FIC: Fight From The Inside 4/?

[dollarformyname]

A/N: Thanks so much to kayariley and trouble for the beta and sounding board assistance. I'm pretty sure this whole story would have imploded with nonsensical-ness if not for them.

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And If You Make It Past The Shotgun In The Hall

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There are certain drawbacks in life that Angel has learned to cope with. Mostly.

Angel is a vampire, and the sun is not his friend.

Connor is a trouble-seeker, a good kid for the most part, but constantly brimming over with energy that needs to go somewhere, not always somewhere productive. Being the son of vampires, this is not surprising.

Dawn is a trouble-magnet, also a good kid, but constantly brimming over with this mystical trumpet-call of come-kidnap-me. Being Buffy's magically-gifted sister, it's just plain expected.

The last year of Angel's life has been trying, to say the least, since trouble-seeker met trouble-magnet and insults were fired until sparks flew. Sometimes insults are still fired, actually, but it's usually kind of entertaining.

Spike is annoying. This is an eternal truth that will never go away. Like not ever because, ya know, he's immortal and refuses to go anywhere else.

These are Angel's trials, and he deals with them, often with a cool coat and a mysterious air.

But when it all gets smashed up together—Connor and Dawn in a troublesome shootout at high noon, Spike vibrating in the passenger's seat of Angel's Plymouth as they sit parked at the furthest end of Stanford Avenue behind lines and lines of strobes, news vans and other worried families while Illyria makes graphic threats in the backseat and Angel is this knot of volcanic tension behind the wheel—Angel's ability to deal gets a little iffy.

Angel has drawbacks, the universe has rules, and it all needs to melt and morph into something more acceptable. The sun needs to take a swan dive, Connor and Dawn need to not be on the other side of a cluster of ambulances and police cars where he can't see them, there needs to be no school shootings or sewer maintenance (because of course those two would get into trouble up to their eyeballs on a bright, shiny day when half the city's workers are clogging up the underground network) and Spike needs to shut up.

The Plymouth is crammed in a sardine can with dozens of other vehicles near the intersection of Stanford Avenue and Bowdoin Street, which ultimately runs into Campus Drive. Campus Drive seems to be the line the cops have drawn, as it circles the bulk of the campus and is well outside the boundaries of shots fired. There's a huge blockade of every emergency vehicle and armed officer the city has available, flashing lights and glinting badges, orange-and-white barriers and bullhorns. The parking lot of the elementary school outside Spike's window is a flurry of activity as parents rush to pick up their kids, completely ignoring the authorities' directive to stay calm and sit tight, and Spike is loudly of the mind that Angel should just ram through all of the metal and flesh swarming the streets.

Angel's gritting his teeth so hard they're sure to crack.

"C'mon! This is bloody ridiculous!" Spike is impatient and furious, not one for idle car confinement on a good day. He slams a fist against the dash, blowing a cloud of smoke around the cigarette clenched between his lips. "S'not like we won't survive a few bullets, git! Shift your arse!"

"Spike." Angel actually needs to breathe right now, unlock his jaw and engage in some oxygen intake. "Even if I was willing to plow over a bunch of innocent people, I can't get enough propulsion in this mess to ram through anything. There'll just be crashing and more stopping."

"Wanker!" Spike is pitching a fit now, cursing the sun, Angel's stubborn need to have logic, the necro-tempered glass as if it is the culprit here instead of the only thing between him and combustion, stomping his feet on the floorboards, blowing more smoke.

Angel has to remember that Spike is worried. This is how he communicates it. Killing him would be bad... for some reason.

Illyria leans forward between the seats, glaring through the windshield with her hands gripping the headrests. She's incognito, wearing jeans and a plain black hoodie, the hood flopped over her forehead to hide her hair and blue veins, but her eyes are still visible and disconcertingly icy. She's refused to be Fred since Wesley died, so this is how she blends.

"I reiterate my desire to annihilate the metallic beasts and proceed into the war zone," she says flatly, and it's more of a generous warning of imminent action than a request, so Angel's going to have to talk her down again. It's never wise to set her loose on civilians without supervision no matter how well she's adapted.

She's grown oddly attached to Connor and Dawn, which he guesses has something to do with the fact that they actually indulge her endless questions, and the disturbing fact that she finds Dawn "shiny and mesmerizing." Plus, unhappy Spike equals unhappy god-king. Another of those life tests on Angel's sanity.

"Remember when I told about patience being a perfectly legitimate tactic?" Angel says wearily, trying to remember the exact discussion himself as he sits here impotently and tests the steering wheel's endurance by twisting it underneath his hands, the radio a low background murmur of unhelpful information. Connor's in there, guns are in there, Angel's not in there. "You have to just. Just sit still and wait. Sun goes down, we'll sneak in."

Yes, that's a sensible plan: waiting. Except the part about waiting.

It's already been decades since Spike's soaps were interrupted with the breaking news, and the immediate response of calling Connor and Dawn elicited nothing relieving because they didn't answer, still aren't answering. And if he has to listen to one more blasting staccato that his sensitive hearing won't spare him from, he's likely to get himself charbroiled, anyway.

"The Slayer's gonna have our arses for handbags by the time this is over," Spike grumbles, still fidgeting around like a hyperactive toddler being forced into a wholly uncalled for time-out. He stabs the butt of his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray, lights another one, twin trails of smoke pouring through his nostrils, and Angel's kind of frozen for a minute because crap, he forgot about Buffy.

Watch out for my sister, Buffy had said when she found out Dawn got accepted to Stanford. Don't let her manipulate you with the big doe eyes, don't let her cook, and do not let her get kidnapped, killed, or otherwise victimized. The threat had remained unspoken because Angel knew her well enough to have a mental list of the visuals.

She's in England right now or something, and he's not sure if the news has gone from national to worldwide yet.

"Did you call her?"

Spike eyeballs him like he's just been asked if he put on sunscreen today. "Do I look suicidal to you?"

"Right now?" Angel grates, twists the vinyl with a creak. "You've practically been begging me to kill you all day so I'm gonna hafta go with yes."

Spike flops petulantly back into his seat, plays Puff The Bitchy Dragon with his cigarette. "You call her."

Angel frowns. "I don't want to, so clearly you have to do it."

"M'not callin' her."

"Me, either."

"Fine."

"Great." Angel sighs and returns his stare to the circus outside, huffs, twists. "Someone has to call her."

"Know anyone invulnerable enough to be the messenger she'll wanna pound on when she gets here?" Spike grumbles, stiffens before he's even finished his sentence and looks at Angel.

Angel looks back, then as one, they both crane their heads to regard Illyria, who merely looks impatient as she's yet to be given an acceptable reason not to crush and tear.

Comprehension dawns, and she snaps out a palm, waiting for a phone to be slapped into it. "You are both cowardly and annoying. I do not understand why I tolerate you."

-:-

Command central is hopping with activity, walls of monitors and the crackle of radio reports, non-combatants spread out in rolling chairs so they can swivel and scoot between stations as needed. Buffy watches the unfolding mini-disasters surge across communication feeds all around her with a mild hysteria bubbling up inside.

Portals are popping up all over Europe, another clan of Jhe orchestrating the chaos to usher in reinforcements from their own world and take over this one. The Slayers are scattered across the continent, almost her entire force occupied with the threat, and she's standing here in the windowless and dank surveillance room of the newly-restored Council building, surrounded by ugly green tile and too-stark fluorescents, occasionally offering up tactical advice that may or may not be ignored.

This general of war thing is all perfectly practical, but she itches to do more, to jump right into the middle of something with fists and feet.

"I should be out there," Buffy mutters as she edges up behind Xander and eyes the bank of screens that reveal a particularly troublesome portal in their own backyard.

Xander's too busy barking into his comm link to respond, hands flitting over controls and switching between feeds.

The Slayers in the field are yodeling war cries and tearing into flesh like paper, but it's not enough. The demons are too many and the Slayers are more concerned with squashing them than getting to the cause of the disturbance. It doesn't require magical intervention, just someone focused enough to take advantage of the distraction and eliminate the casters the demons are trying to protect. Her agents are still so undisciplined, but it's not like she can hold it against them given her own track record for falling in line with authority.

"Yo, B!" The entrance bangs open. Faith stalks in hurriedly, weapons bulging all over her tight, black clothing. Her hair's a frazzled mess and she's oozing sweat, a sparkle of thrill in her eyes that Buffy tries not to be jealous of.

Buffy turns to regard her hopefully. "You need me for something?" It might sound a bit too overeager but she doesn't particularly care at the moment.

Faith shakes her head and Buffy's frustration wells up again. "I was just about to head out and switch out the troops, get some actual shit done about that magic hole." She jerks her chin at the bustle in front of and on the screens as she fumbles in a pocket and pulls out Buffy's cell. "You left this in the library. Call came in and now you gotta go."

Buffy takes the phone being jabbed at her with furrowed brows. "Go?"

"Illyria called," Faith says, raised brows emphasizing the oddity of that occurrence. "Didn't think that chick knew how to push a button without breaking it."

Buffy would find this humorous if it wasn't for the fact that Illyria using modern technology likely equals major badness. "Angel?"

Faith shakes her head, all humor gone. "It's Dawn."

Buffy's inner hysteria surges up to full capacity and she's darting for the door before anyone can blink. She pauses and looks back, the action almost ripping her in half as she remembers the world being in peril.

"We got this, B," Faith assures, waving her off. "I can boss people around, no sweat. Get the fuck outta here."

Buffy shoots her a grateful look and slams out into the hall, mind racing ahead of her as she works out who she can afford to take with her.

"Willow!" she yells as she launches into a full-on sprint for the stairs, juggling her phone to her ear to call Angel and find out just how excessively she needs to be armed.

-:-

There's an internal war going on, fears clashing against each other, too many people murmuring busily, jostling his elbows and grating against his delicate nerves, all of them packed tightly into the boundaries of roped-off pathways.

Sam's in trouble, the Impala has been relegated to the horrible fate of a long-term parking garage, and Dean is naked.

He reaches back forlornly to pat at his bereft waistband, no soothing bulge of safety, no press of skin-warmed metal against his back, lets out a shaky breath.

"It's fine, Dean," John says again as he notes his son's nervous tick and stuffs their too-light duffels onto the conveyor belt.

One particularly impatient jackass keeps jamming his laptop bag up against the small of Dean's back. He grinds his teeth, swears he's going to crunch the guy's ribcage into a fun concave shape if he doesn't cut it out. His dad keeps saying it's all fine, but Dean doesn't know who he's trying to convince. It has yet to miraculously come true.

They both shed their shoes and jackets and lay them beside their bags, watching the belt spirit them off into the little rubber-fringed cavemouth for a moment before John takes Dean roughly by his wrist and hauls him forward.

The guy behind him huffs out a, "Finally," and Dean has to fight hard not to turn around and knock him on his ass. That'd just bring security and time-consuming strip searches down on them, and Dad would be even more pissed than he already is.

They get through the strangely intimidating doorframe thing that stands in the middle of nothing without too much fuss—if you don't count the way Dean gets so caught up staring at the construct like some beast waiting to swallow him that John has to turn around and yank him through by his shirt collar to snap him out of it—collect their things and replace their outerwear. John grabs his son's wrist again to make sure he maintains some kind of forward motion, as Dean's legs aren't really feeling all that cooperative.

Dad seems irritably resigned to Dean being a dumbstruck zombie, and he might feel a little ashamed of himself if it weren't for the paralyzing fear. At least he's not hyperventilating or puking, so that's something.

He'll be more useful once the defying gravity part of this nightmare is over, he swears it.

John guides them through the bumbling crowds and dodges those go-cart things with fierce efficiency. People take one look at the deadly glint of his dark eyes and make a hole without much thought, and before Dean knows it, they're in another line. This one is shorter and dwindling too rapidly as the perky brunette behind the little podium swiftly scans tickets, a company smile and some chirping spiel no one ever listens to, because who can't figure out number sequences and seat assignments?

Dean's heartbeat has gotten a little more obnoxious, cold sweat breaking out over his skin. But his dad still has his wrist in a deathgrip and there's no escape, the howling abyss of the plane ramp waiting patiently for him to be dragged inside.

Bush Intercontinental was the nearest airport, and Dad had been the one driving so it wasn't like Dean could do anything about the road to hell he'd opted for after Sam's stubborn persistence in not answering his phone. Even with their blatant disregard for traffic laws, there's no way they could get to California in any kind of timely manner by car.

Dean agrees with getting there fast but this? This is not natural. Huge tubes of metal are not supposed to leave the ground without some disastrous impact when gravity ultimately wins. They'll be no good to Sam if they're in a flaming heap of twisted shrapnel in some random cornfield.

Dean blows out another shaky breath and leaves his sharper awareness behind for a little while. He doesn't want to pay too much attention to being escorted none-too-gently onto the craft of fiery doom, or being forcefully folded into his window seat—though he does come back to himself long enough to snap that fucker shut—immediately melds his body into the itchy upholstery, clutches the armrests and closes his eyes for the duration.

John shifts around next to him once he's stowed the carry-ons, says, "Caleb's in the area. He'll meet us there. It'll be fine."

Dean already knows this, but Dad seems to be on some reassurance loop that insists he repeat things over and over. It is comforting to have his dad on this death trap with him, though, because there's no way John Winchester will tolerate going out in something so mundane as a plane crash, so Dean tries to relax a little, tries to concentrate on what lies on the other side of this four-hour flight.

Caleb will be waiting for them when they land on that wonderfully awesome thing known as the ground. Caleb will have extra weapons seeing as how airport security is unreasonably strict about that kind of thing. Caleb will take them to Sammy.

Dean can't wait to see Caleb.

-:-

His meatsuit's clearance has gotten him as far as the hectic perimeter of Campus Drive, and he's not all that concerned with the man's career or any consequences that will be brought on by his superiors. He's more worried about getting his demons out before certain other demons catch on to his presence.

The whole mission had been going so well until the college, the other psychic freaks taken out in whimpers and isolation. Sam Winchester was the only remaining problem child, and also the most formidable given his knowledge and constantly busy surroundings. It was why he used more than one of the kids to get the job done. That, and the rumors of Champions infesting the area. Lydecker, as he was referring to himself for the moment, couldn't risk losing the last target to some interfering do-gooder.

He's kicking himself for not listening to the demons' complaints of their meatsuits' strengthening rebellions sooner. Sending all of them in might have been slight overkill.

"It's no good, sir," Whitaker says as he shuffles up behind him and settles on his right, scanning the section of parking lot on the other side of the barriers and barking men in uniform.

"What do you mean it's no good?" Lydecker hisses, a quick sidelong glance that reveals tattered and bloodied clothing underneath a flak jacket his underling appears to have acquired from somewhere. The extra layer looks extremely out of place in this heat, but the officers are wrapped up in similar gear so it's nothing to quibble over. "You got in," he states more than asks.

Whitaker nods, eyes a crisp gray of irritation as he zips himself up tighter to cover the gore. "Got shot for my troubles, sir. They're not taking our orders anymore."

Lydecker grinds his teeth. He doesn't like admitting defeat. At all. "They won't leave the children?"

"I'm not sure they're entirely in control of that, sir."

"Fuck." Lydecker's seen some of the weak struggles, figures the kids' desperate defiances are probably mixing with the demons' ingrained desires to inflict general violence and resulting in an overall whacked-out vessel. The gunshots are getting less and less frequent, but there are still the occasional hiccuping reports that indicate a wolf locating a henhouse. He wonders what they'll do when they run out of things to kill in there. "Where's Greer?"

Whitaker shrugs, hands clasped behind his stiff back as he continues to keep his eyes forward for any sign of trouble, oddly adopting his meatsuit's mannerisms and keeping up the chain of command even though no one's paying them much attention. "Haven't seen him since we infiltrated, sir." He fingers the radio on his belt. "He's not responding."

"Bodies?" Lydecker knows they didn't just slip through without making some kind of mess. The line's sealed up tighter than a nun's panties.

"Disposed of, sir."

They're jostled by a pair of paramedics rushing by to obtain more supplies from the ambulance they're standing in front of, and Lydecker scowls but moves further toward the police cruiser with its strobes flashing weakly across a bright, cloudless afternoon. The medics are trying to make themselves appear useful, he guesses, because there are no more injured to be recovered safely until the threat's neutralized.

Not that it will be. At least not with guns and bullhorns.

He sighs as he realizes he's going to have to kill the children if he has any hope of pulling his bastard demons free. Stumbling upon that operation had been such a lucky break, or so he'd thought at the time. Not only could the lovely little abominations withstand demonic possession for long periods of time, but they had the added benefit of speed and enhanced senses. Bred assassins, which was just what he'd needed. It isn't exactly easy getting out of Hell these days, and especially with a very small army of demons. The kids had been perfect for going up against demonically-endowed humans, so small and easily trusted for it, and they'd been so efficient about the whole thing.

Now they're just a pain in his ass.

"Assume Greer's a lost cause," he orders, turning to regard the Chief of Police commanding his swarm of subordinates with disdain. "I'll handle Winchester. You deal with the kids."

"Yes, sir," Whitaker says with anticipatory glee, and Lydecker rolls his eyes indulgently.

The young ones are always so eager for bloodshed, which is all well and good, but someone's got to have a more panoramic viewpoint if Hell's spawn want to keep their human playthings for all that torment they love so much. Certain other demons will never quite get that, no matter how old they live to be.

"Quick and clean, kid," Lydecker reiterates as his overeager progeny begins to move out. "And if you see him..."

Whitaker throws an exasperated look over his shoulder, clearly not needing to be lectured on self-preservation. "I'm not quite stupid enough to tangle with the likes of Azazel, sir."

Lydecker cocks a sour smirk and nods. Whitaker slinks off into the crowd. Turning back toward the current man in charge, at least until the Feds get here, Lydecker plasters on his most genial yet commanding expression and starts forward to give the disaster crews a few vaguely helpful hints on exterminating transgenics.

Then he'll handle Sam Winchester and this entire stupid long-term plan of ultimate chaos will be null and void.

He really does hate chaos.

-:-

Spike's head nearly hits the ceiling of the car when a small but powerful fist bangs against the glass.

"Bloody hell, Slayer! Give a vamp a heart attack, why don't you?" He carefully cracks the window to avoid fatal rays, the smoke that's collected in the vehicle billowing out into her face.

Buffy's harried and dark expression conveys she's clearly not in the mood as she waves a hand around and coughs pointedly, the sunlight behind her casting her cinched-back locks in a golden halo that blatantly contradicts the restless hellion within. "Your heart doesn't beat," she says flatly as she shoves bundles of something bulky and black through the meager opening. "Put these on and get your asses out here."

Spike eyes the protective gear she's wearing, also bulky and black, figures that's what he's being offered.

"We brought helmets, too," a similarly clad Willow puts in as she shuffles up behind Buffy and gives a sheepish little wave, her other hand toting said helmets that obviously aren't going to fit through the window. "They're sunproof."

The witch's presence clues him in to how Buffy got here so fast, and he tosses one of the suits to Angel, who hasn't given up on the glower at all; not that he ever has, really. Willow opens the back door as they duck down into their seats, chucks the helmets in and slams it shut again. Illyria nearly bashes them in the head as she passes them up front with an impatience to rival Buffy's.

"You got a plan for getting inside?" Angel asks as he begins to change, Buffy turning her back to give them some privacy, and Spike scoffs.

"S'not like you haven't seen it all before."

Her shoulders stiffen against the glass. "We've got our Council clearance," she says. "Hurry up."

They make quick work of donning the gear and swiftly scramble out of the car. The helmet is stuffy and weighing Spike's head down, but he's absurdly grateful for the Slayer's forethought, even if she is being a bitch at the moment. Nothing new, though. That's just Buffy when she's in slay-mode, and he's not exactly feeling sociable himself as he practically hums with the need to smack something around.

"The obnoxious box squawks of juveniles," Illyria informs them dispassionately when Willow hands her a pair of sunglasses to cover her eyes. "This gathering is unnecessary. Their fragile bodies are easily broken." The 'by me' remains unspoken, but it's clear that Illyria is mildly offended by all this backup, as if they're implying she needs any.

Buffy lifts a brow at Spike for clarification, and he nudges them forward to begin weaving their way through the crowds. "Radio's leakin' rumors about babes being the culprits," he explains to Buffy, grabs Illyria's bicep to keep her from wandering off as she tries to plow ahead of them. "Nobody's sayin' you can't get it done all by your lonesome, Blue, but you can't run in there and bloody anything that moves. Try to listen to us for once, will you?"

Illyria affords him a nasty sneer but does as she's told for the time being.

"Kids?" Willow squeaks, all wide, dewy eyes of gooey sympathy, looking to Buffy as the Slayer takes the lead and pushes people aside unapologetically.

Buffy's frown is hard and disturbed but she maintains her momentum. "It doesn't matter. We figured humans so we brought tranqs." She hefts the canvas bag slung across her shoulders and tugs out a couple of handguns to distribute. "We'll figure out the rest as we go."

next

Comments

Thinky Thoughts

[dulcedeusex.livejournal.com]

but there are still the occasional hiccuping reports that indicate a wolf locating a henhouse. He wonders what they'll do when they run out of things to kill in there.

-- I too am wondering.

"The obnoxious box squawks of juveniles," Illyria informs them dispassionately when Willow hands her a pair of sunglasses to cover her eyes. "This gathering is unnecessary. Their fragile bodies are easily broken." The 'by me' remains unspoken, but it's clear that Illyria is mildly offended by all this backup, as if they're implying she needs any.

-- I love how you've captured Illyria in all her God-King Splendor. I frakking love this fic so much I can't sit still.

-- Now for the thinky thoughts, you have merged all the different characters and verses seamlessly. Some authors struggle to bring verses together but not you and not in this fic. It flows, it feel like, "BUT OF COURSE" this would happen should their universes collide.

-- I also love that everyone is slightly more evolved than where they left off in canon, Jossverse and DA-verse wise.

-- I just really love this fic and am gonna start reccing the crap out of it again. Hope the next instalment is pending... like CHAMPIONS *hint hint*

xx Dulce

Re: Thinky Thoughts

[dollarformyname.livejournal.com]

Youuuu! I never know what to say to your reviews because you leave these amazing, detailed comments that make me all giddy, and I feel like I should sing you love songs, or something way better than a simple thank you! But THANK YOU. Seriously.

I apologize for taking forever--my muse is going at a desperate crawl lately--but feedback like this definitely doesn't hurt anything. ♥