was no way on God's earth that he could reject such a thing. In a flash, before Angel could change his mind – which Spike had expected at any minute – he'd dropped his fangs and sank them in deep, drinking in the scarlet ambrosia that gave life to their undead bodies.

The amazement he'd felt – and still did, as he lay in bed thinking back on it – was all the more powerful given the events of the past week and the incident which had precipitated much of it. A part of him still ached, cold and numb, from the words he'd overheard from Angel's office. If you'd asked him how he was viewed in the demon community, especially among those of his kind, the words Spike might have chosen were renegade, powerful and feared. Never would he have imagined words that contained such dismissal and disdain. He was William the Bloody, childe of Angelus, Right hand of Death to the Scourge of Europe. Things had changed, yes; both he and his sire had souls and their violence was now directed towards the defense of those who had once been their prey, but that hadn't changed the power they wielded, or the devastating impact of that power when visited upon one of their own or indeed any one who crossed them.

Dismissal and disdain. To be reduced to that for his souled conversion was something he could live with, but to know that the others considered him no childe of Angelus, and believed his once-sire felt the same, was a stunning blow all the more powerful for its unexpectedness. The discord and conflict between him and Angel had been ever-present for years, but never had he viewed it in that devastating light. Not until he'd heard Francesco speak those words a week before.

Now, for the first time in that long week, a part of him could see through the heavy fog that had enclosed him, and that part was the thin thread of the newly re-established blood-bond that had resulted from his feeding just hours before. It wasn't much, but it was there, and through it he felt his sire's presence. It beckoned him and without thought he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, eager for once to join the others downstairs in the corporate lair, to be a part of them again.

Only of course nothing moved.

Though he'd been ruminating on the blood offering at length, somehow the reason for it had completely eluded his thoughts. They were brought forcefully to mind now in light of his body's unresponsiveness, and with that dramatic reminder of his current condition, vulnerability and panic swept over him. He was alone and helpless, in the belly of the beast. If someone came for him, there was nothing he could do. It could be a senior partner or a lackey. It could be Pavayne.

His panic escalated. He wasn't ready for the end, and he certainly wasn't ready for the hell he had glimpsed so recently, not now, not after last night. Back on the Hellmouth with Buffy and Bit and the others? Yes, undoubtedly. But now? No, not now, please not now.

The words became a silent litany in his head as he clenched his teeth tight and strained for the sounds that would herald his doom. Not now, please not now...

* * *

The voices of the others droned on around him. Angel stared down at the table, a deep frown on his face as he took in the meaning of the endless stream of words. It was all allegiance, politics and bullshit. But it was his life now, and he sighed heavily, his frown deepening. Suddenly, through the bee-like buzzing in his ears, a chord of fear rang, vibrating through him. He sat up abruptly, his eyes widening, then shot to his feet.

"Wes, reschedule this for later in the week," he barked, already striding out of the conference room and into his office. A minute later he was on his way up to his penthouse suite, cursing the most sophisticated of private elevators for its sudden and unexplainable slowness.

Angel knew immediately upon entering the apartment that no one was there but his childe and more importantly, that no one had been there except for himself. He froze and forced the tightness from his throat before he called out "Spike?" He was careful to keep his tone light, with a slight question at the end, as though he half expected Spike to be elsewhere, going about his own business, and not lying helpless and still, with the heavy miasma of fear and panic surrounding him that Angel had felt below, and could now clearly smell permeating the very air about him. He approached the bedroom door and schooled his features into a neutral lack of expression, then leaned against the jamb.

"Where else would I be, ya great big buggering poof?" Spike ground out. The fear had evaporated abruptly at the sound of his sire's voice, but Spike was more than happy to take the opening Angel had offered, covering his embarrassment with his Big Bad persona.

Angel ignored the slur, kept his expression neutral, and stepped into the room. "Any improvement?" he asked as he stripped his suit jacket off and threw it onto a chair beside the bed.

"Some," Spike conceded grudgingly. Another slight distortion which both accepted. Angel knew that his blood would have escalated any other demon's healing, and his childe's three-fold. He knew that Spike knew it, and he knew that Spike knew he knew, but neither referred to that.

"Let's see," Angel said instead, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He closed his hand around Spike's upper arm, just below the shoulder. "Do you feel that?"

His childe nodded, an angry scowl on his face. Angel watched him covertly while seemingly concentrating on the arm he touched. There was a pinched tightness about his childe's mouth and eyes, but it was slowly receding as the fear in the room dissipated.

"Here?" Angel said, sliding his hand down to just above the elbow.

Spike nodded again.

Angel readjusted his hold a third time, to right below the elbow. "What about now?"

"Yeah," the blond said, staring at the large hand upon him.

A slight pause followed, and then Angel released his childe's arm and slid his hand down until his palm covered the back of one hand. "Can you feel your hands yet?"

Spike stared down at the palm and fingers covering him. For a moment he was absolutely sure he could feel that cool, preternatural flesh. Instinctively he tried to turn his hand, to twine his fingers about the larger ones enfolding him, but nothing happened. The sensation had been so strong, but it was nothing more than a sense memory instilled a century ago over two decades of time that he felt now.

"No," he finally said, shaking his head curtly, still staring at their hands.

He didn't feel it, but he saw Angel's fingers tighten upon his for a moment, and the last of the panic that had consumed him a few minutes before disappeared.

"It won't be long," Angel reassured him.

When he released his hand and stood up, Spike momentarily felt bereft, but he covered it well by reinstating the scowl, and staring away. "Need a TV in here, mate," he drawled, looking everywhere but at the dark vampire who had left the bed and moved to the large walk-in closet.

"I don't watch much TV," Angel called out from within.

"Ludite," Spike muttered to himself.

When his sire re-emerged a few minutes later, Spike glanced his way for an instant, just long enough to see that he'd shed his corporate suit and now wore a black silk robe loosely belted. Angel picked up the bedside phone and punched in two numbers.

"Send up a TV," he ordered curtly. "Oh yeah, and a remote," he added, hanging up without bothering to listen to the 'yes, sir' which no doubt followed that command.

"Git," Spike snorted. "TV's don't come without remotes these days," he added, mustering up his trademark smirk.

"Yeah, well I'm just a Ludite – how would I know?" Angel shot back.

The smirk on his face was pure Angelus, and Spike had to work hard to banish the genuine grin that threatened to appear at the memory of how he'd copied his sire in that regard, as in so many others. Nothing like him? Spike recalled the words he'd thrown at the bigger vampire during their fight over the Cup of Perpetual Torment. A blatant lie. He was in every way the very thing his sire had molded him to be. It had been ironic in the extreme, but you did whatever you had to do to win, one of the first in a long line of things he'd learned from Angelus during his fledgling days.

Just then a soft knock on the door sounded, and Angel left. He returned a minute later, wheeling the large-screen TV in on a cart. He pushed it against the wall, across from the foot of the bed, plugged it in, then picked up the remote and inspected it with distaste.

"How do you work this thing?" he finally asked, bemused.

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes. "Come here, ya retard," he said.

Angel scowled at him, but sat beside him near the head of the bed, holding the remote so that both could see it.

"Push the power button."

The screen flared to life.

"Set it to channel 36 – Passions is about to start."

"How do I...?"

"The number keypad, burke," Spike instructed sarcastically.

It took Angel a few tries; he kept doubling hitting the same number or missing one of the two, but finally it was on 36.

"Now see those two buttons with VOL above them?" Spike asked slowly, as though speaking to a three-year old.

Angel nodded.

"Push the down button. Bloody thing is set for human ears – could hear it from your bleeding office downstairs," Spike snarked contemptuously.

Angel got it right the first time, and both breathed a sigh of relief when the sound was at a more comfortable level.

"Mind if I take a shower?" Angel asked, gesturing toward the bathroom.

Spike looked askance at him, his expression clearly indicating he could care less what the big bastard did, then turned back to catch the opening act of his show, effectively dismissing the darker vampire.

Angel scowled and rolled his eyes. He didn't let it go until the bathroom door was firmly closed behind him, and then a sigh of relief replaced the scowl. The return of the snarking and insults was a definite improvement over the silence of the week past.

On the other side of the door, Spike felt his own tension dissipate completely, and his features softened. He was still helpless, but the overwhelming panic and fear were now gone. Nothing could hurt him with Angel nearby.

* * *

"About time, poof. Switch it to 61, will you?" Spike said with a huff when Angel emerged from the bathroom more than half an hour later.

"Well since you ask so nicely," Angel replied with a snort. He rolled his eyes, but picked up the remote, and with only a few tries managed to change the station to the one requested. He watched with horrified fascination as a sixty-ish, plump woman with white hair and a southern accent enthusiastically mixed up several dishes full of strange ingredients. Angel realized with dismay that the only one he was personally familiar with was potatoes.

"This is a cooking show, Spike. Why would you watch this?"

"Cause it's bloody brilliant, of course. She makes all my favorite foods, especially that flowering onion thingy," he added, nodding toward a puffy fried dish sitting at the center of the table. "If it weren't for the soul I'd turn the bird and make her my personal chef."

There were so many things wrong with that statement that for a moment Angel was at a loss for words. Ignoring the 'vampires don't eat' argument, for the obvious reason, he finally settled on "Vampires aren't exactly known for their domesticity, Spike."

"Don't know about you, mate, but my minions do as they're told," his childe replied absently, avidly following the activities on the screen.

Angel shook his head and gave up, then left the bedroom. A few minutes later Spike heard the microwave beep.

"About bloody time," he muttered to himself, wishing he could manage the remote. The elderly southern belle had been replaced by the portly Cajun chef he didn't care for, and besides, the whole flowering onion thing had made him realize how hungry he actually was.

Just then Angel sauntered back into the bedroom, mug in hand.

"You're watching another cooking show?" he asked the smaller vampire, glancing at the screen and shaking his head as the dark-haired chef threw some reddish powder into a frying pan, inexplicably shouting 'bam!' as he did.

"Naw, don't care for this one. I turn him, he's cannon fodder for sure," Spike replied dismissively. "You can turn it off."

Angel clicked the remote three times, finally hit the off button, and the screen went dark and blessedly silent. He set the mug down on the bedside table and eased down on the edge of the mattress.

"Could I check your spine?"

"Not in any position to stop you, am I?" Spike sniffed, looking away.

Angel sighed. "I'm asking, Spike."

"Fine, whatever," the blond finally agreed. "But make it fast before the blood cools – I'm starving."

Angel grunted and slipped an arm beneath the slim figure, easing him up into a sitting position. He let his childe's torso rest against his own as he reached behind and slid a hand along the curve of his spine from the nape of his hairline down to the middle of his back.

While Angel inspected the site of the injury and the surrounding area, Spike surreptitiously breathed in the shower-warmed scent of his sire. He turned his face into the curve of the larger vampire's neck and inhaled deeply. The feather light touch of fingers upon him came and went as Angel probed the still-affected and now-healed areas. He waited stiffly at first, but when Angel appeared to be taking his time, Spike finally relaxed, letting his cheek drop to the marble smooth curve of flesh exposed at the neckline of the black silk robe. Suddenly the ghosting touch solidified to one large palm and brawny arm that circled his upper shoulders and back, pulling him in even closer.

"Go ahead," Angel murmured, so softly that at first Spike wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

"What?" he asked, blinking with confusion. He tried to pull back but his injured body didn't respond, and even if it had, Angel's arms still held him tight.

"Drink, Spike. You still have a lot of healing to do."

Spike's mouth dropped open in shocked surprise. "You're saying I can feed from you again?" he asked in disbelief.

Angel sighed. "Yes, Spike, that's what I'm saying," he said patiently.

"But you never..."

"Are you going to argue or are you going to do it?" Angel interrupted abruptly.

The blond vampire shut up, went into game face, and went for the jugular. For a moment there was nothing but primitive, instinctive sensation; cool flesh and hot blood, sire-scent and safe, safe, safe. It was perfect. As his belly began to fill, the red-washed haze and blood lust receded a bit, and through it he heard a soft, low murmuring, words almost inaudible and incomprehensible, but they lulled him deeper into the secure haven of his sire's arms and towards a deep, healing sleep. He knew it was a thrall, but he couldn't find it in himself to fight it. A few minutes later, sated and full, he eased from feeding to sleeping with absolutely no awareness of the transition.

Angel eased Spike's suckling mouth away from his neck and lay him back onto the mattress. His childe's demon face had retreated and the innocent features of young William were now at the fore. Not a drop of blood remained on either – his childe was a fastidious feeder and always had been; a hold-over from his Victorian upbringing, no doubt. Angel let his eyes wander down over the finely sculpted body and sighed. A short but intense internal struggle waged. Finally he pushed his robe off and slid down to curve protectively about the still, alabaster body at the center of the bed. Pulling the covers up over them completely until even their heads were covered, he slung one arm protectively over the slim torso beside him. And then, ignoring the call of the hunt that night always brought, he joined his childe in the eerie stillness and peace of a vampire's sleep.