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Entry tags:	fic, fic: all buffy&angel, fic: domestic bliss, fic: spike/riley

Domestic Bliss 29/30
Domestic Bliss 29/30

Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Riley
Setting: LA. Post NFA
Summary: Riley shows up in LA. Bumps into Spike. Demon-hunting and co-habitation ensue.

Previous parts found here

A/N: If you look up you will see that there is no longer a question mark indicating the total number of chapters in this fic, and I actually have most of the last chapter written. THIS MAKES ME SILLYHAPPY. I have been writing this fic for two years. I started it when I was still in Sydney. I remember posting the first teeny chapter sitting in a crappy internet cafe in Kings Cross, with music blaring in from the titty bar outside. Ahhh, memories. I'm babbling now, but whatever. TWO YEARS. *\o/*


The main building of the Maplecrest Country Club is brightly lit; the soft sounds of music just audible, rolling out across the tailored lawns. The security here is good. Too good, and they have to ditch the car and make their own way in, silently scaling the outer wall, careful not to trigger the club's alarms.

The grounds are segregated into long strips of green, studded with uneven clusters of trees. It reeks of money and prestige, things Riley has never had much time for.

There are a lot expensive cars in the parking lot, a lot of well-dressed people milling around inside, but that's not where Spike and Riley are headed. They stay low, skirting the edge of the golf course, keeping to the shadows. They move without sound, without conversation, moving steadily away from the lights, away from the people.

They find the Grub exactly where the Vanglash said he'd be: a huge storage building at the rear of the second tennis court, the door standing ajar, its lock broken, the entranceway shrouded in shadow. Inside are rows and rows of shelving units arranged floor to ceiling, filled with boxes of equipment stamped with the club's crest, spare parts for machinery, rolls of fencing and old signs stacked against the wall, even a couple of golf carts tucked away in one corner.

Plenty of hiding places.

Spike taps his nose and gestures to the far end of the building. Riley nods and leads the way up a set of metal stairs leading to an open walkway that circles the room, searching out an elevated position. They peer from behind a humming ventilation fan to see two figures, two men standing face-to-face at the far end of the building, lit by a flickering overhead fluorescent. They're wearing dress shoes, tuxedo pants, both of them naked from the waist up.

One of the two is Malcolm, his hands clamped white-knuckled around the biceps of the other man. There's something wrong with Malcolm. It looks like he's abandoned any pretence of normality, any attempt at passing as a regular human being. His eyes are rolling back in his head, his face a horrifying blank mask. His captive is struggling helplessly, kicking wildly, scrabbling at Malcolm's hold on him, but he's clearly no match for Malcolm's strength. The man is deathly white, his toes trailing on the ground, babbling words Riley can't hear from this distance, terror written all over him as Malcolm shudders and twitches, a thin line of drool hanging from the corner of his slack mouth.

It's happening, Riley realises with a lurch. It's happening right now and he doesn't know if there's a damn thing he can do to save this man before it's too late. Riley's heart leaps in his chest; this is the reason, this is his enemy. This is his moment, and it's all too horribly familiar. It's been a long time since he's seen this, since he's actually witnessed the Grub changing hosts, leaving only death in its wake, but this is the stuff of his nightmares.

Malcolm's chest ripples and bursts, opening a seam down the centre of his ribcage, spattering blood over the face and chest of the struggling man, who yelps, and steps up his panicked attempts at getting free.

Riley's moving, the rifle already coming up, smooth and easy, an old ingrained habit, his pulse racing as he thumbs off the safety and aims directly at Malcolm.

The Grub slithers out of Malcolm's chest, a warped perversion of giving birth. Its passage is eased by glistening slime; the malevolent slug-creature lit from within by darkly glowing energy. As it emerges it snaps ribs and tears skin, freeing itself from the confines of flesh and blood and bone, only to crawl upwards, unrelenting, seeking out its new host, its new life.

It happens fast. Faster than Riley was expecting. Thin tentacles reach out, a rapid series of little flicks, attaching themselves to the man's cheek and jaw, holding his head still, settling light touches to his mouth. The Grub slips past his lips, prying open clenched teeth, forcing its way into its new home.

Riley fires. The bullet passes right through the Grub's body, hitting the shelving unit behind them with a shower of sparks. He fires again. The same thing happens.

Riley adjusts his aim, staring at Malcolm's head through the sights, the red dot of the pointer sitting precisely in the centre of his forehead.

But there's no point in wasting the bullets. Malcolm is already dead. Malcolm Merriweather has been dead for a long time, only now there's nothing left inside to keep him animated. He's a husk, an abandoned shell.

Riley's too late, always too late. He can feel the moment slipping away from him. There's nothing he can do to stop this. He has no control here, and he's just given up the element of surprise.

Malcolm crumples to the ground, a puppet with its strings cut, his chest a bloody, empty mess, and he's not the Grub anymore, no longer the enemy. He's just another victim. The latest in a long, long line of the Grub's cast offs.

The tail of Grub disappears between the other man's parted lips as he staggers and chokes, falling to his knees, clutching at his throat. He's dying, and he knows it, his last moments of awareness spent in terror and revulsion.

They came too late to save him, and it hurts worse than Riley was expecting to watch the Grub hold someone down and steal their life. An innocent. Someone who doesn't deserve to die.

Someone just like Sam.

Riley hates himself a little bit more, but he knows that at least he can put an end to this parody of humanity. He can save any loved ones from the horror of discovering what their friend, their husband, their brother, their son has become, or worse, never knowing that a monster is walking among them, wearing this man's skin, fooling them all.

Riley swings the rifle to his new target and takes aim, but before he can fire, Spike knocks the weapon out of his hands and shoves him up against the cage surrounding the ventilation fan. A brief scuffle pans out, but Riley gives up quickly, he has no leverage here, and he's no match for Spike's strength. Spike gives him one last shove and Riley stills, pinned against the vibrating metal and breathing heavily as Spike stares at him, fury shining bright.

Spike starts to say something, but Riley cuts him off.

"Get off me. We don't have much time."

"What the hell are you doing?" Spike hisses. "You're just going to shoot him? What the fuck, Riley? We have to get out of here. Now. I don't know how long it takes for a Grub to gather his wits in a new body, but I for one don't intend to stick around and find out."

"No," Riley says. "No. We end this tonight. It has to be tonight."

Infuriated, Spike glances around the corner and Riley can only guess at what he sees. Spike looks torn between hate and pity. Malcolm -- the face Spike had directed all his hatred towards -- Malcolm was nothing but a host. Whoever Malcolm had been, he wasn't the man they'd met. He wasn't the man who tortured Spike. He died when the Grub took his body.

Riley pushes again against Spike's body, but Spike remains immovable. Riley realises how he's arched against Spike, pushing his hips, his thighs, his stomach into Spike's, and he almost laughs. This isn't a sex thing, not now, not here, but Spike's touch anchors him, gives him escape, gives him comfort.

Right now it's the last thing he needs.

"Riley, this isn't--"

"Get off me," Riley says with another angry little shove. "I know what I'm doing."

Spike lets go and backs away, palms up.

Below them the Grub is neatening himself up, an amused little smile on his face. He's using Malcolm's shirt to wipe the blood off his chest and face, redressing in the other man's tuxedo. "Finn," he calls, his voice echoing a little around the high ceiling, carrying over the sound of the ventilation system. "Riley Finn, is that you, my boy? Come out and show yourself."

"What is this going to accomplish?" Spike asks in a harsh whisper.

"What it did before." Riley raises the rifle and takes aim. "Destroy the body. Make it weak."

"Then what?" Spike growls.

Riley ignores him, all his attention on the Grub. "I have a plan," he says simply, switching to three-round bursts, and he fires.

The bullets spray out, the spit of compressed air strangely quiet against the churning of the fan behind him. He hits the Grub's new host body in the shoulder and chest, making it jerk and spasm.

"You're... you're ruining my new body," the Grub snarls, stumbling backwards and colliding with a shelving unit, bouncing off and going down hard.

When the body falls, Riley steps out from his hiding place and sprays it with bullets from a distance. He keeps going, firing again and again, not stopping until the chamber goes click. The empty magazine falls to the floor. Riley slaps in another one and keeps firing. This won't stop the Grub, and Riley knows it. Weapons like guns and knives only damage the host body. Grubs blur the line between spirit and corporeal. They need a human host to live in this world, to truly experience it, but it's just a shell to them. Inside, hidden away, the Grub is weathering the storm, letting Riley burn himself out, just biding its time, immune to his bullets. The second it has its chance it'll just take another host and Riley knows it. That's what it does. That's how it survives.

"What are you going to do?" Spike asks.

Riley drops the empty rifle to the ground with a clatter. The Grub is unconscious, lying on his back, bleeding sluggishly from dozens of wounds. He looks dead. Torn apart. Destroyed. But Riley knows better. It's strange, how inhuman the Grub looks to him even now, even unconscious and unaware.

"Poison the body, destroy the heart," Riley says, almost absently, his attention caught by the way the Grub's fingers are twitching.

"Riley!" Spike yells, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around so they're face to face. "Cut the crap, mate. This isn't going to stop him. What are you going to do?"

Riley doesn't answer. He takes a carefully wrapped bundle from one of the pockets on the leg of his pants and hands it over.

Spike unwraps the bundle to reveal an empty bottle lying in the palm of his hand.

"I'm going to force him to make a choice," Riley says quietly.

"No," Spike says, shaking his head. "No. When did you-- You drank this? Riley?"

Riley can only look at him, seeing the light of realisation in Spike's eyes, because there's nothing to say. He doesn't have the words for this.

Spike throws the bottle away -- once so precious, once a last, great hope -- and it smashes somewhere unseen in the shadows.

"This is what you meant, isn't it? Your grand plan." Spike sneers. "Isn't it?"

Riley nods. "It gets in the blood. Travels the body. Infuses it with... Well, I didn't get the science."

"This is what you weren't telling me?" Spike snarls in disgust. "You're going to play the noble martyr, and you bring me along to watch?"

Riley grits his teeth, because that's not true. Not really. He just needs back up. He needs Spike's help because there's no one else he trusts to see it through. "There's no way to tell how it would affect a Grub, if I could even get him to drink, if he'd ingest it. No one knows, so I couldn't waste the potion trying. This is the only way to be sure."

Spike doesn't answer. Just shakes his head, anger and hurt warring for dominance on his face.

Riley's head is light and buzzing, like none of this is real. It's all happening to someone else. Misery and treachery fill his chest with ice, but he's known this was coming for a long time. This is the writing on the wall. This is how it has to be.

He flexes his fingers; feels the familiar shift and bunch of his own muscles like nothing's changed, like he hasn't just signed his life away. "I don't feel any different. The old shaman, he said it only harmed Grubs, but there wasn't any way to be sure until..."

He trails off, because words aren't helping. There's nothing he can do to soften this blow. So instead he unsheathes the dagger he's been carrying around with him ever since Angel handed it back. He flips it in the air, catching it by the blade, and he holds it out to Spike.

"You have to wait. Wait until he takes me."

"No," Spike says in a horrified whisper. "No. You can't. You can't ask me to do that. Not now."

"Spike, there isn't--"

Faster than Riley can process, Spike is in his face, pushing him up against the nearest set of shelves with a dull clang, one hand fisted on the front of Riley's shirt, the other fluttering uselessly, like he doesn't know how to touch Riley now, like he's forgotten how. The heel of his hand is on Riley's collarbone, his fingers brushing Riley's chin, his lips, circling his throat, squeezing, like he wants to... not quite comfort. Like he wants to fix this somehow, wants to hold Riley together, even though they both know it's useless. Over now. A lost cause.

"Why did you do that?" he's saying. "Why? You stupid bastard." Spike shakes him, then thumps him off the shelves for good measure, slamming twin bars of pain across Riley's back. "You stupid, selfish bastard. I hate these grand gestures. They always mean that somebody's going to die. Why did you have to... If you'd just..."

"I'm sorry," Riley says when Spike's tirade tapers off. "There was no other way. No other way to be sure. It's in me now. It'll still be there when he..." He takes a shaky breath. "When he takes me."

He touches Spike's face, smoothes his thumb under one high cheekbone. Wants to say more. Wants to kiss Spike one last time. But there's betrayal in his heart and poison in his mouth and he doesn't know how to say goodbye.

Spike snatches his head away. Riley lets him go. He understands. There's nothing else left.

"Strike to the heart," Riley says, his voice small but sure. "It has to be the heart."

"Riley, I can't do this. I can't."

"You have to. There's no one else. When he takes me... No hesitation." He presses the dagger into Spike's hand, curls Spike's lax fingers around it, squeezes hard enough that maybe Spike won't notice the way his hands are shaking. "Promise me. Promise me that."

Spike stares at him for a long time. There's so much in his look. Finally, Spike nods. Just once. A tiny, bitter little gesture.

He accepts the dagger, holding it easily in his hand. It's dark enough in their little corner that all Riley can see are the shadows pooling in the hollows of Spike's eyes as he stares down at the dagger. "No hesitation," he says, his voice dull and empty. "You have my word."

And that's all Riley needs. He takes a breath. He steps out from behind the ventilation fan, readying himself to go to meet his destiny. It's time to end this.

When he's attacked, he doesn't see it coming.

There's someone behind him, moving fast and silent and strong, and his first thought is that the Grub has recovered and has found them. His second is for Spike. Spike who hadn't shouted a warning. Spike who might be injured behind him.

He's dragged back behind the ventilation fan, slammed up against the wall, face first, and it drives all the air from his lungs.

Then he sees the flash of white blond hair in his peripheral vision, feels the fangs sinking into his throat, smells the familiar scent of tobacco on the pale hand clamped over his mouth.

Spike is doing this to him. It's Spike who's attacking him. Spike who's drinking his blood.

This isn't like the other times. This is hard and fast and painpainpain because Spike isn't trying to be careful this time. He's doing what he feels he must.

Riley gets that, but it doesn't stop him fighting back.

He doesn't stand a chance. Spike has a hundred years of practice on him. There's no way for him to break out of this, and already his strength is ebbing, that first brilliant white stab of adrenaline giving way to weakness and lethargy. There's nothing for him to do but struggle feebly and know that everything's falling apart. There's nothing he can do to stop it because he never planned for this. Never thought Spike would do this. It never even crossed his mind.

His knees won't support him, and he's too weak, too stunned to hold himself up. It's Spike who catches him. Spike who lowers him carefully to the ground.

He feels betrayed. He feels like prey. He feels crushed by his guilt because he's the one who put Spike in this position. He should have thought of this, should have figured a way around it.

Spike kneels beside him, his hand on Riley's face, tilting Riley's head up so he has no choice but to look Spike in the eye.

"I'm sorry," Spike says, his voice little more than a whisper. "But you didn't exactly leave me with much of a choice."

"No," Riley says, swallowing, trying to clear his head. "Why did you do that?"

"Your blood," Spike says simply. "You said it was in your blood. Now it's in me."

Riley shakes his head, and it's only Spike's touch keeping him upright because his head is too heavy for his neck, and his throat feels like it's on fire. Spike glances behind him like he hears something, urgency in his bearing, and he leans Riley in the corner between the wall and fan, slouched low, his head tipped back to stare up at Spike. The fan clicks off behind them, and the moment is suddenly silent.

Spike presses the dagger into Riley's hand and closes his fingers over it.

Tears roll out of Riley's eyes and back into his ears as he realises exactly what's happened. Spike has taken the responsibility out of his hands. Spike just saved his life. Spike just sacrificed himself to Riley's demons.

Spike does kiss him, because Spike is no coward. Spike does what he wants and damns the consequences. Kissing is what you do when time is running out and the world is ending. It's says your goodbyes for you when you don't have the words. Kissing says it all. Spike kisses him, hard and bitter, and it tastes like copper and salt water.

"No hesitation," Spike whispers against Riley's lips, his eyes closed in a frown. "Don't you dare hesitate."

Riley shakes his head. "You can't do this."

"But you could?"

"Why?" Riley whispers, his voice shredded.

"Because it had to be done." Spike cups his face. "Because I..." He gives a shaky smile and a little shrug of his shoulders. "It's been a trip, kid."

Spike kisses him again, a soft touch of lips, but when he makes a move to leave, Riley grabs onto his duster, his fingers hooking on the pocket, weak and helpless, but refusing to let go, refusing to make it easy.

"That's it?" he chokes out. "That's all?"

"Don't give me that," Spike spits, suddenly angry. "You had some beautiful parting speech all planned out for when you left me behind? Don't make me laugh."

"Spike, I didn't mean to... I don't want you to do this. Please. Please."

Spike grits his teeth, looking so hurt that Riley wants to die, wants them both to walk away from all of this, just give it up, let it be, forget it all. But Spike reins it in, turns it into a bitter little snarl of laughter, his misery shining bright.

"Riley," Spike whispers, softer now. "Don't, pet. I have to. We only have one shot left at this thing and you know it. We've burned all our bridges." He smiles, a sad little thing, and he touches Riley's face with the backs of his fingers. Riley wants to melt into it, because this is the last time. "You were right and I didn't even..."

Spike glances away, closed off and struggling.

"Spike?"

"It's just..." He looks back and Riley is struck suddenly by how incredibly blue his eyes are. "Riley, this thing. You and me. It's love, you know?"

Riley sobs and his chest feels like it's cracking open.

Gently as he can, Spike uncurls Riley's weak grip on his coat and he disappears.

He disappears and Riley wonders desperately if he has the strength to even get to his feet. Spike did a good job, left him weak as a kitten so he wouldn't be able to fight. But he still has a job to do. He still has a part to play in this. He has to find the strength somehow. He has to get up and he has to finish this.

He pulls himself to his feet using the shelves as handholds. His body weighs a ton at least, moving like he's underwater. He leans heavy on the wall, every movement a misery, his shoulder scuffing along the paintwork as he lays one foot in front of the other.

As he reaches the top of the metal stairs, he catches a glimpse of Spike crouched low over the Grub, one hand fisted in the Grub's ruined shirt, but it's lost to him as he carefully descends, the shelves on the lower level too high to give him a clear line of sight.

His vision blurs, tears threatening to spill over, his heart pounding, because he can see it all so clearly in his mind's eye. The Grub's eyes fluttering open, bright and greedy when it lays eyes on Spike, grabbing him and pulling him close. The crack of ribs, the split of skin, the splash of blood. The Grub taking him, and Spike not even fighting it, just letting it happen, because Riley brought him here. Riley asked him for back up, for muscle, and instead Spike ended up giving everything.

Riley stumbles down the last few steps, his feet sliding from under him, his legs not doing what he asks of them, and he nearly falls. Only instinct and luck let him grab hold of the handrail and keep his footing.

He peers around the corner, his back to a row of shelves, his heart hammering in his chest, his vision flickering, and he's just in time to see Spike stand up.

Except it isn't Spike. Not anymore.

A hitching sob catches in Riley's throat. He presses shaking fingers to his lips, jamming them together, but it's not like he can catch the sound and drag it back. It's too late. He's been heard.

"Finn?" Spike's voice calls. The English accent is gone. It sounds dull and flat and off. Countless accents, countless stolen lifetimes all rolled into one. Riley hates it. His chest aches with his hatred. He doesn't think he can breathe past it. The Grub walks around corner and smiles at him, wide and toothy. "Riley, my boy. I knew it was you. You're quite the little bloodhound. Have you been here all along?"

Riley's strength deserts him and he crumples to the floor, banging his shoulder painfully off a shelf on the way down. The Grub grins down at him and picks him up with one hand, easily supporting his weight. Riley can't do much more than dangle from his grasp, the room spinning around him.

The Grub smiles warmly at him, clapping him on the shoulder, holding him up like they're two old friends. Like Riley hadn't just shot him, like the Grub isn't standing here in another stolen body, in Spike. Like everything in the world isn't awful and twisted and wrong.

"Strange, this vampire body," he says. "Do you know I've never had a vampire before. All this time and yet I've always chosen humans. Well, there was that once with a Fyarl demon, but he barely lasted the week. Much too clumsy." He chuckles, but seems disappointed when Riley doesn't share in the joke. "Humans are weaker, true, but you're so much more free. So much more alive. No stubborn little demon to grapple with when I'm taking over. Although I have to say, this Spike character didn't put up much of a fight. Frankly, I was expecting more."

He walks Riley backwards and lowers him into a plastic chair, its legs screeching over the floor under Riley's sudden weight. The Grub licks a spatter of blood off his fingers and chuckles again. "A vampire. Never thought I'd see the day."

He walks in a slow circle around Riley, licking his lips, touching them absently with his fingertips.

Riley hates him, hates him, because he's settling into his new body. He's getting used to wearing Spike.

The Grub falters in his leisurely circuit around Riley's chair when he runs his tongue over his teeth. "I see it grew back then." He smiles wickedly, and his face ripples, then slowly changes, ridges appearing, his eyes colouring, his fangs dropping. Riley flinches when he makes a little noise of pleasure. "Oh," he says, his eyes widening. "Oh, that's... sinful."

He crouches down in front of Riley, moving too fast, making it hard for Riley to focus.

"I can smell you, you know," he says. "Your fear. Your tears. Your blood." He closes his eyes and hums, like he's savouring a fine wine. "I can hear it rushing in your veins. The thump of your heart. All those little gurgles in your stomach. The creak of your bones. Fascinating." He licks his lips. "Riley, my boy, I can still taste you. What was this?" he asks, running fingertips over his mouth. "A last goodbye for your vampire lover? How very touching. How very, very sweet."

Riley leans forward, trembling with the effort. "It's none of your goddamn business."

"Such fire." The Grub warps Spike's mouth into a twisted little smile as Riley slumps back in his chair. "We could be great friends, you and I," he says softly, sounding so much like Spike for a moment that Riley feels it like a punch to the stomach. "You know I've always had a soft spot for you, and now I'm all you have left."

"No. Never." Riley grimaces, shaking his head. "I could never."

"Come now. It wouldn't be so bad. I'm an excellent actor." He smiles, and makes it look genuine. "In my line of work that's a necessity."

"You're not him," Riley grinds out. "You're not."

"No, but I could learn. I could watch you with his eyes. I saw how he would look at you when you couldn't see him do it. All that longing." His eyes close briefly, like he's savouring the memory. "I could touch you with his hands. Kiss you with his lips."

He leans in a little closer. He murmurs Riley's name, low and personal, and suddenly he's Spike: his inflection, his voice, the way he moves, the way he looks at Riley. It's all Spike. It's him. And this isn't fair. This isn't how it was supposed to go.

"Riley, won't you even consider it?" he murmurs. "Just think how good we could be. I won't hurt you. I promise. I've never lied to you."

"You could... be him?" Riley stumbles over the words, despising himself for even asking. "Bring him back to life for me?"

The Grub touches the backs of his fingers to Riley's face and it wrenches a whimper out of Riley, makes him bite on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

"In a way." The Grub smoothes a hand up Riley's chest, tugging his collar to one side, exposing the jagged bite. He leans in, ever closer, and he scents Riley's throat. "Yes," he murmurs, sibilant through his fangs, gold glinting in his eyes. "Oh, yes, I can see the attraction in this." He tilts his head in a gesture that's all Spike's, and he whispers against Riley's jaw, "We could have such fun, you and I."

He lifts his head and touches his lips to Riley's, gentle as a whisper. It hurts so much that Riley chokes. He can't stand this softness, this twisted seduction a second longer. He hooks his hand around the back of the Grub's neck and pulls him into a bruising kiss, biting on his lips, making it brutal. The Grub inhales sharply through his nose, but lets Riley have his way, giving himself over to the kiss.

The Grub still tastes like Spike. He still feels the same. But this isn't how Spike touches him. This isn't how Spike kisses. And it feels like a betrayal.

When they finally break apart, Riley's chest is heaving and his eyes are heavy, it takes a moment for them to open. All he can see are blue eyes examining him, curious and cold.

All he can see is Spike.

"I'm sorry," Riley whispers, and he lets go of the dagger he'd pushed into Spike's chest with the last of his strength.

The Grub looks down and grimaces as though Riley's just spilled coffee on his shirt, and he gives a pained little sigh. "Silly boy. Did you really think this would work?" He glances down at the hilt of the dagger sticking out of his chest with little more than amusement. "You can't kill me with a blade. You know better than that."

The Grub gives him a look like Riley is nothing more than an errant child, a mild inconvenience, and an amusing one at that.

Riley swallows heavily, frozen to the spot, looking from Spike's face to the dagger and back again. Nothing is happening. Nothing. Maybe it didn't work. Maybe it was all nonsense and he was a fool to believe any of it. Maybe he just got Spike killed and none of it means a damn thing.

"I was thinking," the Grub says, pulling the dagger out of his chest with a vague little frown. "Perhaps I should turn you. Do you think it would still work? It would be an interesting experiment at the very least, and then perhaps we wouldn't keep running up against this pesky conscience of yours."

"I'd rather die," Riley spits, panicking now, because something should be happening by now. That's how magic usually works. A fancy lightshow, a mystical wind, something to show that this worked and Riley hasn't just made the biggest mistake of his entire life.

"Oh, you're not going to die for a long time. I've decided I'm going to keep you. You're my friend, Riley Finn, my confidant. And if I turn you, we could be together forever. Forever is such a fascinating prospect, don't you think? I've never had anyone who--"

The Grub's smile falters, and his body gives a little lurch.

For Riley, everything stops. He wants to latch onto this flicker of confusion, to fan the flames of the Grub's downfall.

Riley holds his breath and he lets himself hope.

"What... what is this? What have you done to me?"

"I killed you," Riley says simply. "You're going to die."

The Grub rises to his feet, staggering back a few paces. "No," he breathes. "It can't be. No."

"Yes," Riley crows, and for one beautiful moment, he feels right. Vengeful and glorious and right. "Yes, you fucker."

The Grub stares at his hands, watching, horrified, as blackness flows through his veins, coming from somewhere deep inside. He tears at Spike's clothes, ripping open his shirt, revealing more blackness creeping under his skin, spidering over his chest.

"What have you done?" he howls, falling to his knees in front of Riley, grabbing fistfuls of Riley's jacket and shaking him.

Riley can only turn his face away, because he can't watch Spike fall apart like this. Can't bear to see his face contorted by pain and rage like this.

The Grub screams at him, shoving him away hard enough that his chair tips over, sending him sprawling over the floor. Riley doesn't even have the strength to get up. He crawls away, trying to put as much distance between himself and the Grub as he can, wanting to put as much distance between Spike and himself as he can, because it's too much. It's too much to bear, and the howls of anguish are tearing him up inside.

It's the sound of Spike calling his name, broken and pitiful, that makes Riley pause. He turns back to see Spike falling to his knees, reaching out to him as his chest cracks and splits, black slime oozing from the wound. The Grub crawls out, such a pathetic little thing to have killed so many, to have brought so much pain and suffering. Spike lowers his head, like he's staring down at the dying demon, but he slumps, his knees sliding on the concrete floor, splaying wide, his hands falling limp at his sides.

The Grub falls to the floor with a wet slap, the dark energy thrumming inside it fading now, weakening with every pulse. It tries to crawl away, but it doesn't get far, shuddering to a stop and lying still and ugly.

On the floor in front of Spike, it liquefies, no longer able to hold onto its own form, and it melts into a pool of slime, the glow dimming to nothingness, energy and matter both fading away until nothing remains.

Spike sinks to the floor and lies slumped on his side.

Riley sits in the silence of the room and breathes.

It's over.

It's over and Spike isn't dust.

Riley crawls over to Spike, hope giving him strength. He hesitates, afraid to touch, afraid that anything he does will only bring Spike more pain, cause damage that even a vampire can't heal, because Spike... Spike is a mess.

He takes Spike's hand and squeezes, running his thumb back and forth over Spike's knuckles.

The silence roars in his ears after so much screaming. Every little sound jars him, like a tap-tap-tap against his sanity.

Spike has always seemed so solid to him. So alive for someone who's technically dead. So this, this stillness isn't right. He digs through Spike's pockets and finds his cell phone. He has to wipe blood off the buttons, but he still can't see. He realises he's crying and swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to clear his vision. With shaking fingers he hits redial and in his pocket his own phone rings. He barks with miserable laughter and tries again.

"Wanker" appears on the little screen as the call connects and Angel's phone rings and rings.

When Angel finally answers, Riley immediately cuts him off, giving him the directions and telling him to bring blood, lots of blood. Angel starts to ask questions, starts demanding answers, so Riley cuts him off again, tells him to hurry, surprised at the command in his voice, and ends the call. He half-expects Spike's phone to start ringing, because Angel isn't exactly fond of taking orders, but there's only silence. There's nothing to do but wait for help to arrive.

Riley pulls Spike into his lap, trying not to notice how Spike is pale and grey, a dead body lying heavy and cold across his thighs. Riley starts rocking back and forth, keeps touching the still-bleeding bite on his throat and rubbing blood over Spike's lips, but he doesn't know if it's doing any good at all because Spike isn't responding and there's so much blood everywhere, still leaking out of the huge hole in Spike's chest, pooling on the ground, soaking Riley's clothes.

Riley closes his eyes and holds on.



~~~