Turnabout

In the shade of the alley behind the Hyperion, Angel heaved up the manhole cover and dropped down into the sewer. He couldn't help but recognize how much more complicated it was for him to get into the hotel during the daytime than it was for him to get into the new Wolfram and Hart offices with their underground garage. He brushed away the comparison, unwilling to get into the tangled feelings he had for that place while he braced himself to talk to Fred about Cordelia's death. He had tried calling both Gunn and Wesley on the way over, hoping to bring them all together and save himself from going through the story more than once. However, neither man answered his cell phone, and while Angel might admittedly not be the most emotionally intelligent of beings, he did know enough not to leave the news in voicemail.

He trudged through the sewer from the alley to the basement entrance to the Hyperion and shoved open the door, extending his awareness for any unusual presences as he stepped through and closed the door behind him. The lack of threat almost disappointed him. He would have welcomed a distraction from the task he faced.

Taking the stairs quickly, he emerged into the hotel lobby where the scent of Glenfiddich assaulted him. Broken glass and puddles of liquor rested at the base of the desk where the bottle had clearly been hurled. Angel bit back a growl. Without explicitly stating it to himself, he had been looking forward to liberating the bottle from his stash after, or maybe even before, the conversation with Fred.

As he stared at the wreckage, other scents permeated his consciousness: tequila, Spike, Xander, and underneath those, the unmistakable lingering impressions of lust and despair. God damn it all to hell. He could not face dealing with those two while exhausted and far too sober. He turned and continued his journey upstairs, hoping to find Fred in her room so that he could get the painful conversation over with. Maybe afterward, he would be able finally to get some sleep and escape the emotional trauma of the day. With any luck, tomorrow would give him a break and bring a simple apocalypse to stop.

Outside Fred's door, he focused on the task at hand as he knocked quietly.

"Fred?" Inside he heard quick steps before the door opened, and he followed the retreating figure into the room. He glanced around and closed his eyes against a rising sense of vertigo. Red, blue, green, and black scribbling covered the walls. For a moment he wondered if his exhaustion had him hallucinating and seeing the confused writing of a former prisoner suddenly brought out of her nightmare to her home world.

"Angel?" The softly spoken question brought him back to the present.

He opened his eyes and the writing remained.

Fred gestured at the walls with the red Sharpie in her right hand. "You must be thinking I'm all crazy again, but that's not it."

Angel nodded carefully.

"It's kinda," she paused, "a lot to try to assimilate, ya know? New memories, old memories, or I guess real memories and fake memories are more accurate, really. But it's all in my head, and I gotta sort it out."

Angel nodded again with more understanding and a substantial pang of guilt.

"I have this system, you see." Her face animated, Fred pointed to the wall to his left. Black writing covered the space, and he could see the chair placed close to it that allowed her to reach nearly to the ceiling to fill the wall.

"All this in black is what got put in our heads by Wolfram and Hart. Well, except the stuff in blue. That's in both." She pointed to the opposite wall covered primarily in green. "The green is the real memories, at least as much as I can tell. Sometimes I get ‘em mixed up." Her brow creased in frustration. "I'll get it all sorted out, though."

Angel cleared his throat, unsure how to turn the scientist's focus from her project and deliver the news that weighed so heavily on his heart. Fred didn't appear to notice as she hurried on.

"This point," she gestured to the red writing on the back of the door, "is where they diverged. At least as near as I can tell. And that one," she pointed to the blue underneath the window on the fourth wall, "is where it all came back together. I was thinking that if I could find a pattern, you know, what was in both and where it all started and ended and analyze the patterns that seem to be there. . . but, maybe there isn't a pattern, and that would mean something else entirely." She paused to scribble a comment in black on the appropriate wall.

"Fred," he suddenly wanted out of the room, but couldn't do that without imparting the information he carried. "Fred," he spoke more forcefully.

She abandoned her writing and turned to face him, her eyes wary. "I have to do this now before it gets all mixed up even more."

"Fred, there's something I need to tell you."

"Is it more about the memory spell, ‘cause I'm not sure I'm ready for that until I've got this part sorted out." She attempted a grin that failed utterly.

"It's about Cordelia." He crossed his arms and stared at the blue retelling of the morning's events in his office rather than facing the tense woman crouched next to the wall. "She's dead."

"Dead." Fred repeated as though she found the word completely unfamiliar.

"It happened when the spell broke." Angel spoke rapidly and strove to keep his voice free of emotion. "Her coma was unnatural, a side-effect of the change made to the world. The magic extended to her as well, but her consciousness was already gone, so it kept her body alive instead."

"So when the spell stopped working, it stopped animating her body." Angel turned to look at the still figure, unable to determine what was going on in that quick brain.

"There will be a. . . service." He stumbled over the word.

"Does everybody else know?"

"I haven't been able to get a hold of Wes or Gunn. They're not answering my calls." He couldn't completely hide the bitterness in that comment.

"Give them time, Angel. It's not easy, what happened to us."

Guilt squeezed his heart once more, and he shifted his weight uneasily under her knowing gaze.

"Maybe I can talk to them," she offered, and he seized the opportunity to escape talking to his betrayed co-workers, knowing himself to be a coward but unable to choose otherwise.

"Thanks, Fred. That would be great."

She didn't look back at him as she moved to write in clear blue letters ‘Cordelia died.' He turned and left, unable to remain in the room that catalogued so clearly the chaos he had created in his friends' lives.

Rage bled through his exhaustion. Rage at the complications in his life that had led him to this place of estrangement from his friends once more, rage at himself for taking Wolfram and Hart's offer, rage at feeling that he had had no choice but to accept.

He stalked down the hall toward his own room, wanting nothing more than to shut out the self-recriminations and painful losses for a time. Instead as he walked through the hall, the heavy smell of sex and blood, much stronger than the lingering hints in the lobby, enveloped him. He stood in perfect stillness outside the suites he had given to Spike and Xander, picking over each individual scent. His cock hardened as the remembered sensations of plunging deep into two very different bodies merged and overlapped. Aggravated at his uncontrolled response, he forced away the images of the two men entwined together, pale and golden skin tones complimenting one another in a tableau that inspired jealous lust.

The scents surrounding him had his hand moving to the doorknob without conscious thought. As he turned the knob, he told himself that he would peek in simply to make sure both men were safe and unharmed after, well, after whatever had happened between them. Spike had just been resurrected as a vampire again, and Xander had just returned from the clutches of the Teilenon. Neither man was exactly stable at the moment, and he had a responsibility for their welfare since he had taken them in.

He sighed, giving up on attempts to justify his actions. Slowly and silently, he slipped into the room, leaving the door ajar to avoid unnecessary noise. Carefully, he stretched out his senses in the dark room. In the enclosed space, the musky smell of sex assaulted him as it clogged his nose and slid down his throat. He pulled in the intoxicating scent, feeling it swell through him and lodge in his groin. Steadying himself against the urge to prowl over to the bed and plunder whomever he touched first, he held absolutely still and focused his other senses. The only sound came from Xander's deep even breathing and, beneath that, the steady thud of his heart.

Angel stepped further into the room. He had entered through the door to Spike's half of the suite, and he quickly dismissed the empty bed with little more than a glance. Drawing on years of stalking prey, he moved through the open doorway to the connecting room with soundless grace. The slight illumination from the city lights that filtered around the edges of the thick curtains over the window revealed Xander sprawled on his stomach with one arm hanging over the edge of the bed and the other reaching out toward the empty space next to him.

Frowning at the single form in the bed, Angel moved closer. His eyes raked over Xander's form, and he shifted uncomfortably as he vividly recalled the night so many years ago in an Oxnard hotel when he had last seen that strong body laid out in much the same way. The thin white sheet came up to the middle of the bare back, and the duvet lay crumpled at the end of the bed as though it had been pushed off with impatience or discomfort.

Minutely Angel's artist's eye catalogued the differences in the man laid out before him: tiny lines from age and far too much grief that lent a gravity to the young face, limbs and torso leaner and bordering on too thin, the back free from red lines he had inflicted with the flogger Xander had begged him to use. What tore at his heart, however, were the silvery scars marching down the pale arms, indicating the extent of Xander's involvement with Mistress Viola and her ilk. Lost between the then and now, it took a moment for the wrongness of the tableau to register.

His brow furrowed as he struggled to identify the source of his discomfort. He swept his gaze over the bed, forcing himself past the lust the clouded his mind. His eyes landed on the reddened bite where the neck and shoulder met, and he let out a low growl. Three years ago his fangs had inflicted that mark. But this wound was less than three hours old. His demon roared at the audacity his childe showed in marking a human that he had claimed.

Shaking under the force of his rage, Angel forced his feet to move away from the bed before he grabbed the man and ripped into that mark, reclaiming what was his. Instead, he swung his head around, verifying that Spike was not lurking anywhere in the suite before he left the room with no more sound than he had entered.

Once in the hall, the roar he had suppressed became a low constant growl as he focused on Spike's scent. Fighting against the need to hunt Spike down, he fought to think along simple rational lines. Spike had bitten Xander. Xander, who had spent extended time in the hands of the Teilenon. These two facts justified finding his recalcitrant offspring and pummeling him. Purely in the interest of protecting Xander, of course.

**************

Spike slunk down the stairs from the roof. The hours spent huddled in misery brought him over and over again to the same conclusion. He had to leave. Regardless of his feelings for Xander or his determination to save him, he had proven himself to be a liability. He couldn't be trusted. Besides, it's not me Xander wants, is it? Pain twisted his heart once more as Angel's mark on that smooth skin flashed before his eyes. Well, let him have the broody ponce. Resentment burned in his belly at once again being a substitute for his Sire, always chosen second and kept around only in the older vampire's absence. That resentment joined the rejection at being so clearly excluded from Angel's family with the revelation of Connor's existence. Neither Xander nor Angel wanted or needed him. He had no reason to stay.

Despite his decision, Spike couldn't help the bitterness at his Sire's rejection and the smoldering hatred he had for Angel for biting Xander in the first place. By far, that scar had been the oldest Spike found on the man, and he blamed his Sire for introducing the man to that particular pleasure that had led Xander finally to Mistress Viola's grasp.

When he reached the floor where his suite was located, he had no time to avoid the enraged blow that knocked him to the floor. Stunned, he looked up to see Angel's golden, ridged visage bearing down on him, snarling. Without thought, he kicked at the older vampire's knees and brought him to the ground before springing away.

"What the bloody hell is your problem?" Shock colored his angry words.

Angel rose slowly and purposefully to his feet before responding. "You bit him." He stepped forward and swung a deadly fist, but Spike anticipated the blow this time and dodged out of the way.

Fury overwhelmed the confusion and despair that had plagued him since sinking his fangs into that enticing neck, and he struck back. "I didn't do anything you didn't do first, did I Anglelus?"

Angel ignored the comment and focused on avoiding the younger vampire's punches.

"Only you weren't Angelus when you took him, were you? Nah, we'd've all had to hear about that little victory over and over again if that was the case." Spike taunted with vicious glee as he turned his guilt outward. "You bit him. Angel, defender of the helpless and all that rot." His head snapped back as a particularly forceful blow caught his left cheek.

"Did you make him trust you? Make him think you would bother to stick around once you'd had your fun? Did you run off on him like you do everyone else?" Accusations fell from Spike's lips without thought, carried on the crest of his pain.

Angel bore down on him with silent determination, refusing to acknowledge the guilt the words engendered.

Spike stumbled under the attack and missed his footing at the top of the stairs, sending him tumbling down them with Angel leaping after him. In the lobby, Spike got to his feet in time to elude the next punch even as he spun around to land his foot in Angel's stomach. He followed up quickly, shoving Angel's larger bulk against the lobby desk, enjoying the freedom to let loose with his full strength, feeling his body thrill to the painful contact.

"It's your fault he ended up playing bottom boy to Viola's minions, you arrogant bastard." He slammed his Angel's head against the countertop, rage fueling his strength. Images of Xander at the mercy of faceless vampires filled him with bitter jealously. Angel's fault. As Spike pulled the larger vampire forward to pound him back once more, Angel's hands grabbed his wrists and wrenched him away, sending the smaller vampire sprawling backward on the lobby floor.

"And you couldn't resist him, could you, boy." Wiping the blood from his split lip, Angel towered over the prone form. "Is that your way of helping?" He twisted the final word with sarcasm.

Spike lunged up and attacked without finesse, spurred on by the need to strike out against the truths that fell from Angel's lips.

Blows fell as the vampires battered one another, each driven on by their own guilt. With a vicious punch, Angel drove Spike to the floor once more and followed him down, pinning the squirming vampire. His earlier lust had only been stoked by the fight, and his body remembered nights of fighting and fucking.

Spike attempted to buck off the larger vampire and in the process brought their groins in contact, revealing matching erections. Attitude changing in an instant, he pressed forward sensually rather than violently. Angel bit back a groan. He craved this form that he had not held for over a century, but he tamped down on the lust, knowing well his offspring's propensity for using distraction to avoid a beating.

"Stop it. I haven't forgotten what you did." Angel growled dangerously.

Spike snarled in response and repeated his earlier accusation. "I didn't do anything you hadn't done already."

"Was that why you did it? Was he one more way for you to challenge me?"

"Not everything is about you." Spike felt a weariness creep over him. He didn't understand his own motives fully, let alone want to discuss them with Angel.

"You don't touch him again." Angel shook him briefly and violently.

"Oh, and you're so much better for him. Tell me, Sire, have you just been waiting for your chance to throw me out? Looking to get the boy back in your bed?"

"Any reason why I shouldn't?"

"Yeah, there is." Xander's interruption silenced and stilled both vampires in an instant. The sounds of bodies slamming into walls had awakened him, and by the time he had managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants and flung open the door, he saw Spike falling down the stairs with Angel in pursuit. Drawn by the sheer eroticism in the graceful violence of the two forms, he had been unable to move for long minutes until their exchanged barbs made it clear what lay behind this particular fight.

The vampires slowly released one another and looked up at Xander where he stood against the balcony railing overlooking the lobby.

"I didn't ask to be brought here. I didn't ask for either of you to take care of me or save me from myself or whatever shit you champion types have going through your thick skulls. And you wanna know the real irony of all this?" He lifted his arms to display the scars. "Of all the times I've ever been bit? You two are the only ones I never asked to do it. So both of you leave me the fuck alone." With that, he turned and walked back to his room.

Spike stared after him for a moment longer before using his speed to escape down the basement stairs into the sewers in search of enough violence to wipe away the sight of hopeless betrayal on Xander's face and his own guilt-laden despair.

Angel felt centuries older as he watched both men depart. Their lives kept battering and breaking them, and to his shame, he could not deny his own culpability in that destruction.