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Author: The Deadly Hook Into His HandsThe door closes in my face and I am left in the hall, my sentence hanging, unfinished. She's stopped listening to me. My mind reels in shock, even as I realize that on some level, I expected this to happen. I'd been prepared for anger, even for tears, maybe. Been prepared for her to hate me, to curse my name... but to understand eventually why I'd done it, why it had needed to be done. I'd not been prepared, however, for him to survive. Or for her to look at me like that, cold and furious. Shunning me for him. Because it's clear that's what she is doing, isn't it? She'd rather listen to his voice than mine. Even if she denies that there's anything more. I stand there for a moment, hand braced against the doorframe. Waiting, even though I know it's useless. Stubbornness is an aspect of Buffy I know very well. Her mind, once made up, is immovable. And for all I know, he could be in her room at this very moment. It's that thought, that image, that finally propells me away from her door and down the stairs. Nothing I care to picture, that, even though my mind is already supplying me with images from Willow's botched spell of some years back. The two of them carrying on as if they were actually in love. Blurred, thankfully, courtesy of the blinding effect the spell had on me. No such issue with sound, though - those memories are painfully vivid. Hours of billing and cooing and wet kisses. The whole thing had been ludicrous. A farce. Yet something very like it could be happening in that room at that very moment, I find myself thinking. Before I can stop myself, the picture comes to me of the two of them together, standing too close, talking in hushed voices. Or, god forbid, perhaps something even more intimate - Buffy getting undressed, him sitting on the bed watching and waiting with that disgusting, self-satisfied smirk. Laughing at the thought of me being the one on the outside, the one who's been rejected. Her possibly laughing with him. I'll speak to her in the morning, I decide, forcing my mind away from imagining more. She'll be calmer, more amenable to reason. Give her time to cool down. At the landing, I pause. The whole household is huddled together in the living room, It's painfully quiet - the lack of a TV in a house full of teenagers is impossible not to notice... and when exactly did Xander move into the house? He's in there with the girls, sitting silently on the couch as if that was something the boy could ever do instead of opening his mouth to make an inane comment every few seconds. Not that I wouldn't have welcomed a few inane comments at the moment. The silence is hardly doing anything to hide their feigned disinterest. Obvious from the way they tilt their heads away and look interested in the carpeting that every one of them has been listening, watching, waiting to see how this little drama will unfold. The Watcher versus the Slayer. Experience versus Power. And since I've come downstairs alone, I suppose there's no question as to who has won. That thought echoing through my head, I slide my hands in the pockets of my slacks and strike a casual pose. It's the least I can do, keep up appearances. The situation with Buffy may be rapidly spinning out of my control, but there's still the other girls to think of, still the need to provide an example. They need someone to look up to and keep them focussed. Someone to remind them why they're here. The dire consequences of all their actions. They still need that from someone, even if Buffy herself can't be arsed, now that she's convinced that Spike, of all people, counts for something more now that he's all redeemable and souled. Where she gets these ideas, I... Obviously I should never have allowed her to carry on the way she did with Angel. Childish hysteria and moony-eyed sentiment. As if "souled vampire" equals a recipe for soppy romance instead of a nightmare on a leash. She, of all people, should know better. She's merely tired, some stubbornly rational part of my mind insists. Exhaustion is affecting her judgment. She's turned to him because she needs a steady presence, and Spike is, if nothing else, a constant. A constant. I sourly remind myself that in his terms, "constant" once included a dogged persistence in trying to kill her, a little detail that's apparently since been forgotten by her, possibly by everyone. Not that I'd know, having been gone. Self-loathing boils up in that thought's wake. It's more obvious than ever that I made a serious mistake last year in leaving her to fend for herself, a realization that came to me belatedly during Willow's crisis. I'd laughed at her list of problems then. They'd seemed so... silly and trite at the time. Even she had laughed... but I should have heard the sound of desperation there, heard the exhaustion. I can't even imagine how she would have let him get so close if I'd been more conscious of her feelings. Not as if anyone in their right mind would ever have imagined... Hardly the point now, I remind myself. Nothing to be done about the past, and our current situation is indeed desperate, dire. The First still a problem, the greatest we've ever faced. Not as if I had a choice about leaving her in control here rather than taking a stronger hand. I had to gather the Potentials. No one else could have done it - the traveling, the endless negotiation with parents and officials and back-door deals to get girls out of their countries with no passports and emergency visas. We're all of us doing everything we can. The phrase cycles through my head. No idea where I originally heard it. God, a reassuring mantra. I've spent far too much time in California. The image comes back into my mind of Buffy closing the door in my face. Everything we can. The door slamming open interrupts my thoughts. I look up... and speak of the devil, there he is - the cause of all this trouble. No longer the penitent in gray. Back in black, as if he'd never changed at all.. not as if I'd ever really believed that he had. Impossible to imagine him with a soul. Even more impossible to picture him with Buffy, or to make sense of the words she said to me when I came back from this last journey and asked her why her pet vampire had suddenly stopped looking quite so toothless, hot on the heels of her removing the chip and making that toothlessness literal. I need him like that, she'd said, and her face had said the subject was closed. Not that I would have asked her to clarify. I don't think I'm capable of wanting to know that much about them, what they've become to each other. But I have to wonder it now, because he's here now - back again like a bad habit, standing on the threshold and letting everyone get a good look at him, all flash and black leather and sucked-in cheeks. Posing, almost. Dramatic tosser. We lock eyes, and I can see it in his face. Either Buffy told him, or he figured it out for himself. He knows that I played a part in this. The attempt - failed, unfortunately - to erase him from this world. But I say nothing. Nothing needs to be said. We just stand there, glaring at each other across the hall, giving the entire room time to turn and gawk at us, at this spectacle, to try to understand what it all means. I can't quite bring myself to care, simultaneously grateful to realize that his presence in the doorway means he's not upstairs keeping company with Buffy, and acutely aware how this tableau must appear to the others. Like something out of a movie Western, perhaps. High noon. Then he steps into the room, never taking his eyes from mine. I watch him make a show of kicking the door shut behind him - half the room flinches at the bang - and then he strides his way past me and into the kitchen. Preening bastard in his leather coat - still obviously thinks he's cock of the walk. The basement door creaks open, then slams shut, and I can hear his footsteps as he descends the stairs. And in the ensuing silence, before I can give myself too much time to think, I make a decision. A final one, I hope. Moving slowly, I cross the room to Buffy's weapons trunk. Calmly and deliberately, I throw it open, roll up my shirtsleeves and study the contents, keenly aware of every eye in the room on me as I decide on a crossbow and fit it with bolts. I check the mechanism carefully - I know there will be no time for second chances - then after a moment's consideration, I add a stake to my arsenal, sliding it into my belt. Wood failed, and Buffy's shut me out of her confidence. She'd rather keep company with a monster than think of the future, think of the danger. And no matter what I do now, she'll hate me. But there are still the others think of. And their futures. I need to deal with Spike myself. As I cross the room, no one says a word or moves to stop me. I walk to the basement door, very deliberately, and throw it open, stare into the darkness of the cellar. I can't see more than the first two meters or so, but I can feel him down there, waiting for me. The silence is ominous. Courage, Ripper. I adjust my grip on the crossbow, tense and ready. ...and step into the lion's den. Standing on those stairs, staring into the darkness, the lights of the kitchen only a few steps away... and I've entered another world. It's a feeling I remember from my Watcher's training, so many years ago... exercises conducted in darkened houses, monsters fake and real on the prowl for blood as we nervous trainees sought to stretch our senses to high alert, to listen for any scrap of sound. I shake off the memories with an impatient snap, and send my fingers in search of the wall switch instead. Light destroys darkness, and wood in the right place destroys vampires. Way of the world, when it works right. Simple. I find the switch and snap it on. Light flares from a single, naked bulb suspended over the stairs and the basement is flooded with light, brighter than I expected. No sign of Spike. Finger on the trigger, I scan the room's darker corners, the spots just out of my line of sight. Nothing. I feel the expected surge of dread, push it down. I drop into a crouch. My thigh muscles groan in protest - god, but I do seem to have let myself go - and peer through the slats of the stairs. Only so many places to hide, after all... ...and there's a hollow sound, as if from an old-style camera flash, then a faint sizzling noise, and the soft sound of glass popping. And the light abruptly goes out. And in the utter darkness in which I can suddenly hear my heart beat too loud, my mind begins racing. Yes, obviously the light bulb has burst... water on the glass, perhaps? A simple, effective trick. Two Slayers dead, yet he's never been known for being particularly clever, or efficient, just brutal and fast... I swing the crossbow in a wild arc. If I can just buy enough time for my eyes to adjust. If I can only... But it's too late, even as I knew it would be. I hear the wooden step in front of me groan with a sharp impact, and a cold hand closes around my throat like a vise. Another cold grip immobilises my wrist. And before I can even react, I'm jerked off my feet and shaken like a rat in the jaws of a terrier dog. "Been target practice enough for tonight, Rupert," he drawls low and deadly, mockingly drawing out the "u" sound like he always does. Not through yet, I think, even though I know the thought for what it is, the desperation of a dying man. I've one hand free, and I flail for the stake at my waist, nearly managing to brush my fingertips against the wood before it abruptly vanishes, clattering distantly against the far wall. My captor makes an impatient sound, like a snort, and then my position shifts. I'm jerked up tight against his body, back to front, and his arm closes around my throat like a steel bar. A thick chuckle, far too close. "You've definitely got stones, Watcher," he whispers, and every hair on my body is rising, like hackles on a dog, with that sound. His lips are nearly at my ear. "You know, I always admired that about you." This time, I can hear the change in his voice, the words crowding past fangs. His head dips closer to mine, brush of his hair as he leans lower, and I feel a shiver of revulsion run through me. He's got my head locked in place, neck laid bare. I can feel my throat pulsing, can't help swallowing, blinking, thinking about what's coming next. Absurd images race through my brain of him living in my flat - what the hell was I thinking to even allow that, him running my microwave and taking up space on my couch. Rummaging through my cupboards, this monster with his teeth at my throat. Rupert, you are a very, very fool, and are about to die like one.
"Stop gloating and finish it then... Pillock!" I spit, even as I claw at the arm holding me. Useless, of course, but I refuse to simply let the bastard kill me without a fight. Not in my training or my nature. I comfort myself briefly with the knowledge that my dead body here in this house might go a long way toward finally snapping Buffy out of his spell, even as I screw my eyes shut in anticipation of fangs. Stabbing pain and blood. And more than likely my own screams, although I'll do my best not to give him the satisfaction. Oh god, unless I should scream... warn the others upstairs before he can descend on them too... He's laughing. Laughing... a real, rolling laugh that goes on for some time, shaking my body as I hang there, limp and surprised. The laugh trickles down to a chuckle, his arm tightens around my throat with choking pressure, then suddenly lets go. Deprived of support, I stumble back and sit down hard on the stairs, barely managing to catch myself before I go bum over teakettle. My head slams hard against the railing, and I can't catch my breath. The bloody hell? "Aren't you a rare one," he snorts, and I still can't see for a damn... having trouble swallowing. Is he still talking? "...meek show for the kiddies. They don't know the half of it, do they? What were you in the day, Rupert? Bully boy on the Tube, or just living dangerous? Little experimentation here and there." A rustle of leather, and then he's crouching in front of me on the steps. I can see him now, dimly, a dark shape. "You stood up to Angelus," he says quietly. "And you know, that took some doing. Most people he could crack without even touching." His hand is on my shoulder, suddenly, and I jerk in surprise. I can see his eyes as he leans near, and his voice when he speaks again is low and intimate. The fangs are gone. He might have been having a pleasant chat with a friend. "But you would never have walked away from that one if it weren't for me," he says softly. "Don't mind you never saying thank you for it, since I did watch you getting tortured, but it wouldn't hurt if you remembered that right about now." ...and I've no idea what he's saying. Angelus? I must have made some kind of sound, because his fingers on my shoulder tighten suddenly. "Slayer and I made a deal?" he prompts. The sound is one of strained patience, and I've no clue to what he's talking about so the silence spins out for a moment before he continues, voice tight. "You get saved, I help take down Angel. Dru and I walk away." He raps the words out like a recitation, and there's another pause, a longer one. I've no idea what he wants me to say. The dim light from the upstairs is finally registering in my eyes. I can almost see him clearly. His face is curiously blank, his eyes strangely bright. When he sees me studying him, he turns his face away. "She never told you that, then." His voice sounds different now. I can't put my finger on what it is. And then he's gone, pushing off the stairs and seeming to disappear. I realize in a moment that he's simply jumped over the rail to the floor, invisible the darkness. The place where his hand had been on my shoulder feels strangely cold. "What, you..." I attempt, but can't manage it. Bruised windpipe. Bastard nearly choked me. Made a deal? What does he mean, made a deal? How far back does... how long has Buffy been...? "Better go now, Watcher," I hear his voice float up to me from somewhere below. Harsh. Cold. "Come at me like this again, and I'll snap your legs backwards." I've no doubt he means it. I don't question the reprieve for what it is. In the long run, there isn't any point. He's won this round. I lost. I turn, lever myself up on shaky legs, and make my way back upstairs. Toward the light. [end]
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