Some Devil 1/11
Title: Some Devil Author: twisted_reach Pairing: Spike/Angel, Will/Liam Rating: T Warnings: Starts with very strong language. Time frame: goes AU post NFA Summary: A take on how Shanshu might work - after the battle Spike wakes up to Will’s life. Bastard.
Fucking cunt.
Burden is right.
Bastard.
William Haddon looked up at himself in the mirror behind the bar. He didn't know what he expected to see anymore. At first he'd been amazed by the experience, after 120 odd years with nothing there to see, it had been almost fun. Sure he'd known what he looked like, photos and such, the poof's sketches, but being able to watch himself in real time, he'd found himself in the bathroom after hours, half frozen because he was still naked from a shower. Not anymore. He no longer recognised the face looking back, didn't know who that was, who he was supposed to be.
Bastard. Angel you bastard.
He dropped his gaze back down to the glass in front of him.
That was another bloody downside. No capacity anymore. Half a bottle of the good stuff and he was practically unconscious.
Fuck.
He'd fought for this? He'd wanted this? No. He'd wanted to get one over on his bastard grandsire. Prove he could beat him. And he had. And it had meant squat, because it was a set up. But it had still given that wanker the idea. Sign away the prophecy, self sacrificing wanker, at least someone who wants it can benefit, bloody stupid wanker!
He threw back the drink and motioned for another... yet another.
He could still remember with horrid clarity that final foolish showdown. The alley by the Hyperion, like they were trying to make sure they were cornered! Wesley not even making that far, Charlie-boy bleeding out and struggling to stay upright like the stubborn git he was, Blue near resonating with rage - at unfamiliar, unwanted feelings, and at her sense of impotency. Angel... Angel...
William Haddon clenched his teeth and breathed steadily through his nose.
Not going to make an arse of myself in public by crying.
Gunn lasted seconds, Ilyria a minute or two at most. He was amazed he was still standing until he realised Angel was effectively guarding him from the worst. Then the twat had grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt, and hauled him close. He'd seen the next wave of the hoard advancing over Angel's shoulder and tried to wrench himself free.
"Behind you!" like it was some pantomime, which it kind of was.
"Spike." why did the tosser sound so calm?
"Angel, they're right there." wild eyed and panicked, grasping at Angel's hand, trying to push his face to look, "They're going to get you."
"But not you." and the total fucking bastard cock-sucking broody beautiful God-damned bloody idiotic heroic arsehole had yanked him nose to nose, kissed him hard and sweet, and driven a stake straight through his chest.
He knew he must have had a dumb look on his face, because in the second before he disintegrated he saw Angel's face as he was yanked away by the massed hells of Wolfram and Hart. Smiling…
Moron.
He'd woken with a start in a hospital bed. A red-haired woman in a white coat was standing checking a chart at his feet.
"Welcome back to the land of the living Mr Haddon."
"Where am I?" his throat was dry and his head hurt, all of him hurt.
"You're safe, you're in hospital, I'm Dr. Rosenberg."
"Willow?" he frowned, trying to focus his eyes on the woman.
"No, my daughter is called Willow, maybe she took one of your classes at UCLA?"
"Hmmm?"
"Just rest, William, someone will come in later to check on you."
He'd come around proper to find a new life already in full swing. He was a teacher at UCLA. History, history of music in the 20th century a specialty. He'd been mugged, the college health insurance would take care of the medical bills, the cut on his eyebrow would leave a scar, Jim would come by tomorrow to drive him home, feel free to take another week or two off before you come back to work, Sandra will cover your classes.
He was human. Heartbeat that thudded in his aching head, ‘vitals all normal', grumbling stomach that didn't make him want to rip throats out.
He kept expecting to wake up.
No one called him Spike.
He was relieved that his apartment held some things that were familiar, his clothes mostly the same plus some obvious ‘work clothes', his music, the games console, cable TV.
Then there was the unfamiliar, a kitchen with actual food in it and a note "So you don't have to shop yet, love Debbie x" , pictures of him with people he didn't remember, and yet kind of did remember (he knew Debbie was the pretty brunette) which was even worse, a briefcase with the letters W. R. H. embossed near the handle. That scared him, he didn't want to open it.
Wolfram and Hart were probably messing with his head. Like the holding hell Lindsey and Charlie had been in. Only no-one came by to rip his entrails out every day. Just phone calls from people asking if he was okay, and they'd see him at work/the gym/the bar on the corner, and get well soon.
He stood in the pool of sunlight in his living room and closed his eyes.
His landlady knocked on his door while he was watching TV. She threw her arms around him and near squeezed the air out of him, he protested about his broken rib.
"You must not think it is always violent in LA, Mr William. Don't you run home to England, I miss my favourite tenant if he leave."
He reassured her that London was no better and probably worse. She fussed a little more then insisted on bringing him dinner. He demurred. She pressed. He relented. Chewing through the meal later on he wished he'd been firmer.
A briefcase with the letters W. R. H..
He took it with him when he went to back to Wolfram and Hart's offices, not sure what he was planning - when was he ever - maybe just dump it with the receptionist and run. Wouldn't be much good in a fight now would he, didn't carry his weapons with him anymore.
He stood outside the insurance company's headquarters feeling sick. He double checked the address. He walked several times around several city blocks, looking. He went to an internet café nearby and Googled for Wolfram and Hart. He went through hundreds of pages and found no reference to a huge international law firm.
He opened the briefcase back home and found some lesson plans, a flyer for martial arts classes, two run out biros, a text book on the birth of blues music and half a mouldy cheese sandwich. Then he remembered his middle name was Robert.
He saw some of his friends at the weekend, they went to the beach and Jim's wife Isabelle lent him some high factor children's sun cream ‘because he shouldn't risk burning with his fair skin'. He bought everyone ice-cream to say thanks for taking care of him.
He went to his martial arts class, though he couldn't spar yet, and got teased mercilessly for getting mugged. The instructor said he was just unlucky, not lacking in skill, then invited five of the class beginners to attack her, demonstrating the concept of ‘outnumbered' and ‘discretion is the better part of valour'. She got a bloody lip for her pains.