Chapter Text
Entry tags: |
Title: Madhouse
Chapter: 1/23
Pairing: Spike/Xander/Angel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Warnings: non-con, mutilation
Summary: After the battle with Wolfram & Hart, Spike and Angel are sent to different worlds. Angel finds his way back, but Spike doesn't. Angel enlists Xander to rescue Spike.
A/N: The fic is complete and I'll post daily or so, as much as my travel schedule permits.
Credits: Many thanks to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
sueworld2003 for the art that inspired the fic, to sentine for the incredible posters, and to silk_labyrinth for being the perfect beta.
Previous parts here
Madhouse (1 of 23)
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MADHOUSE
One
In the beginning, there was pain. Terrible, ripping pain, as if every molecule of his body had been torn apart. He wondered if it was the dragon or something else, and he waited to dust.
But he didn’t dust.
So for a time he stayed very still, wondering whose heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears, whose pulse he felt against his skin.
Then he realized that the heartbeat and pulse were his own.
He opened his eyes to find himself crouched in the grass, not far from a circle of cement with a statue of a bloke on a horse. The sun shone brightly from a robin’s-egg sky, but Spike did not burn. He was naked, though, and so weak that when he tried to get to his feet he only made it as far as his knees before he wobbled and fell. Groaning softly, he rolled onto his side.
A small crowd of people stood around, leaving a healthy distance between him and themselves. There were perhaps a dozen of them, men and women. The men wore wide-shouldered suits and patterned ties and fedoras. The women were in dresses of printed cotton, with hats over waved hair. Spike tried to ask a question about where he was and what the bloody hell was going on, but he couldn’t manage more than a few mumbled, incoherent consonants.
“He’s drunk!” announced a fat man with graying hair. “He’s drunk out of his mind.”
But the woman next to him frowned. “No, I think he’s injured, the poor dear.”
She took a step closer to Spike, but the man held her back. “Stay away, Cora. He could be dangerous.”
Spike didn’t feel dangerous. Just feeble and very confused.
And then there was a slight rustle in the crowd and the people parted, and two men in police uniforms approached him. They were watching him warily, with their billy clubs in hand. One of them looked like he was about 18 years old, and he was goggling at the sight before him. The other was short and trim, with a businesslike air about him. “You there,” he said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sunbathing,” Spike tried to say. “Berk.” But it was fairly unintelligible, which was likely a good thing.
The policemen came closer. “Who are you? Where is your clothing?” asked the one in charge.
That was a good question, Spike thought. But he’d much rather know where he was.
Now they were bending over him, the short one slightly closer than the boy, and they were frowning. “Are you hurt?” the short one asked.
“I don’t know,” Spike tried to say, but then everything grayed to black.
***
When he woke up the next time, it was obvious where he was—in hospital. The two cops were standing beside his bed. So was a doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck, and two nurses, both wearing old-fashioned starched white nurses’ dresses, with those ridiculous little caps pinned to their hair. They were all staring down at him as if he were a particularly interesting specimen in a jar, and the looks on their faces and all the white reminded him uncomfortably of Maggie Walsh and he moaned.
“Ah,” said the doctor. “You’re awake.”
Spike wasn’t exactly certain that was true. Perhaps he was asleep and this was a dream. Perhaps he’d got himself rat-arsed on the pouf’s 21-year-old Bushmills, and he was now lying on his back on the conference room table, hallucinating, and soon Lorne would come and carry him up to the penthouse and tuck him into Angel’s couch and sing him into a proper, restful sleep.
The doctor turned to the policemen. “Well, it looks like maybe he’s had a nasty fall. He has quite a bit of bruising, some lacerations here and there. Nothing broken, but I daresay he might have had a concussion.”
“But he was in the town square,” said the baby policeman. “There’s nothing to fall from there. Except maybe the top of the gazebo, or the statue of the General, but he wasn’t very near either of those.”
The other officer rolled his eyes. “He didn’t fall there, Nelson. He must have fallen somewhere else, and then somebody dumped him in the square. Without his clothing.”
“But who is he?” asked one of the nurses.
“Perhaps he’s a mobster,” said the other. “They might do something like that, pushing a man off a building, maybe, and then taking him away and leaving him for dead. Maybe he’s an informer. He has very strange hair.”
The doctor smiled. “You need to stop reading those novels, Nurse MacKinnon. There are no mobsters here. Why don’t we just ask him who he is. Young man?”
Everybody looked at Spike expectantly. “I’m…. My name’s Spike.”
“All right, Mr. Spike,” the doctor said.
“No, just Spike. It’s…it’s a nickname.” Nurse MacKinnon nodded and nudged her colleague, as if this confirmed her theory.
“What’s your real name, please?” asked the doctor.
Spike sighed. “Pratt. William Pratt.” His throat felt dry as the Sahara. He suddenly realized that he was hungry as well.
The short policeman was taking notes on a pad of paper. He said, “Where are you from, Mr. Pratt?”
“London.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“Been in the States for some time. Most recently, LA.”
“If you’ll give us your family’s information, we’ll contact them for you.”
Spike’s jaw clenched for a moment. “There’s nobody to contact.”
The doctor and the officer exchanged looks. Then the officer narrowed his eyes a bit. “What happened to you, Mr. Pratt? How did you end up in the town square in…this condition?”
“’M not sure. There was a fight, and…where the bloody hell am I?” He knew he wasn’t going to like whatever answer they gave him.
“Canton, Illinois.”
Well, all right. That didn’t sound too awful. Except he was fairly certain even the fair residents of Canton weren’t 80 years out of date in their fashions. And then there was the entire troubling matter of Spike being alive, but he reckoned he could sort that out later. “What’s the date?”
“May 17.”
He winced before he asked the rest. “Year?”
There was another exchange of glances. “It’s 1933,” said the doctor.
“Bloody hell!”
The short cop bent more closely over him. “See here, Mr. Pratt. You were discovered unclothed in our town square. I could arrest you right now for public indecency, disturbing the peace—”
“Loitering,” Officer Nelson interrupted.
His colleague shot him a dirty look, then glared at Spike again. “You have no identification, you claim no friends or family, and you don’t even seem to know where you are or when. Tell us immediately who you are and how you got here, and why! And the truth, now. No funny business.”
Spike took a very long breath in, and then let it out. It hurt. “I’m a vampire with a soul. Last I knew, it was 2004 and I was helping to fight an evil demon law firm in Los Angeles. I’ve no sodding idea how I got here.”
Everybody else in the room raised their eyebrows except the cop. “I said no funny business, mister!”
“’M not taking the piss. It’s the truth.”
Officer Nelson said, “If you’re a vampire, where are your fangs? And how come you were outside in the sun?”
“I forgot that bit. When I was brought here, I seem to have been turned into a real boy as well.”
The older officer’s face turned red. “See here,” he began, but then the doctor tapped his shoulder.
“Hang on, Henry,” the doctor said. He bent down and looked very seriously into Spike’s eyes. “Is that what you truly believe, William?”
“It’s Spike, Doc, and yes.”
Everybody took a step backward as if they’d just discovered he had something contagious. The doctor looked at Officer Henry. “I’ll put a call in to Bartonville,” he said.
The policeman nodded and then, very quickly, everyone left except Nurse MacKinnon. Spike tried to ask her some questions, but she only hushed him, and he felt too knackered to argue. She brought him a glass of water, though, and helped him drink it, and that was lovely. Then she produced two small white pills. “Swallow these, William. They’ll help.”
Spike was beginning to wonder whether anything would help at this point, but he stuck out his tongue obediently. The medicine tasted bitter and stuck in his throat, but the nurse gave him some more water. She pulled the blankets snug around him. “Don’t worry, William. You’ll be taken care of. Now get some sleep.”
And within a few minutes, despite his best efforts to the contrary, he did fall fast asleep.
***
He was eating unidentifiable meat and gluey potatoes. If he was going to be eating human food once again, he wished it were something nicer. But it was filling his stomach, at least, and that was good. He’d only been given a spoon to eat with, though. When he asked for a knife and fork, Nurse MacKinnon pointed out that she’d already cut his meat for him and she patted him on the head in a way that would have had him tearing her throat out a short time ago. Now he only sighed and ate.
As he chewed, he considered whether there was anyone he could contact for help. Who had he known in 1933? Well, Dru of course, but she would be somewhere in Europe right now. Milan, maybe, or Berlin. He wasn’t certain which. And in any case Dru wasn’t generally the most helpful sort. Was his own vampire self with her now? Even if he was, and if Spike could somehow contact them, he knew he’d get no assistance from his former self. Spike from the 1930s would, at best, laugh at his current predicament.
There was Angel.
Angel was somewhere in the States at this time, and might possibly pull himself out of his massive brooding just enough to help his progeny. Spike was, after all, human at the moment. But Spike had no idea where his grandsire had been at this point. Perhaps once he got out of hospital he’d try to find him.
Spike was thinking these thoughts, and eating, and marveling at the way the warm sunlight shone in through the window and bathed his face and arms, when the door swung open. The doctor strode in, and behind him was a man in a suit. Spike nearly choked on his food when he saw the man’s face.
“Rupert!”
The startled doctor turned to an equally surprised Giles and asked. “Is he one of your patients?”
Giles shook his head. “No. I’ve never seen this man before.”
Spike pushed away the wheeled table that held his dinner tray. “Of course you have.” But then it occurred to him that maybe his appearance had changed with whatever mojo had sent him back in time and made him human. He hadn’t had the chance to look in a mirror since he’d arrived. “’T’s me, Watcher. Spike. William the Bloody.”
Giles’s eyes widened. Then he seemed to collect himself and he approached the bed. “William the Bloody?” he said.
“You know who I am, Rupert. You can cut the act. Just…let’s get out of here, yeah? Take me home.”
“And where would that be?” Giles asked.
“You know bloody well—” Oh. Perhaps this was some test to see if he were the genuine article. “The year 2004. California. Although I’d thought you’d scurried back to Londontown. You and the rest of the Scoobies.”
“The Scoobies? What are they?”
Spike huffed impatiently. “The Slayer. The Witch. Donut Boy. The demon—no, that’s right. I heard she bought it in Sunnyhell.”
Giles was staring very intently at him. “Are you a…a Scooby?”
“Of course not! I fought with that lot when I had the chip in my head—”
“The chip?”
“The bloody chip! The bit of plastic those government wankers used to control me.” Spike was getting more than a bit impatient with the man’s feigned ignorance.
But Giles straightened and turned to the doctor. “Very well, Dr. Madison. I’ve heard quite enough. I believe your diagnosis is correct. And you say he has no family about?”
“None that he’ll claim. He’s sort of an enigma. The police have asked around in neighboring towns, but nobody’s heard of him before, and he doesn’t fit the description of any missing persons. Maybe he’s down from Chicago. You don’t find accents like his much around here, you know. Present company excepted, of course.”
Giles frowned. “My accent is hardly like his.” He shook his head slightly. “Very well, then. I’d like to get back before dark. Let’s get him in the car, shall we?”
Spike tried to hide his sigh of relief. He was being sprung.
Dr. Madison fetched an orderly with a wheelchair. The orderly helped Spike into the chair. He could have got in himself—could probably have walked just fine as well—but the orderly was large and insistent, so Spike sat, wishing he had something to wear besides the ridiculous hospital gown. Giles and Dr. Madison walked down the hall, with Spike and the orderly close behind. Spike paid little attention to his surroundings. He just wanted out.
A monster of a car was parked just outside the hospital doors. It was black and long, with wide fenders and a tall, thin grille. It reminded him of a Studebaker President, but that wasn’t quite right. In fact, he couldn’t place the make at all, which was a bit troubling. He was quite familiar with cars of this era.
But he didn’t have time to worry about it. He was wheeled to the car and the orderly stood him up. Before he was allowed in the backseat, however, the orderly grabbed his wrists and twisted them behind Spike’s back, and Giles locked a pair of cuffs onto them. Spike began to protest, but the orderly shackled his ankles as well. Spike was pushed into a seated position on the plush seat, and although he tried to kick his way free, the orderly attached the ankle chain to a metal bracket set into the car floor. It was not very comfortable.
“He’s all yours,” Dr. Madison said. “But the paperwork?”
“It couldn’t be completed on such short notice. Judge Rayne is on holiday. But he’ll be back on Monday and I’ll have somebody run the papers down then.”
“Okay.”
The men shook hands. Giles slammed Spike’s door and then walked around to the front. He slid into the driver’s seat, shut his door, and started up the engine.
As they made their way down the road, Spike wiggled, trying to get comfortable. “Oi. You didn’t have to truss me up like a Christmas turkey.”
“It’s standard operating procedure when transporting patients,” Giles said.
“Well, you can unchain me now.”
“You’ll be unchained when we reach our destination. Now, do be quiet. We’ll be there in thirty minutes or so.”
Spike squirmed again and huffed. “I know you fancy seeing me in bondage, Rupert, but—”
“You shall address me as Dr. Giles.”
Something in Giles’s voice sent a chill straight to Spike’s recently revived heart. Why was he keeping up the charade when it was only the two of them? Was someone listening in somehow? Spike swallowed. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“You shall see shortly. Now quiet, or I shall have to gag you.” He didn’t sound like he was joking.
So with great difficulty, Spike held his tongue. He tried to watch out the window, but his head was hurting and he wasn’t altogether certain he wasn’t going to be sick. The car jolted and bumped along. He’d forgotten how much smoother the ride was on modern vehicles. And then, just when he was realizing he was in rather urgent need of a loo for the first time in over a century, the car stopped.
Giles honked the horn and got out. A moment later, Spike’s door was yanked open. Giles was standing there and, next to him, another orderly. This one was twice as big as the last one. As Spike struggled pointlessly, the orderly unlatched Spike’s ankle hobble from the car bracket, pulled and shoved Spike into another wheelchair, and hurried behind Giles in the gathering darkness. They neared an enormous hulk of a building that resembled a fortress or a castle. Just before the orderly pushed Spike inside, Spike got a glimpse of the sign over the imposing double doors: ILLINOIS ASYLUM FOR THE INCURABLY INSANE.