Quid Pro Quo Angel, Spike, Ilyria, Lilah

[spicklething.livejournal.com]

Title: Quid Pro Quo by kellyhk

Summary: The summer of 2004, the Senior Partners have won and surviving Fang Gang survives day by day. Originally written for the Apocalypse-athon May 2004. Story written for doyle_sb4
Rating: PG



Quid Pro Quo
By KellyHK


Dusk had come once again. The muted smudges of sunset mingled with the eerie glow from the wildfires that outlined the last row of houses in town and crept closer by the day. The air was hot, dry and oppressive, and there was little breeze to chase away the familiar stench of ashes. Sagebrush and pine, he knew those scents well after weeks of meandering. The desert had finally yielded to the foothills of the Rockies. Pocatello was the crossroads. The plains stretched out eastward with only the mountains in the west to hold back the charging hordes. And as the fires drew closer, he knew they would follow as well. The demons, their numbers surpassing anything the humans could offer in resistance, were coming.

Yes, this was hell, only this sleepy town didn't know it yet. The apocalypse was at hand, and it was only a matter of time before the miasma of death and destruction extinguished this town as well. For a brief second he'd brought the machine to a grinding halt by snuffing out the Black Thorn. But what followed was nothing he imagined. Cities lay in ruin. LA had been reduced to a crumbling, lifeless ghost town within days. The last he'd heard, the body count was well over ten million and growing by the day.

Fireflies flickered against the darkened yard, their fluorescent bodies shimmering like pixie dust though the stained glass. Funny how the simple things in life continued without interruption, even though humanity had started its slow and agonizing march toward extinction.

So this is how the world ends, Angel mused to himself. Like a cancer eating from within. He'd tried to stop it like he'd done so many times before. But four against a countless legion was nothing short of suicide. Sure, they'd taken out their fair share of demonic foot soldiers. But for every one they'd slaughtered, there were three to replace it.

And so they ran. One step head of the spreading wave, they retreated, gutted and hopeless. In the blink of an eye, they'd gone from being the champions to one of the countless helpless he'd tried so very hard to save. Wes was dead. There hadn't been time to mourn him. Nor had there been time to search for the others. Nina. Connor.

Would he even know if they had been killed?

One day he was a powerful CEO with all the creature comforts corruption could buy. Tonight, he was just another homeless vagabond living off the mercy of others. They'd found refuge in the tiny stone church three weeks ago. The priest had given them shelter within the tiny sanctuary, offered them food and water, scrounged supplies to mend their wounds. The town was already nearly empty, the man had told them. They were his flock now. The hordes could not touch them within those walls. The faith that the building represented, something he'd thought had died with the apocalypse, still managed to keep the monsters at bay. But he could hear them. If he listened in the still of night, Angel could hear them roaring and screaming in the distance. They were coming. It was only a matter of time.

His whole body ached. He hadn't slept for more than an hour or two at a stretch in nearly a month. Now that the sun had set, it was time to relieve Illyria of watch. Opening a thermos, he poured himself a mug of blood, saving the rest for Spike when he finally had awakened. His nose wrinkled in disgust as he took his first sip. Mule deer, gamey and bitter. But it helped the gash heal on his flank and faded the bruises that peppered his weary body.

Illyria was sitting in plastic lawn chair just outside the narthex's doors. A shotgun rested on her lap and an axe leaned against the chair. The road was empty, and the houses on either side of it were dark and lifeless.

"Hey," Angel quietly said as he sipped at his mug. "Any idea where Father Joe is?"

"The holy man went into town in search of supplies," Illyria announced, still staring into the abandoned lawns across the street. "We are short on potable water and animal flesh. Charles has gone with him."

"Know when they'll be back?" he asked as he slid into the chair beside her.

"They have been gone forty-three minutes," she answered. Turning to finally face him, she asked, "Where is Spike?"

Angel gestured back toward the door with a tilt of his head. "Still sleeping. No sense waking him up."

"His behavior is concerning," she went on. "He is less lucid each day. He serves no purpose anymore."

"It's not his fault," he interrupted. The muscle in his jaw clenched as he waited for her to continue.

He'd heard it all before. Spike was no longer a warrior but rather deadweight incapable of hefting a sword. On some days, even a conversation was nigh on impossible. It was a miracle he hadn't been reduced to dust in that rain-soaked battle. Nevertheless, a demon, a spell, no one was quite sure, had nearly killed him. As it was, it had robbed him of his eyesight and stolen his sanity. But Angel wasn't going to give up on him. Past uglies and grudges had been quickly forgotten. He was family. It didn't matter he couldn't carry his own weight anymore. Angel had lost too much already. He'd made a promise to look after him. He wasn't going back on his word.

"There is a reason why the feeble do not enter into battle." In their weeks on the run, the one thing Angel had learned to count on was Illyria's bluntness. "The children and the lame are a liability. A true warrior cuts his losses and looks toward the future."

"I know," was all he could muster in response. They had had this argument many times over. Didn't feel much like a warrior anyhow.

He knew what she was going to say next, that he was taking up space, squandering resources. And has he steeled himself for the next part of their ongoing dance, a truck rounded the corner and drove down the street. He recognized the single headlight and relaxed back in his seat. The priest and Gunn had returned from their little journey.

As the rusty pickup turned into the church's driveway and headed toward the back entrance with boxes filling its payload, Illyria stood and said, "They are going to need help unloading."

With a sigh, he watched her depart around back and welcomed the moment of solitude. He wouldn't call it brooding, but it was damn close. Setting his mug on the concrete, Angel leaned forward on his knees and settled in for the next few hours. A pair of Muscoda demons had appeared last night, and he was ready for trouble if their buddies decided to pay another visit.

Footsteps echoed against the stone façade, and he called out, "Illyria, do you know if Father Joe was able to trade for another sleeping bag?"

"You know, champ" a familiar voice called from behind, "you're slacking off at your job here. Had I been anyone else, you'd be dust by now."

Angel leapt to his feet and spun, bringing the business end of the axe to Lilah Morgan's neck. "And if you were still alive, you'd be missing your head. Again."

"Is that a way to greet an old friend?" she asked with a smile as she pushed the axe away.

"You're not my friend," he spat in return, his hand clenching tighter around the weapon's hilt. "How did you find us?"

"Come on, ace, don't fool yourself," she replied as she inched closer to him. "We're everywhere. We've been watching you the whole time. We're in that rear view mirror of yours as you drive your merry band of men - and just what is Illyria again? - across the Wild West. Anyhow, we're in that shadow of yours, in the cuff of your pants. You can run, Angel, but we know your every move."

He picked up his mug and took a quick swig. The blood was already starting to clot in the cup, but he choked a mouthful down anyhow. "And just who is this 'we', Lilah? You still working for them?"

Lilah helped herself to one of the chairs, smoothing her skirt as she settled into the seat. "Of course I am. There's something to be said about corporate loyalty. Too bad you didn't stick around to really enjoy the perks. The senior partners are quite generous to those who take one for the team."

"Guess I won't be getting that Christmas bonus this year," he hissed back as he dumped the rest of the congealed blood on the weed-filled lawn. "You've made your point, Lilah. Go back to your bosses. Either kill me now or leave me the hell alone. I'm sick of these Wolfram and Hart games."

"Oh, will you drop the martyr act just this once," she replied. "It's just me here. I've heard it before, and quite frankly, it bored me the first fifty times you pulled it. Since you aren't in the mood for chitchat, let's just cut to the chase. I have an offer for you."

"An offer?" he sneered before shaking his head. "No thanks. Already had my fill of making deals with the devil."

"What if I could give you Connor?"

That got his attention. At least he knew the boy was still alive. He was out there somewhere. Thank god he'd regained his memories before this horrible mess started. At least he'd have a fighting chance keeping himself alive now.

Angel flopped down in the chair beside her. "No way. I made that deal with you once, and look what it got me."

Lilah leaned toward him and placed her hand on his knee. He half-expected her to be nothing more than an apparition and was a little startled when her hand felt warm against his leg. "I'm not talking some sign your soul away bargain," she explained with a smile. "Quid pro quo. I'm talking an even exchange."

"I know what it means," he replied.

"Good," she said leaning back, "then I don't have to explain the specifics. The senior partners are willing to let your darling boy live if you give us one of yours."

"Not a chance."

"I'm serious, Angel," Lilah purred. "No strings attached. You get to downsize some of your excess baggage, and in return, you get Connor. Sounds like a deal to me."

"They're always strings," he answered as he rose to his feet and headed back to the door.

Holding three fingers up, she replied, "Scouts honor. No strings." She grabbed is arm and spun him around before he could dip back into the darkened narthex. "No pun intended, but Spike wouldn't even see it coming. You'd be doing him a favor. Stevie Wonder doesn't even know what day it is anymore. It would be a mercy kill, and you know it. Vamps aren't supposed to live like that."

She stood her ground and held out an empty palm. A swirl of color gathered over her hand, and a toy snow globe materialized out of thin air. Even in the faded light of twilight, he could make out the glittery snowflakes that shimmered in the water. It was the one thing he'd kept from his son's brief and stolen infancy. The one bit of his past he had brought with him when he'd moved from the Hyperion. And it was the one thing he missed as they'd made their exodus across the desert.

"You sure you want to turn your back on your own flesh and blood for good?"

"Go away, Lilah," he said crossing the threshold of the church.

She took only two steps and came to an abrupt halt at the doorway. Unclean and unwelcome, she was thwarted by the entrance. She didn't bother to even try to breach the barrier. It held her at bay as well as any steel or concrete could do.

"Leave the windows open," she suggested. "Once the wind kicks up, you won't even have to sweep up the remains. No fuss, no muss."

Her smug smile burned into his memory as he slammed the heavy door in her face. No, there would be no outrunning them. But they were safe inside, at least for one more night.

"The wind whispers to me," Spike's voice called from the darkened narthex. One hand on the wall, his fingertips guiding the way, Spike turned his head toward Angel, his sightless eyes peering into nothingness. "She sings about birthday parties and funerals. Great fire in Rome. Little girls sputter and flicker before they turn to ash."

Lovely, an evening of word salad. It was going to be a long night. He was sounding more and more like Drusilla by the day. Maybe it ran in the family.

"Come on," Angel gently answered as he turned Spike around and guided him to the tiny kitchen in the back of the church. He'd given up even trying to decipher the mess weeks ago. "Let's get you something to eat. Bet you're hungry."

Lilah was right. One plunge from a stake and all of Spike's suffering - the screaming in the dead of night, the unseen hallucinations, the unprovoked ravings - would finally come to an end. He'd be at peace for the first time since that horrible battle.

But there was something about the way he now trusted Angel, how the constant fear that pulled him taut like a bowstring eased just a bit with just a few words and a touch on the elbow that made killing him nothing short of nauseating. It wouldn't be a mercy kill. It would be murder, and that was one death he wasn't sure he could live with.

Every deal had strings attached. His tenure at Evil Incorporated had taught him that. He couldn't dwell on snow globes and past memories. The here and now was all that mattered. He had to care for his new family. It was all he had left.

The kitchen was Spartan to say the least. Candles lit the narrow galley as the others were unloading supplies in to the pantry. The priest greeted Spike and helped settle him into one of the metal folding chairs while Angel set a ceramic mug in front of him. He poured the remainder of the blood into it and guided Spikes hand to the mug before heading back to his post outside.



T
he days started to blend together as the rag-tag group fell into a routine. Up at sunset to stand guard all night long, falling into a restless sleep sometime in the early afternoon, Angel welcomed the consistency.

The sleeping bag provided little padding from the stone floor below, but it was vastly better than the back of a truck or a darkened alley. He lay there for several moments listening to the relative silence of the world around him. No cars, no televisions or radios. That part he actually liked. The world had become too violent. Too noisy. The void, it was much better.

A stray dog barked somewhere in the distance and a gentle breeze fluttered the dark fabric covering the window. Closest thing he'd had to an alarm clock in a long time. He stretched the kinks out of his back before finally getting up and pulling a shirt on. Across the room Spike was still curled on his side asleep, the hallucinations that clawed at his every waking moment were briefly banished in one of the few merciful moments of respite. He heard Gunn's voice filter from outside with laughter he hadn't heard in weeks. Day by day, this sanctuary in the foothills was beginning to feel like home.

It had been nearly two weeks since Lilah had visited, Angel mused to himself as he tugged a pair of shoes on and headed outside. She was bound to be back, and he wasn't surprised in the least to find her waiting outside the door in one of the lawn chairs. The ice cubes in her glass clinked together as she swirled what looked like the last few swallows of scotch.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," she said before downing the liquor.

"What do you want?" he spat.

She stood and took two steps closer before saying, "Deal's still on the table. Just wondering if you've reconsidered my offer."

Angel breezed past her, answering, "I told you, I'm not making a deal with you. If Connor's out there, great. I'll find him myself. I'm not selling out one of mine for a wild goose chase."

"I don't get you, Angel," she replied. "Really I don't. You're turning your back on your own son to play Nurse Ratchet to Cuckoo's Nest in there."

"Well, I guess that's the difference between you and me," he said. Actually they weren't that far apart. But he couldn't tell her how tempting it was to trade Spike for his son. "You don't know the first thing about loyalty."

The standoff was getting tiresome. Even in the afterlife, she was nothing short of persistent. And it bugged the shit out of him.

An insult was forming on his tongue when a scream pierced the silence of the church's darkened sanctuary. Right on schedule. Frightened and full of pain, Spike's cries still managed to rattle Angel to the core.

"Not now, Lilah."

Turning his back on her, he followed the screams into the sanctuary. Somehow they seemed more desperate, more urgent than usual. Spike was where he'd left him earlier in the morning. Curled in a ball, he rocked back and forth on his haunches as Illyria crouched beside him and drew him into her arms.

"It's okay, sweetie," she crooned in a sweet southern twang, her leathery armor had yielded to a buttery colored floral dress this time. Pink polish, the color of cotton candy covered her nails as she stroked Spike's head. "I'm right here. Just breathe with me, and it'll all be over soon."

"Why do you have to be her?" God, he hated it when she did that. Every time he thought he was over Fred's death, she'd pull a stunt like this to remind him that she was never coming back. Dead ringer, right down to the flowery scent of her perfume. "It's not like he can see you or anything."

At first, she ignored him and continued to murmur in Spike's ear until the vampire slowly calmed. The rocking ceased, and after a while his eyes drifted shut and his head lolled gently on to her shoulder. "Shhh," she whispered, "that's it."

And as his body finally stilled and the whimpering ceased, she turned to Angel. That spark of compassion that reminded him so much of Fred fled her eyes, and her features cooled as though her humanity seemed to slip away once again. "I grow tired of his ravings," she explained, her head cocked to the side as her eyes locked with his. "It calms him when I take on her form."

"Well, is he okay?" he asked.

"He was hallucinating again," she explained, extricating herself from Spikes grip. "Reality means nothing to him now. I do not know why you will not give him a warrior's death. Instead you chose to let him revel in shame as the madness claws at his mind."
Two votes in favor of a dusty ending, and he wasn't sure if it would take much to make it three with Gunn.

"He is of no use," she added as she pulled herself to a stand and Fred's spindly limbs filled out beneath the emerging leathery armor.

"And he stays." He knew the argument by heart and wasn't in the mood for another round of futility. "End of discussion."

Not bothering to wait for Illyria's reaction, Angel knelt beside Spike, the stone floor below digging into his knees. "You gotta quit doing this," he said to him softly. "Don't know which one of you is gonna drive me nuts first: you or Illyria whining about you."

He wasn't even sure if Spike had even heard him. Eyes squeezed shut, Spike's head swayed slowly in time to something only he could hear. After a moment, his eyes opened and he raised his head toward Angel's voice. His eyes, as clear as they'd been in weeks, stared past him with a haunting determination.

"I see them, Angel," he proclaimed.

"What are you talking about?"

He tapped the side of his head. "In here," Spike explained. "As plain as day. Little girls in Rome. Buffy, Dawn. They're gone. They're all gone. Lives snuffed out like candles. A puff of smoke, a sprinkle of ash, and then nothing."

Angel placed a reassuring hand on Spike's arm and answered, "Just a dream, buddy. I'm sure they're fine."

"It's not a dream!" Spike snapped, violently shrugging off Angel's touch. The rocking started up again in earnest and his breath came in ragged gasps. "They whisper to me and show me what they see."

"Who Spike?" he asked. "Who keeps talking to you."

No response as Spike's eyes screwed shut and the keening started up again. Rock, rock, he shook his head in protest. Arms flailed in front of him to keep any and all away.

"No!" he pleaded to an unseen intruder. "Quit talking to me! Go away! Don't make me look...I don't want to see it!"

Out of nowhere, the keening whipped into a frenzy of screams. Spike scrambled to his feet, nearly toppling once again to the floor as his feet tangled in the sleeping bag below. He staggered forward until he collided knee-first into one of the wooden pews. A shaking hand grabbed the back of the bench and led the way in the darkness as he fled to the far corner of the sanctuary.

By the time Angel reached him, he was already pulled into as small as a ball as possible in the corner. A wounded animal that needed to be handled with caution. Spike's hands clawed at his head, threatening to pull out his hair by the fistful.

"It hurts," he whispered. "Make it stop. If I tell you where he is, will you make it stop?"

"Throw me a bone here, Spike," Angel asked. "Having a hard time following you. Who are you talking about?"

For a split second, their eyes met. And for that brief moment of lucidity, it was as though Spike could finally see him.

"Your boy, of course."

And that's when it all made sense. The hallucinations, the painful scream. It was Cordy and Doyle before her all wrapped into one. Unbidden images. Blinding headaches but more. One after another after another until reality blurred with the shadows from multiple futures. It certainly wasn't a gift. The curse had been passed on after all.

Then again, an apocalypse was bound to make the future infinitely worse.

"You're having visions, aren't you?"

No answer this time, only silence. Thunder rolled in the distance. Maybe tonight it would finally rain.

"It's why the woman offers you shiny baubles filled with water," Spike finally whispered into his hands. "They don't want you to find him. They don't want me to see him. They're not gonna stop until we're all snuffed out and as light as ash. They're coming for us, Angel."

"I know," was all he could manage to answer.

He wished he could promise to keep him safe, keep them all safe. But he knew that that promise was as empty as the plains that stretched to the east. A flash of light, and the thunder sounded closer. The air smelled like rain, heavy and wet.

Spike was finally quiet again, content to remain curled in the corner. He was safe for now. No sense trying to make him move. Illyria would eventually return and tend to him like she always did. With a weary sigh, Angel headed back toward the door. He was tired, oh god was he so tired of fighting, tired of running. Part of him was ready for it all to end.

But it wasn't his decision to make. So he headed out the door and grabbed his axe that was still leaning against the plastic lawn chair. His turn to keep watch. The rain started to fall in earnest. Fat raindrops, the size of watermelons pelted the cement walkway and soaked into his hair.

Lilah was nowhere to be seen. Her empty glass still rested beside the chair, the ice cubes melting into the remnants of scotch. He reached for the glass and stared at the smudge of lipstick on the rim. Drawing his arm back, he chucked the glass as far as he could throw it. It exploded into a hundred satisfying pieces as it made contact with the sidewalk.

Yes, the Senior Partners knew where they were. Lilah had been the scout. The foot soldiers would follow soon. It was inevitable. But not tonight. Not on his clock. They'd been safe for weeks in the tiny church, and it would hold for one night more.

Leaning back into his chair, Angel drew his axe back into his lap and settled in for the night. In the distance the wildfires still raged on. But perhaps the rain would keep it and the inevitable future from creeping forward for just one more night.

Comments

[makd.livejournal.com]

grim, bleak, dark, and very, very, well done.


neat job!

[spicklething.livejournal.com]

Thanks, darlin'. Glad I could finally find a home for this fic! First foray into writing Angel, and I'm glad you liked it!

[hesadevil.livejournal.com]

Powerful stuff.

[spicklething.livejournal.com]

Thank!

And thanks for creating a home for gen fic!!! This community was something we all have needed for quite some time!

[hesadevil.livejournal.com]

This community was something we all have needed for quite some time!
I think we were all muttering in corners about it and then I pushed shinodabear stepped forward and volunteered to set it up if there were two lieutenants as back-up.

[shinodabear.livejournal.com]

Really awesome stuff. I love apocalypse stories, and this one was painted so well.

[spicklething.livejournal.com]

Thanks! Glad you liked it!

[myfeetshowit.livejournal.com]

Most highly excellent!

I've often wondered if Spike would handle the visions better than Angel did. This is an intriguing answer.

[spicklething.livejournal.com]

Thanks ever so for the kind words!

I've wondered myself how Spike would handle the visions. On one hand, I think he would take it in stride. But as I wrote this story, I dabbled into his instability he showed at the beginning of season six. He was, after all, created by Drusilla who was a few sandwiches short of a picnic, and wondered if would crack like Dru did under the pressure of visions.

Anyhow, I've blathered enough. Thanks for the feedback.

[xlivvielockex.livejournal.com]

Really great work with this piece. It was dark, bleak, and it would so not be the kind of thing to read when you are depressed. :) Which you know, can be a good thing. I like the way you handled Spike taking on the visions. Definitely could draw the parallels between him and Dru.

[spicklething.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much for the kind words. After Spike went off the deep end after getting the soul, it made sense to me that he might be prone to further lapses in sanity if pushed to the edge. Thanks for letting me indulge in an whatif!

[ruuger]

This was a fabulous story, very powerful.

[spicklething.livejournal.com]

Why thank you!