In Hell

by SpikesKat

He waits that first night to make sure she doesn’t pull another switcheroo, that Illyria is firmly at home in her… shell and casting a disdainful glare at the women lounging in and around the mansion. 

His protective instincts kick into overdrive right before he goes out, hating to leave her behind – alone – but knowing that it’s necessary. Atonement comes at a high price these days and it seems his list of sins just keeps getting longer and longer. It’s a wonder he’s able to walk at all with the weight on his shoulders. 

It’s only when he’s sure there’s no chance of Fred’s untimely return, does he leave and make his way out onto the streets of Los Angeles. 

For all that the soul necessitates his need to repent, he refuses to leave Fred at the mercy of a bevy of women of questionable morals. Just a few days ago they were trying to kill him and he wasn’t kidding that her dying again would have him reverting to a fetal positioned, poetry spouting git. 

He’s acquired another motorcycle – several, in fact – compliments of the late undead owner, or possibly even the original owner, and it’s that one he uses now to leave the mansion behind with a squeal of tires and billow of smoke. 

Demons are playing a wicked game of hide and seek tonight; there’s been a change in the status quo with him and Illyria having claimed Beverly Hills for themselves and their horde and he figures they’re lying low to assess the situation. Or planning a way to reclaim their corner of hell. 

Either way, the streets are deserted and there’s nothing for him to do – no humans to save, no demons to kill. 

Until… 

A movement out of the corner of his eye grabs his attention and he parks his bike and moves to follow. 

There’s something familiar in the way the boy moves. That’s when it dawns on him. 

Connor. 

Who’s apparently walking straight into a trap. 

Time to go play hero. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Once the demons are destroyed and he sees the survivors and Connor back to the boy’s stronghold, Spike thinks about returning to the mansion. How he ends up standing at a gravesite, a pile of rubble still smoldering in places in the distance, he’ll never know. 

He lights up and blows smoke out of his nose and stares down at the makeshift marker. 

Jeremy Johns. A friend. 

Maybe it’s him having run into Connor again and seeing bits and pieces of his sire in the boy. It was a matter of course that his thoughts would then turn to Angel, and somehow his bike had steered itself here. 

He hates feeling maudlin – he’s a demon and foolish sentiments should be beneath him – but can’t help but think that if Angel had been here, if he’d been the one captured with Illyria, things would have gone down differently. For one thing, Jerry would have still been alive and putting that engagement ring to good use. Hell, they would have never been captured in the first place. 

Spike hangs his head and sees the boy’s death all over again. Illyria with her fist driven into his chest, the brief look of surprise in his eyes before they glaze over as death takes hold… and how they seemed almost accusing as his lifeless body slumped to the ground. 

Then that brief glimpse of Fred as she asks him, asks him, if she was right to do it. 

Of course you were, luv. 

He finishes off his cigarette and flicks it away. 

“She’s right though, Jer—emy. She was… is… the only one that matters. Makes me damned for eternity, I’m sure. But then, I already am, so it’s no hardship. Just one more thing that makes Spike a bad, rude, vamp. If it makes you feel any better, if I’d have known you a bit longer, you could have been on that list.” He snorts. “Probably not, huh? Yeah, well, you’re probably better off where you’re at. Hell’s no place for the good guys.” 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he turns and walks away.

The End

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