Nothing the Same, Book 3
Rating: PG13 - NC-17 Individual chapters will carry specific warnings.
Feedback & concrit: yes, please
Disclaimer: don't own them, never will, just playing with them
Spoilers: Primarily season 4, but anything from Season 1 on.
Summary: sequel to Nothing the Same & Nothing the Same, Book 2
Previous parts here
He just couldn’t face Angel again right now. Angel was pushing him to move on, to accept that Spike was gone, to deal, and that simply wasn’t an option. Spike was everything to him. Spike was love and home and safety and passion. Their lives were intertwined to an extent that he couldn’t even begin to think about taking up a life separate from Spike.
Xander wasn’t really surprised when he found that his aimless wandering had brought him to the mansion. He’d been checking it every day in case Spike had gone there for shelter only to find the training mats and equipment undisturbed and the sparsely furnished rooms depressingly empty. Today was no different. The mansion was deserted as it had been since Spike went missing.
Walking numbly through the empty rooms, Xander was forced to confront the possibility that he might never see Spike again. There was no one here to keep a brave face for, no one he needed to convince by a show of confidence he no longer felt to keep the status quo for just one more day.
Standing in the living room, Xander wondered if he should move here when Angel’s deadline was up. The mansion had power and water, thanks to Spike’s maneuverings. None of the minions at Court knew about it, so he would be safe from anyone who wanted to use him in a power play. The mansion wasn’t someplace he’d choose to go under normal circumstances but it would do as a temporary shelter. He sure as hell wasn’t going back to his parents’ house and, although he knew Joyce would welcome him with open arms, he didn’t think he was up to the effort it would take to live with anyone else, especially someone as warm and sympathetic as Joyce. The mansion was cold and barren and lonely. It fit his mood perfectly.
The afternoon sun was streaming in through the French doors opening on the back patio, making a rectangle of bright yellow light on the stone floor, and a small smile twisted at Xander’s lips as he recalled Spike’s numerous complaints about the mansion and how it wasn’t a fit place for a vampire to live. Which of course is why they’d used it as both a place to train and an emergency bolt hole - no vampire knew of the place or would covet it as a lair.
Sighing, Xander walked downstairs to the master bedroom he had once shared with Spike.
The bare mattress had long been stripped of Angel’s tacky red satin sheets. Xander stared at the bed where he’d first made love to Spike and wondered if he’d ever feel that cool, strong body against his again. If he’d ever again know the delicious pain of being stretched and filled, the shattering pleasure of his prostate being stimulated. If he’d ever be able to experience the exquisite pleasure of Spike’s fangs piercing his flesh as he renewed his Claim mark. Worse, what if he never again woke up, wrapped securely in Spike’s arms and love, never laughed and fought with Spike over the blankets, never again heard that soft rumbling purr that Spike made when he was particularly happy.
Xander set his jaw and swallowed hard against the lump that threatened to choke off his breath. He felt like an old man as he slowly crossed the room and sank down on the mattress. Picking up one of the pillows, he held it to his chest with both arms and dropped his head, pressing his face against the pillow and inhaling deeply, hoping for a trace of Spike’s familiar scent. Like the room, there was only the faint odor of dust on the pillow. Spike’s scent had long since vanished from the fabric. He sighed and lay down, curling himself around the pillow, closing his eyes against the dim light of the basement room and letting his mind call picture after picture of Spike against the back of his eyelids: Spike laughing, smirking triumphantly as he won at pool, his head cocked to one side as something peaked his curiosity. The quiet moments when Spike sprawled comfortably in a chair, reading books he didn’t let anyone else know he enjoyed. Spike’s intense blue eyes soft with love as he looked at Xander like he was something precious.
Clinging to his memories, Xander slipped into a light restless sleep, waiting for sunset so he could search for Spike again.
Spike pushed himself to his feet, using the cheap metal frame of the bed to haul himself upright, ignoring the pain from the burns on his face and hands and his broken rib. He had no intention of hanging about in this fleabag motel any longer, waiting for the manager or the girl’s pimp to arrive and start another round of kick the Spike.
He needed somewhere to hole up for awhile. He couldn’t risk going anywhere near the factory, not in his current helpless state and with obvious injuries. Even without knowing what the soldiers had done to him, the burns and other signs of unhealed violence made him a target for anyone who thought he was too weak to defend himself. A Master Vampire who looked vulnerable generally ceased to be a Master in quick order, usually by meeting final death at the hands of a formerly loyal minion. He needed somewhere quiet, where he wouldn’t be found, somewhere he could lie low until his obvious injuries healed - which could take days without blood to speed the healing.
The obvious answer came to him almost immediately: the mansion. The lack of tunnel access that he’d always derided would be a godsend now, even as it had been when he’d stayed there with Xander when he’d been injured in the fight with Angelus back when his Sire had been trying to raise Acathla. There should even be some blood there. Xander had put a number of bags in the freezer at the mansion as an emergency supply in case Spike ever needed it.
Blessing his boy’s foresight, Spike left the hotel room, wishing he could leave his shame and humiliation behind as easily. He set out across town in something approximating his usual arrogant stride - the last thing he could afford to do was let anyone see him limping painfully through the streets.
Xander hadn’t returned to the apartment, despite knowing he was being an idiot and that he was going to catch hell from Buffy tomorrow. Actually, Buffy, Giles, and Mrs. Summers were all going to take turns chewing him out. But he was tired of being babysat, tired of the assessing looks everyone keep giving him - the looks that measured whether he was ready to stop deluding himself and start listening to reason. Even Mrs. Summers had given up and she’d been the one person solidly in his corner about Spike being alive. But that had been three days ago, and she was beginning to slip sensible little comments into their daily phone calls. Comments about how he should come and stay with her at her house and how he needed to remember to take care of himself and get some sleep. Maybe he was reading too much into it but it felt like she was trying to gently ease him into accepting that Spike wasn’t coming back.
So, instead of going back to the apartment at sunset, even though he knew that Buffy would be waiting for him, he had simply set out to search for Spike on his own. Despite the fact that she thought it was a waste of time - an opinion she tried tactfully to hide - Buffy had gone out with him every night as he searched the town over and over again, looking for any trace of Spike or the elusive soldiers - although even he was starting to wonder whether the soldiers really existed or if he had just succumbed to the desperate hope of a government conspiracy. Going out alone was undoubtedly childish and stupid, but he honestly wasn’t sure he could deal with one more failure and, if he broke down, he wasn’t going to do it in front of anyone, no matter how good a friend.
It wasn’t like he was suicidal or anything. Spike’s Claim Mark gave him a certain amount of protection and he had weapons and a cross with him, plus he wasn’t exactly helpless. Spike had seen to it that he could take care of himself.
To his own surprise, he hit pay dirt after only a little more than an hour. He was checking crypts in the Peaceful Haven Cemetery, looking for any sign that they’d been recently opened when he heard stealthy movement nearby.
He’d instantly crouched down behind the hedge that had been planted around the crypt he’d been checking, listening intently. There were several sets of footsteps approaching, three or four was his guess, and he wished he dared stick his head up above the brush to see who it was.
They moved past without speaking and he was cautiously lifting his head to get a glimpse of them when he heard a crackling sound, familiar from a hundred war movies. One of them had a radio, which almost certainly meant they were human.
Xander shifted position so he could see. There were three dark figures a short distance away. All three were carrying rifles and their faces were dark - masks or camouflage paint probably. One of them spoke: “B-team, checking in. Nothing to report.” There was a brief pause but, despite straining to hear, Xander couldn’t make out the response, then the man spoke again: “Roger that. B-team out.”
“We keep looking,” the man said, this time to his two companions, signaling them to move out.
Feeling the first glimmer of hope in several days, Xander waited until the soldiers had moved almost out of sight, then rose silently to follow them.
Keeping to the human areas of town nearly doubled the time it took Spike to reach the mansion. Walking openly down the sidewalks of residential neighborhoods was unnatural: he was a predator, not a sodding human out for an evening stroll. Or he had been a predator. Now he was just a wounded animal looking for a place to hide. He’d even nicked a baseball cap from someone’s front porch, yanking it on over his conspicuous white hair and despising himself and the soldiers equally for reducing him to this.
The part of his brain that wasn’t keeping track of his surroundings was puzzling over what exactly they’d done to him and how and, most importantly, how he could fix it. He shoved aside the worry that it wasn’t fixable - it had to be fixable, there was no way he was going to go on like this: unable to feed, unable to fight, unable to protect his Claimed. Rage burned inside him every time he thought about what had been done to him. He wanted to wreak bloody vengeance on the soldiers and the lab coats and everyone associated with the facility. He wanted to burn the place down and piss on the ashes.
He gave himself an impatient shake. Pleasant as it was to think about, revenge would have to wait. He had to concentrate on the immediate problem. The soldiers had taken him out of the cell for “awhile” - he cursed his former neighbor again for his inexact description. He’d fought them when they came for him without the crippling pain, so he’d been fine until then. When he woke up in the cell again, he’d noticed he was no longer hungry. Which meant they must have done something physical to him, then given him blood to heal all traces of their work. He could pretty much rule out mojo or some kind of post-hypnotic command, because neither explained the small bald spot on the back of his skull. Blood wouldn’t grow his hair back any faster, so the bald spot was the only remaining clue to their handiwork
What the bloody hell could they have done to him physically to cause blinding pain when he tried to hit or bite someone? Some new form of electroshock? Dru had gone through a brief phase in the 30’s, when she’d been fascinated by the idea of getting electroshock therapy. She had seized on the idea when her visions overwhelmed her and she was tearing her hair out and desperate for relief. She’d thought it might burn the visions out of her. Spike had easily talked her out of it and he hadn’t thought about it again, ‘til now. Could the government have found a way to use electroshock to rewire his brain so that certain actions automatically caused pain? If so, was it something that could be reversed?
Such fruitless speculations kept him occupied until he arrived at the mansion. The house was quiet and undisturbed and Spike headed directly for the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he almost sagged in relief at seeing nearly a dozen bags of human blood in the freezer compartment. He had no real hope that blood would do anything to fix what the soldiers had done but it would heal the burns and his broken rib.
The three soldiers were hunting something, not just randomly patrolling.
Peaceful Haven Cemetery was mostly open fields with only a scattering of trees and Xander had quickly abandoned any notion of following the soldiers. Instead of trying to follow them, he had climbed to the top of one of the taller crypts and kept an eye on them from there. There was an enormous angel on the crypt and the soldiers were unlikely to see him as he stood next to the statue, even if they looked up.
The soldiers were quartering the cemetery in a search pattern, consulting some kind of device as they went. Xander couldn’t help being reminded of landing parties on Star Trek using tricorders to scan alien planets but, even though he knew it was silly, he couldn’t dismiss the image. Whatever it was, it allowed the soldiers to cover ground quickly; they weren’t inspecting individual crypts, just checking the area from a central point with their equipment.
It only took them about 20 minutes to cover the entire cemetery. He watched them as they talked briefly, wishing he could hear what they were saying, then head out of the cemetery with purposeful strides. Xander waited until they were at the gate before dropping down from the roof to follow. From the direction they were headed, it looked like they were going to the next closest cemetery, Shady Hill.
He stayed well back, walking openly on the sidewalk like a regular pedestrian - ok, an insane pedestrian out for a midnight stroll but just a regular guy not interested in soldiers. Maybe he should whistle.
Xander saw them turn in his direction from two blocks up. He tensed, ready to duck up a front walk as if going home if they approached, but they just stared in his direction for a moment, then turned and started walking again. One of them settled something over his shoulder as they moved off. He suspected they had just checked him with their equipment and was grateful that it apparently indicated he was harmless.
A dozen empty bags of blood littered the counter as the microwave dinged one more time. Spike opened the door and pulled out the last mug, finishing it quickly. He could feel the warm human blood spreading through his body and the pain of his burns had already eased substantially as the blood boosted his healing ability. Fortunately, ribs were nothing and burns, no matter how painful, were surface wounds, both should heal fully by sunset tomorrow.
Blood was the stuff of unlife itself for a vampire, the hot fluid was so much more than a necessity. Drinking it, hot and fresh from the veins of an unwilling victim, carried subtleties of taste and emotion that humans couldn’t understand. The taste of living blood was indescribable. It was food after famine, water in the desert, replenishing life and energy by stealing it from the still-living flesh of prey. Vampires had been known to keep killing beyond reason and caution, draining victim after victim in an uncontrollable orgy of bloodlust because of the ecstatic high that came with feeding. Spike himself had gotten lost in the rush of killing and feeding, draining dozens of victims until he was beyond sated.
Now the taste of human blood was bitter in his mouth in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that it was bagged and not directly from the vein. Every swallow, no matter how needed and how necessary for healing, had choked him with bitter acknowledgement that this was all that was left to him now - artificial food, frozen and packaged, sterile and empty, something to keep his unlife going, not something to be savored.
As the last drops slid down his throat, Spike flung the empty mug against the wall, unable to even take satisfaction in the destruction as the mug shattered into a million tiny pieces. The destruction just emphasized that this was all that was left to him: bagged blood and property damage. Fucking bastards had no right to do this to him.
He slid down the counter to collapse on the floor, wondering why he’d even bothered to drink. He should have let his burns fester and remain unhealed - outward sign of the inward damage, the pain a reminder of that other, far worse, pain.
Xander groaned silently to himself as the soldiers entered the Restfield Cemetery, their third since he’d begun following them. Restfield was one of the older cemetery, with uneven ground and a lot of big trees. He wouldn’t be able to keep track of the soldiers from a central vantage point this time, he’d have to risk following them. Hopefully he’d be able to keep far enough back not to alert them to his presence while still being able to guess their movements. He couldn’t just wait at the entrance, since there were several exits they could use.
He waited until they were out of sight before cautiously following them in through the gates. He kept close to the larger crypts, trying to move silently and invisibly from one to the next, tracking the soldiers more by guesswork than by following their actual movements.
The night was quiet enough that their infrequent comments and the occasional radio message carried a long distance and helped him to keep track of their movements. He was concentrating exclusively on the soldiers and, as a result, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand closed firmly around his arm and yanked him around the side of the crypt he was standing next to. He yelled in shock and was almost grateful for the hand that clamped over his mouth smothering the sound before it could fully escape.
“It’s me,” Angel said in his ear and Xander let out a long breath, sagging with relief. Angel released him and Xander turned to face him, scowling at him in the dim light.
“Jeez, give me a heart attack already,” he whispered. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Angel hissed back angrily, obviously keeping his voice low only with an effort. “I’m not the one wandering around a cemetery looking for trouble.”
Xander refrained from pointing out that it looked like that was exactly what Angel was doing. “I found the soldiers,” he explained instead, glad he finally had proof of their existence.
“I saw. I suppose it didn’t occur to you that getting some help before going off on your own might be a good idea? Buffy was worried sick when you didn’t meet up with her. We’ve been looking for you.”
The worst part about Angel’s lecturing tone was that he was right. Xander should have called Buffy but that would have lead to Buffy-lectures and she didn’t mean it but when she was doing her “I’m the Slayer” routine, she came across as pretty condescending. Not as bad as Angel but hard to take for someone who had managed to stay alive on the Hellmouth past high school mostly on his own.
Even he knew that was just an excuse. He’d deliberately not met up with Buffy and worse, not called her, because she was humoring him about searching for Spike, no matter how she tried to hide it. After Angel’s deadline, he hadn’t been ready for Buffy to take Angel’s side, even implicitly.
“Look, we don’t have time for this. We’re going to lose them.”
Angel’s face got that impatient look he’d had so often sophomore year when he was trying to convince Xander that Spike was bad for him. “Go home, Xander. I’ll take care of this.”
“So not happening. You don’t even think there’s anything going on. I want to know where they go when they aren’t canvassing cemeteries.”
“How is tipping them off by getting caught following them going to help Spike?” Angel asked sarcastically.
Xander glared at him. “How is you disappearing going to help anyone?” he snapped back. “These guys are scanning the cemeteries with some kind of equipment. Whatever they’ve got, I bet they can tell vampires from humans.”
Angel frowned. Xander knew the older vampire didn’t keep up with the modern world the way Spike did and he suspected that went double for new technology - ‘new’ as in post-dating the invention of the radio, he suspected.
“I think they’re using something that senses body heat,” he said, “or maybe something that checks for the sound of a heartbeat.” Ok, so he was a little vague on the line between reality and science-fiction, but he knew for sure that those two things existed. “Whatever they’ve got, if the military is hunting demons, you can bet it’s the most up-to-date stuff there is.”
They stared at each other stubbornly, neither giving ground and Xander knew they were risking either being seen or losing the soldiers if they kept this up. “How about we follow them together?” he suggested.
“That’ll just double the chances of being caught,” Angel pointed out impatiently.
“Not if we tag team them.”
They settled on Xander staying back with Angel and Angel tracking them by sound. Vampire hearing should be able to follow their progress from outside visual range and, hopefully, beyond the range of their equipment.
As the last of the pain from his burns faded to a dull, itchy sensation as the raw patches began to heal, Spike stirred and reluctantly considered his options. The night was half gone and he had to decide what to do. He wanted to see Xander, to find out if he was all right - wanted it so badly it was an ache far more painful than even the sun burning his flesh. He needed to think it through, make sure he wouldn’t be putting Xander in danger by returning to the apartment in his current state.
He stared at the empty bags on the counter before sweeping them angrily to the floor. He was reduced to being Angelus now, worse, because Angelus bagged it by choice not because he couldn’t bite. Spike had been drinking bagged blood recently more than he would have ever dreamed barely a year ago. He did it to please Xander and, he admitted with a tiny self-mocking smile, because Xander went to so much trouble to make sure that there was always a ready supply of blood in the refrigerator, making it convenient. Spike didn’t need to ever feed off another human to survive but that wasn’t really the point. He didn’t want to be like Angelus had been for so long - just surviving, not living. Violence was who he was: he was the Big Bad, Master of the Hellmouth, and Xander was his Claimed human. He couldn’t have any of that if he couldn’t fight and again he wondered if there was any point in going on like this.
Whatever his decision, he needed to see if Xander was alright. The fate of a fallen Master’s Claimed human was generally not pretty. The new Master often took them as playthings, symbols of their triumph over the human’s former Master. Their lives tended to be short and brutally violent and that was not happening to Xander. No matter what he had to do, whatever it cost him in pain and humiliation, he would protect Xander from that fate.
The soldiers hit three more cemeteries over the course of the next two hours, sweeping through them quickly but thoroughly and Angel had reluctantly been convinced that the men knew what they were doing. They weren’t on some random hunt for an AWOL colleague - it was obvious they were searching for a demon, and probably a vampire. Xander hated the fact that he felt like a tag-along, totally dependent on Angel’s reports because, once the vampire stretched out his hearing, he was able to track them from well beyond the range where Xander could see or hear them. Angel had overheard two additional radio reports and Xander estimated they were checking in every half hour. Both times, the soldiers had reported they hadn’t found anything, once referring to their target as “Hostile 17”.
The fact that they were looking for a specific demon - Xander had to assume it was a demon - gave Xander a surge of hope he didn’t even try to suppress. If anyone was capable of escaping from the military, it was Spike. Regardless, whoever, or whatever it was the soldiers were hunting, Xander was ready to help. Mostly it was the hope that anyone the soldiers were looking for might be able to tell them about the soldiers, their base, and whether they were holding any prisoners, but it was also the fact that all the equipment the soldiers were toting made it seem a bit unfair. Buffy and Spike’s contempt for guns as weapons had apparently rubbed off on him.
“They’ve been recalled.”
Angel reported the news quietly. Xander had developed a healthy new respect for vampiric hearing in the last two hours. He’d known it was substantially better than human hearing but he’d never hunted with Spike this way and it was weird but useful to be able to follow someone he could neither see nor hear, trusting only that Angel actually could.
“Like back to base?” Xander asked.
“Good, we’ll finally see where they’ve been hiding.”
Angel’s silent warning had them fading back into the shadows on the far side of a crypt as the three soldiers walked past. Although obviously still alert, they were more relaxed now. The stocky guy in the middle who’d been operating the thing that looked so much like a tricorder every time Xander had gotten a glimpse of it, had put it away, and they strode openly through the cemetery on a direct line to the gate, no longer moving surreptitiously and keeping to the shadows.
He waited for Angel’s signal before following Angel out of the cemetery, well after the soldiers had moved out of sight.
Xander had been here recently.
Once he’d left the kitchen, Spike had caught faint traces of Xander’s scent in the living room. It was stronger downstairs and Spike followed his Claimed’s beloved scent to the master bedroom.
Xander had been here within the last day. The scent was strongest on the bed, clearly Xander had slept here within the last day and Spike couldn’t help picking up the pillow and inhaling the familiar spicy scent of his Claimed. For a long moment, he just stood there, inhaling deeply, drinking in the familiar smell, before he sat down on the bed, his fingers tightening convulsively in the fabric of the pillow.
Xander’s scent was off. His natural scent was nearly overwhelmed by the bitter tang of grief and loneliness and the salt of unshed tears. His boy hadn’t smelled this way since shortly after Spike met him, when Xander had been so lost in grief for his friend that he’d been taking crazy risks, almost as if he was deliberately trying to get himself killed.
Xander thought he was dead, that much was obvious. And maybe it would be better to let him think that, let him grieve and move on, but Spike knew that Xander didn’t let go of things, didn’t give up on the people he loved.
Question was, where was Xander now and why had he been sleeping on the bare mattress at the mansion instead of back at the apartment? Did that mean that the someone had taken over the Court, that Xander had had to leave the apartment for safety?
Spike felt a wave of fury wash over him at the thought of another vampire trying to take his place. Sunnydale was his town, he was Master here, not some jumped up pretender taking over the moment Spike’s back was turned. And if that pretender had threatened Xander, well maybe Spike just needed to figure out how to ignore the pain, just long enough to kill the vampire that was trying to take his place.
Xander felt a rush of both triumph and anger as he approached the metal doors set in the concrete bunker. The soldiers had disappeared inside and Angel had heard the sound of what had to be some sort of electronic lock. Angel hadn’t been able to see any cameras so Xander felt safe examining the entrance.
The whole structure was obviously new. Set deep in the woods, the concrete building was less than ten feet square. Except for the fact that it was made of concrete and sitting in the middle of nowhere, it could have been a garden shed. There was nothing about it that spoke of the military or high tech or security. There had been some attempt to hide it by piling brush up around it, but the people who had put it here were obviously hoping that anyone who stumbled across it wouldn’t think anything of it. Just an old concrete structure left over from who knows what. High tech surveillance cameras guarding the entrance would have called attention to it, doing more harm than good.
If the soldiers hadn’t gone inside, Xander himself wouldn’t have thought this was something worth bothering with. Undoubtedly, it was bristling with security on the inside but right now, all Xander was worried about was what this meant: that the army had some kind of secret base here. Secret base plus demon-hunting equaled the explanation for Spike’s disappearance, nothing else made sense. Even Angel had been sounding less skeptical as the night wore on. Xander didn’t give a damn about vindication, he was just relieved to finally have something to corroborate his gut feeling.
As tempting as it was, Xander didn’t make any effort to open the doors, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Walking away now was one of the hardest things he’d ever done but he had to do this right, had to plan his next move If he was going to storm an army base, he needed a lot more backup than Angel.
Reluctantly stepping away from the door he was convinced was separating him from Spike, Xander rubbed his hands over his face tiredly. He’d call Sergeant Morgan in the morning. It was probably time for a summit meeting with Giles, Buffy, Sergeant Morgan and Mr. Olsen. If the military had a secret base in town and were capturing demons, that was Mayor-level bad.
Sitting on the bed, Spike found himself fingering the small bald spot on the back of his head. It was the key to what had been done to him. He had no proof but he knew. It was the only thing that made sense. They’d done something to his head to cause him excruciating pain whenever he hurt something.
There was something…
There was something about this whole set up that was ringing the faintest of bells. Something about this was sounding familiar. He’d heard something once, if he could just remember what.
Closing his eyes, Spike lay back down on the bed, struggling to find the elusive memory. Soldiers, government, experiments… why did it all sound so familiar?
And just like that, he had it. Spike sat up, bitter curses filling the empty room as the memory suddenly sprang into place.
That Nazi on the fucking submarine in the 40’s. That blighter Lawson struggling to read the German document they’d found, saying: “It's technical. Something about stimulation and... control. They've been experimenting on them... and cutting into their brains.” There’d been talk about how Hitler wanted to create an army of vampire slaves and Angelus admitting the U.S. government was interested in the Nazi research. Spike had burned the report on the Nazi experiments but obviously the Americans hadn’t given up the idea.
“Bastards. Took you 50 years but you finally figured it out, didn’t you?” he said out loud. “Well, I’m not going to be your guinea pig.” A grim smile crossed his face as he remembered the shattered mug in the kitchen. “Can still damage property, can’t I? We’ll just see if your little experiment in behavior modification lets me burn your fucking building to the ground.”
*A/N - Bits of dialogue borrowed from the Angel the Series episode ‘Why We Fight’