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Notes: Dark AU, Spander with Wesley.
The Assistant part 13
"I do not dig this," Xander says, watching the numbers light up in descending order. He's standing with his back in the corner of the elevator, instinctively guarding himself. In just the couple of hours since Wes last studied him, he seems to have healed more and taken on a leaner, more predatory look. His teeth seem very white, his eyes very dark. It's unsettling.
"Nobody's asking you," Spike says, without turning around. "Your job is to shut up and keep out of the way."
"So leave me upstairs, I'll be out-of-the-way-guy in the extreme."
"What part of 'shut up' do you not get?"
"I'm just saying--"
Spike turns around and hits Xander hard in the face. It's so fast Wesley barely sees it, although he startles and half-raises the crossbow in automatic self-defense. Xander's knocked back against the wall.
"Shut up," Spike intones, his tone so low it's almost a growl. Xander glares up at him, his teeth beginning to lengthen into fangs. Spike sees it, and wraps the chain around his fist an extra time. "Try me."
Wesley finds himself pressed back against his own wall, the crossbow tight in his hands, his heart beating double-time. For the first time, Spike seems to be fraying. For the first time too, Xander seems prepared to challenge Spike's authority. It seems like a very bad moment to be in a small metal box with the two of them.
The elevator stops, and the bell dings. Spike doesn't break Xander's gaze. For a little eternity, while the doors open and wait patiently for them to exit, they all stay where they are.
Finally Xander drops his eyes and wipes his lip with his knuckles. There's no blood, Wesley notices with relief. More blood seems like a bad idea for everyone.
"Right," Spike says, rocking back onto his heels and settling his shoulders. The little hairs on Wesley's neck lie down flat again. "Let's go."
They walk down the corridor in single file, Xander in the middle. It's silent except for their footsteps. Spike stops at the first cage and threads Xander's chain through the bars, then locks him in place. Wesley continues on to the end.
Angelus is still on the floor, still in the same awkward, disjointed position he's been in for over an hour. His head is lowered, but he lifts it when Wesley nears the cage. His face is pale and puffy and expressionless.
"Wes."
Wesley stops and tries to decide whether he can hear anything useful in that tone. After a moment, he decides he can't. He hooks the metal folding chair with his toe and drags it back until he can put the crossbow on it. Angelus watches him do it. Then his gaze shifts, to just over Wesley's right shoulder.
"Spike."
Spike doesn't say anything, just walks up and stands there with his left hand hanging down more or less near to the crossbow. Angelus studies him, studies the crossbow, then drops his eyes back to his hands. He's turning the bolt over and over.
Wesley pulls the paper out of his pocket again, glances at Spike, and begins.
"Mihi parendum est--"
"The Verran Cycle," Angelus says dully, staring at the bolt. "That's the big one."
Wesley pauses. Again, he looks at Spike, who's looking back at him narrowly. "Pardon me?"
"The Verran Cycle. That's the biggest ward; if you counter it, the others should break on their own."
Wesley lowers the paper. "You cast the Verran Cycle on yourself?"
Angelus presses the bolt against one fingertip, and nods. Spike's shaking his head, but Wesley ignores him for the moment.
"The Verran Cycle is an extremely powerful ward," he says. "One of the strongest. Countering it can be dangerous for both the caster and the subject."
Angelus looks up, a hopeless smile at the corner of his mouth. "I know, Wes. I'm sorry."
"Handy, that." Spike lets his hand rest casually on top of the chair. "Too bad for us if the Watcher gets his teeth knocked out, I guess."
"If there was any way to make it safer, I'd do it."
"There isn't." Wesley folds the paper neatly over on itself, and creases it hard between his fingers. "But you know that."
There's a clank behind them, and they all look back at Xander, who's watching them intently from the far cage. He's half in game face, Wesley realizes--it gives him a disturbing, distorted look. He seems unable to control his features while he's around Angelus.
Seeing them all looking at him, he says quietly, "I really think this is a bad idea."
"Noted," Wesley says, and turns back to Angelus. "Why are you telling me what wards you've cast on yourself?"
Angelus gives a hollow laugh and latches a hand through the bars above his head. Slowly, as if he weighs a ton, he pulls himself to his feet. "Wes," he says, leaning on the cage like an exhausted man, "you know why."
"I don't."
"You know who I am."
Wesley pauses, then wets his lips and says, "I don't."
Angelus lifts his head and looks at Wesley. He looks awful. He looks like a man in the last stages of a terminal illness, one who's given up his hold on life and is simply waiting for his body to do the same. He seems past grief. Though not, perhaps, past pain.
Wesley drops his eyes. "If I counter the Verran cycle, will Xander be able to sense whether your soul is in place?"
"I don't know."
"I'm not sensing any souls, here." Xander calls helpfully.
"Shut up," Spike says.
"If countering the cycle injures me, you'll have gained an advantage."
"Not really." Angelus's expression softens slightly. "Wes, it's me. Angel."
"Angel would understand why I can't believe that."
"Yeah. But think about it, Wes. I just told you how to break the wards--why would Angelus do that?"
"Because you're stuck in a cage," Spike says.
"Angelus would bide his time. He'd bait you and try to force your hand. He wouldn't help you expose his weakness." Angelus turns his head and studies Spike. "He taught you that much, didn't he?"
Spike rolls his eyes. "Angelus taught me to never trust Angelus."
"If you counter the cycle," Angelus says, turning back to Wes, "I'm still in the cage. But the wards will be gone. You can cast whatever you want on me. And you'll know I was telling the truth."
Wesley stands still, trying not to betray anything with his expression. His brain feels overloaded, thrust into fifth gear at a crawl. There's a flaw in the logic somewhere, he's sure of it, but he can't see it. He looks sideways to catch Spike's eye.
Spike sees him do it, and his own eyes narrow in frustration. "Conference." He turns, grabs the crossbow up off the chair, and stalks back down the hall toward the elevator. Wesley follows.
When they pass Xander, he raises his hands and pulls the chain taut. "Hey, whoah, where are we going?"
"Stay," Spike says, walking past.
Xander's eyes widen and turn gold. "'Stay'? Where the fuck are you going?"
Spike ignores him, and slaps the button for the elevator. The doors open, and he steps inside. Wesley does the same, and when the doors close, Spike turns the key.
"Fuck this," he snaps, as soon as the doors are shut. "This is bloody ridiculous."
"Yes," Wesley agrees, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. "I agree, the situation has been well out of hand for some time now. But countering the cycle may help in one major respect."
"What, in getting your head ripped off?"
"Determining whether that really is Angel in the cell."
Spike laces his hands suddenly behind his head and pulls hard, as if he can't stand to be still. "I'm not keen on being the only one left standing with a soul."
"If the counter goes wrong, it probably won't kill me. It may knock me out temporarily, but as long as I'm at a safe distance from Angelus, that won't change anything."
"You said 'probably'."
"There are two cases on record of a Verran counter turning fatal, and in both of them, the caster was an underprepared junior."
"As opposed to you."
"I'm not a junior, Spike. I've studied casting since I was in training at the Council--"
"Studied it. Not done it."
Wesley shrugs and puts his glasses back on. "The difference is academic. I can do this, and I can probably do it without getting anyone hurt." As he's speaking, he's relieved to feel their course of action become clear to him. "We have to try this. If it works it will be a huge step toward putting things right again."
"It's going to bring Harris back to life and give him his soul back?"
Wesley says nothing. After a second, Spike grabs his own hair in fists and pulls from the scalp. "Sorry."
"I'll need your support," Wesley says, reaching past Spike to turn the key. The doors slide open. "It's relatively simple to set up, but you may need to help me after it's done."
"Help you how?" Spike asks, following Wesley out and hesitating when Wesley turns right instead of left. "Where are you going?"
"To the refrigerator. I need blood. Go back and make sure Xander is securely chained, please."
Spike's feet pause a moment longer, then go the other way down the corridor. Wesley goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bag of blood at random. It's like carrying a dead spleen back down the hall toward the cells. Slick and cold and heavy. He notices it with the part of his brain that remains devoted to minor physical details, while the rest of his attention is on remembering the sequence of the counter. Every first-year student learns the Verran cycle and its counter; it's a classic. It's strangely reassuring to hear the sequence in his head, as if he's back in school and is going to be tested. He always liked being set tests. He always did well at them.
Xander stares as Wesley walks past, his face more human now but his hands twisting uncomfortably in the chains. "Did I already say this seems like--"
"A bad idea," Wesley says, without breaking stride. "Yes, you did. Please don't interfere."
Spike is standing by the wall with the crossbow cradled in his arms. He's moved the metal folding chair out of the way, leaving a wide bare stretch of floor in front of Angelus's cage. It's dramatic, but unnecessary. The circle only needs to be big enough to encompass the caster's feet. In this case, Wesley plans to make it very small indeed.
"Be careful, Wes." Angelus has moved back to the middle of the cell, and he's standing with his hands dangling loose at his sides, watching closely. "Don't make it big, okay? A small circle works just like a big one."
Wesley pauses, the blood bag held out in front of him. Angelus looks slightly embarrassed.
"Sorry. Go ahead."
"Thank you." Wesley has a pen knife in his pocket; he takes it out and uses the tip of the small blade to puncture the bag. Blood wells out, and he balances it carefully so it doesn't fall, while he wipes the blade clean and puts it back in his pocket. "Vereor ut amicus venerit." He takes a deep breath and glances at Spike, who's straightened up and has the crossbow pointed more directly at Angelus. Good.
Wesley turns the bag and lets the blood fall to the ground. "Timeo abire. Tibi impero ut venias. Venite mecum." He moves the bag to the left, counterclockwise around his body, undoing. Blood patters to the floor, drawing a solid uneven line. In the back of the room, Xander's chains clank. "Tu, quicumque es. Antequam finiam, hoc dicam." He transfers the bag from his left hand to his right and continues the circle behind his back. There's a strange sinking sensation in his feet and legs, as if he's being pulled down into the floor. "Mihi parendum est."
The circle is complete now, and he turns the bag over in his hand, neatly stopping the flow. He looks up; Angelus is still standing in place as if he's rooted there. His mouth is downturned in a scowl of pain or fear. In the corner of Wesley's eye, Spike is at full attention, clearly wanting something to shoot.
Wesley lifts the bag. "Verere." He twists his wrist sharply, and flicks blood through the bars and into the cage. It hits Angelus across the face and chest. He's already closed his eyes in anticipation.
For a second nothing else happens. Then Wesley recognizes the heat building in his stomach. He braces himself; accounts say the stronger the cycle, the greater the heat. He won't be burned, it's not that kind of combustion. He tells himself that several times--it won't burn him, it's not real.
It feels real. In a few seconds it's white-hot, like a shovel of coals in his gut, climbing into his chest. He feels himself stiffen, feels his eyes widen and his hair lift. The circle holds him in place; it's a safety. Through the wash of tears in his eyes he can see Angelus straining inside the cage, suffering the same effects.
It isn't real, he tells himself again, as the fire spreads down his arms and legs and up into his brain. It's not real heat; from the outside he looks like a man having a seizure, nothing more. He isn't smelling his own guts charring, he isn't going to faint, he isn't going to die. He just needs to stand it for as long as it lasts. The stronger the cycle, the longer it lasts.
It goes on for hours. He arches up on his toes, trying desperately to get away from it, step out of the circle, anything, but he can't move. That's why the safety exists, because no one would complete the counter without it. He'd give a million dollars for it to stop. He'd give years of his life for it to stop. He's being roasted in an oven, burnt from the inside out. He can't think, can't see. All he feels is pain and terror that he's been foolhardy and wrong, that he's going to die.
Then it stops, and he hardly feels the floor when he hits it.
He loses track of things for a minute. When he comes back, he's lying on the concrete in front of Angelus's cell, covered in blood from the burst bag. Spike is somewhere, yelling. For some reason, there's a large hole in the bars of Angelus's cell. It's the first thing Wesley sees, even before he sees Angelus slowly picking himself up off the floor in front of him.
He has a sense of movement, something approaching him fast from behind, and with a last feeble effort, he rolls to face it. It's Xander. He's in game face, leaning over, grabbing Wesley's arm. It's like a dream of being taken by monsters. Wesley tries to yank himself free, but he's made of lead and he's sinking.
"Hey," Xander says, and then Wesley has the sense of being lifted easily, like a sleeping child taken from its bed.
