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Author: The Deadly Hook Winner in the Raison D'etre awards and runner up in the Love's Last Glimpse awards! __________ The Center
In what distant deeps or skies.
__________ Chapter 1 London, England, January, 2005
London. It's been some time since he's seen it. His old stomping ground. Not that he's avoided the place, over the years. Just the opposite. London was a good city for vampires, with its miles of tunnels in the Underground and club scenes filled with thrill-seekers. A demon could live almost openly here, riding the Tube during the day, lurking in corners, watching for drunken patrons staggering home just after pub closing, that perfect hour when the whole city seemed ready to fall into a vampire's arms. But that was back in the days when Drusilla had been his one bright and shining star, the black center of his universe. Funny to think of it now, that he'd torn apart vengeful demon hunters and civilians alike to save her from the Prague mobs, but in trying to put her back together, like Humpty Dumpty, he'd lost himself instead. And then found himself again, sort of, but that's another story. In general, he hasn't proven to be very good at putting things back together. He's here because of the spell. Angel's bloody spell. There's a coven he needs to talk to, here in England, about removing it. Odds are good they won't help him--they're human for starters, and Wicca-preaching, moon-worshipping Earth magic Gaia types on top of it. He'd seen plenty of that sort before he and Dru left England for the last time, went to parties filled with New Age crystal-wearers boasting about Chalice Well viewings and moonlit climbs to the top of Glastonbury Tor. Dru loved those folk, with their incense and Hindu idols and vegan brownies, thanks to some sense of humor only she really understood. Goes without saying, though, that they tended to see vampires as something of a bit against the natural order. Still, it's worth doing. Talking to the coven. He'll give it go, to keep everyone confused if nothing else. Broadcast a note of desperation. He rides the Tube to get there. The meeting spot, in Bloomsbury. No idea why the coven chose that place unless it's to try to get to him, psychologically. If that's it, obviously they're wasting their time. Sure, it's a corner of the city that hasn't seen his shadow in better than a hundred years, but he's come to terms with that since, his need to leave his human life behind. He'd been confused and heartsick, that last fateful night he'd torn out of the front door of his family house. Left his own mother behind as ashes in the fire grate, and for years and years after that his one goal was to erase that feeling, that despair. Drown it under, choke it to death, find something in all his experience that would prove things different, reclaim himself from what his mother the demon had said him to be. Something that proved that he was more. Well, he's found it since, hasn't he? Took the long way around, maybe, but things worked out in the end, sort of. Walking past the old familiar Georgian circle isn't really something he wants to do, but he does it anyway, just to send the old ghosts packing. Just to prove he can, and that it doesn't mean anything to him, not anymore. Surprise, surprise--the old house is still there. Converted to a tourist hotel, like most of the other houses in the circle, with a glowing sign over its door. It had been a stylish townhouse once, the strolling park across the way a popular promenade for older ladies and servants with perambulators. He stands on the sidewalk and stares. Doesn't really want to, but can't help it. He was human in this place. A child who ran sticks along fences, pulled flowers and got his hands slapped for it. A young man who tipped his hat to the ladies. And no, he most certainly does not have an impulse to go inside and see his childhood room, wonder at the endless stream of backpackers that must have marched through it, German couples and Japanese teenagers and nubile Swedish lesbians. No effin' thank you. He pushes on. To the British Museum, the plaza out front where he and the witch are supposed to meet. Lots of people still thronging the area, even after dark, thanks to the short winter nights. It occurs to him that's probably why she chose the place, the comfort of crowds. So much for trust. The witch is not at all hard to find in the crowd. She's a Mexican wedding cake of lace and crepe, a concert-goer on her way to see Stevie Nicks. Be sure to wear flowers in your hair, like the song says--white hippie magic pours off her in waves. To her credit, she doesn't seem to have any problem with spotting him either, watches him cross the flagstones with a face contorted in distaste. No doubt setting off her "unnatural" warning bells like a carillon. Well, too bad for her. They exchange some words. None of them very polite. She makes him go over in detail exactly what he wants, although it's obvious that she already knows--he explained all that to the coven's leader back in Paris. She's putting him through his paces for fun, because he's a demon and nothing she likes, and it's possible that in response he says something rude. But he doesn't realize how far he's pushed it, her already snotty short temper, until she extends a finger, and then there's a shock to his head that's way too familiar, his whole mind exploding into gray-black light. And he stumbles away, reeling, the witch's voice ringing in his ears... or maybe it's just in his mind, because he's blocks away, feet slamming the pavement and still he can hear her. "You chase the impossible," she cackles, and the sound rings and rings and rings. "You ask to be free. You never will be."
__________ Chapter 2 He wakes in an alley. Or rather... it seemed like an alley, at first glance, when he opened his eyes. But it's too bright, really, for that, too full of thronging people. It surprises him only dimly, that he could be lying on the pavement in a public place, and crowds could still walk by. Hasn't he done the same, often enough, to beggars in the street? And there is something wrong with the way he feels, how he's dressed, that tells him that his situation is not normal. He did not just collapse on the way home or to work. He's--he feels numb, and chilly, like he's lain here for days. Cold. His limbs wrapped up in long sheets of leather, like a butcher's apron, work boots on his feet. He can't remember, for the life of him, how he got here. There's a woman, standing over him. Her jaws working, as if chewing a piece of tough meat. "You okay?" she asks, and gives him a quizzical look. His own mouth works for a moment before he can answer her. "I-I'm not sure." She shakes her head. Mutters something about "bad shit," which he does his best to ignore--her costume is so eclectic he has no real clue as to her status. She's wearing a gypsylike garment of black lace, long skirts sweeping the ground. Her eyes are heavily painted and jewelry weighs down her neck. For all he knows, she's a society woman on her way to some costume ball, unlikely as it seems. That idea fades, an instant later, when he manages to lever himself to his feet. The place around him is... not familiar. More than that, it's wrong. There are lights brighter than any he's seen before, flashing colors everywhere, crowds pressing around in a confusing blur of distorted shapes. Loud rushing noises, hurtling objects in the road. He's somewhere else. Not London. A foreign country, surely. He must have... fallen prey to kidnappers, shipped off to an unfamiliar shore. He's read of such things, but never dreamed that such could happen to him, and for a moment, he's overcome by pure despair. Then, an instant later, he's exhilarated. There's fear, still, definitely that, but whoever his captors might be, he seems to have evaded them, escaped. His memory gives him nothing to work with at all, but surely it will come back to him, what's happened, what he's done. If anything, he feels proud--confused, but proud that whatever adversity he had to face to reach here, he's won through, still standing. And apparently on his own. "You gonna answer that?" The woman again. She's looking at him, still with that expression of worry. "I'm sorry, Miss?" No idea what she's talking about. There's a shrill sound, somewhere near, teeth-rattlingly annoying, that just keeps repeating, like a muffled firehouse bell. "Your phone? Dude, I really think you have a concussion or something," she says then, and makes a gesture at him, at his head. He lifts a hand to his forehead and it comes away bloody; further explorations show that he has trickles of blood down his neck too, and from his nose. Obviously he had to fight hard to win his freedom, and it's the strangest feeling, looking at the blood on his fingers. He's never been in a fight in his life. Not since childhood, at least, scuffles with schoolmates that ended in switchings for everyone, their bloodied noses no comparison for their sore and bleeding behinds. Now he's been in a fight and won, yet he can't remember it. It's only when he pats down the long leather coat that he's wearing, looking for a handkerchief to wipe away the blood, that he discovers the source of the trilling sound. A small object, of a hard material like tortoise shell. Black, like the carapace of a beetle, or the lacquer implements he's seen in exhibits from the Japans. Amazing material, really. Iridescent. And perhaps that's what this is, an Oriental box for holding a brush and ink. Then again, the buzzing sound makes him think of the insects of which the Chinese are supposed to be so fond, perhaps a cricket. But how did it come to be in his pocket? Something to do with his abduction? He turns the object over, studies it from all sides, slides a nail along a thin seam until it opens, hands cupped around it to catch the insect as it falls out. He nearly drops it when a voice emanates from it instead. "Spike? What the hell's going on? Are you there?" Words tumble out of the box. He gapes at it, gives it a little shake, unsure what to do. Glances at the woman still standing there, gives her a pleading look. Surely this is much of a shock to her as to him? She sighs instead, and plucks the object from his hands. Puts it against her ear and begins to speak. "Uh, hullo? Hey, your friend's having a seizure or something. Who, me? I'm just standing here. He's, like, bleeding and freaking out." She is silent then, nodding. Speaks again, gives something like an address--it almost sounds like she says "King's Cross" and something about a station, but that hardly makes sense. He knows King's Cross. In London, anyway, but perhaps it's also a name used here. Wherever here is. It occurs to him that the woman is somehow giving away his location. No clue why he's sure of this, but he is. He begins to feel very firmly that he should go. "Wait!" she yells from behind him as he begins to edge away. "Hey, wait!" He ignores her, and breaks into a run. He doesn't actually expect to get far. His body hasn't felt right since he awoke, simultaneously too heavy and too light, but he's stunned by his own speed, rocketing through the swarms of people like an athlete on his fastest day. It makes no sense--he can't even feel the exertion, isn't tired. He weaves through the speeding shapes in the road without really registering what they are--odd rattling machines like train carriages, moving to and fro as if pulled at high speed by unseen cables. He's crossed into quieter areas away from the flaring lights almost faster than his own eyes can blink. There are flashes of... well, not memory, then. Dreams. Horrible fancies. They could hardly be anything else, given what he sees--blood and carcasses and women screaming, howls of men with their throats torn out. Another woman, dressed in white, her frowning face and a voice echoing in his ears. "Your freedom is your desire," she says, and her hands are held out, palms up, like she wants to give him something, and she laughs. "Your desire is freedom. You have no choice. No escape." Then he's on the ground again, face pushed into the soil in the middle of some park, and when he stands up again, swaying, he could almost have imagined himself, for a single brief second, to be home. If the lights weren't all wrong. And the shapes and sounds... this isn't his place. He's not dreaming. Or maybe he is. Of course. Dreaming. The kind of logic one always sees in dreams. Scenes shifting and blending and making no sense. Which is why he doesn't bother to run again when another one of those odd conveyances appears in front of him, humming and growling like magnificent steam engine. It opens, its slick black surface not unlike the Oriental box, and a man steps out. "You know, this is getting to be a habit," he says.
__________ Chapter 3 Now that he knows this is a dream, he's finding himself quite entertained. The strange conveyance is like a fantastic machine from a story, like a carriage on the inside, plush yet cramped, filled with softly glowing lights. The casing around its comfortable seats is heavy and thick, like plate armor, and its wheels are massive--he's never seen the like of it before. He can't help but congratulate himself on having such a vivid imagination, to come up with it. The mysterious man seems to be his benefactor in this dream, hovering over him in something of the manner of a doting father. Large and looming, dressed in a greatcoat, the man does remind him of his father, in a way--or at least what he remembers of the man from childhood, when "father" was more an image than a person, a shape in dark clothes, forbiddingly tall. So he accepts that this person is meant do him good--it's his own mind creating him, after all--and he steps into the carriage without complaint at the dark man's urging. He's curious, after all, to see where this adventure will lead. The carriage begins to move. A cannister of something hot is shoved at him, and he drinks it down gratefully, surprisingly eager for its taste, although the smell of it is somewhat high and rancid. It's thick and warming and fills his belly like scotch broth, and it calms his head, which is still throbbing, shooting sparks. They travel through the darkness. It's magical, this ride, moving almost noiselessly through corridors of light, a low rumbling sound their only accompaniment. He thinks more of stories he's read--fantastical journeys through other realms, with gods and demigods as travel companions. Seeing things other men were not meant to see. He presses his face against the carriage's glass, watches the lights, the strange shapes. At one point, he thinks, he even sees lights moving in the sky, a roaring as if from a machine there that flies. Absolutely marvelous, these things, even if they are illusions. He'll nonetheless carry the memory of what he's seen, he thinks, to his grave. They arrive at their destination, and the carriage stops. The man gets out. He's unable to figure out exactly how to open the door to the conveyance himself, and has to wait for the man to do it for him. A bit annoying, that. He steps out. Before them is a waterfront warehouse building--the smell of the sea is strong in the air. He obediently follows the dark man inside. Dark, dusty... warehouse. Filled with boxes. Not particularly welcoming nor wondrous. The adventure is suddenly taking a turn for the tedious. "My imagination seems to have run aground," he muses aloud, running a fingertip along the dusty surface of a box. Nothing particularly special here. The dark man turns to him. "What?" "This place." He waves a hand, then sighs, bored. "Perhaps I'll go back outside." He starts to walk in that direction, back the way they came, but the man stops him. "Are you kidding? It'll be sunrise out there in another hour." He laughs, slightly amused. "So there are rules to this game?" "Rules?" He shakes his head. "You are being very troublesome for a figment," he tells the dark man, and tries to press past. "Figment?" The dark man pushes him back. "Yes," he says patiently. "This is my dream, therefore you are a figment. Now please, let me pass." "Oh, boy. You really didn't just get hit on the head, did you?" He ignores this, attempts to push his way past again. If the man gives him more trouble, then he can fight for his release--surely, based on the events of this dream, that is a possibility. The dark man blocks his way. "You're not going anywhere," the man growls, and everything abruptly goes dark. __________ When he wakes again, his circumstances are far less pleasant. He's been shut up in a small room, the door barred. There are no windows, no food, only a blanket and boxes. His head is throbbing, and when he tries to stand, the throbbing gets worse. There's a trickle of suspicion in his stomach that this might not be, in fact, a dream. He tries the door, then slaps his hand against the panel. "Open this!" he shouts. "I demand you release me immediately!" The door opens. The dark man is standing on the other side, holding a black device, like the one he'd had in his pocket. The man's eyes hold an expression that could be either annoyance or pity. "'Deepest Desire'," he recites aloud, and lets out a sigh. "Boy, you must have really pissed her off." __________
And what shoulder, & what art,
__________ Chapter 4 The dark man pockets his device and begins to pace the room. His motions are circular, his eyes unmoving. Like a wolf, or a jungle animal. A predator. "So," the dark man says. "A hex. All you had to do was meet up with this witch, and somehow you ended up getting her mad enough to put a hex on you." The man sighs, throws up his hands. "Tell me, Spike--is there some rule that says you just can't do something simple without getting it all screwed up?" There's no denying the feelings of alarm now. The man is clearly showing signs of being unbalanced, and if his situation is indeed not a dream.... He clears his throat uneasily. Obviously, the situation will require careful handling. "I beg your pardon?" he says calmly. "I don't... believe I know what--" "I mean, I had a plan here. A good plan." The man continues ranting, pacing. "All you had to do was go out there and be yourself. Except for the part where you being yourself screws up the plan." The man approaches him, and there's a real air of menace now. He backs away on reflex. "So what did she do to you? Amnesia spell?" "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, sir." "Of course you don't." The man shakes his head, and stands opposite him with his hands on his hips. "Deepest desire," he mutters to himself. "Okay, let's figure this out. I'm Spike. What's my deepest desire?" Then the man sighs again. "Buffy. Of course it's Buffy." "Again, I'm afraid I have no idea what you're--" "Although... given the last time you saw her--hm." The man is studying him now, arms folded. "Maybe that's a little too close to the surface. If we're talking about your deepest desire. Maybe it's something a little more... sublimated." Edging for the open door is starting to look like the best idea. He squares his shoulders, tries to be unobtrusive about it. "I-I am very sorry for your difficulties, sir, but I fail to see how this has anything to do with m--" And then the man is right in front of him, so quickly that he didn't even witness the move, and he can't quite manage to suppress a gasp. "You can stop it now with the escape attempts. I'm not going to spend the whole day knocking you unconscious, and you're not going anywhere until we figure this out. Get used to it." His patience breaks, and he explodes. "You have no right to keep me here, sir! I must insist you let me go!" He pushes against the wall of chest in front of him; the dark man doesn't even budge. Instead, he gets a chuckle in answer. "Ah, Spike. Some things never change. Even without your memory, still as annoying as ever." There's an indefinable expression on the man's face then, something that could be curiosity or perhaps pride, and there's a strange glitter in his eyes. And all of a sudden there are hands around his face, cupping gently, and he's almost too stunned to react. "You know, it occurs to me," the man murmurs, "That maybe there's something else you've always wanted. If we're talking about your deepest desire. You think so?" Then the man keeps talking, says other things. At first, they could be the words of a father, about approval and pride. Then, about... friendship and bonhomie. Trust. An expectant silence follows, a pause in which the man is clearly waiting for him to make some response. He can't speak. He doesn't know this person, what's expected of him. What the rules are. The dark one leans forward. Rough lips on his, and... not a kiss of family or friendship either, but--oh! Tongue in his mouth. He pushes back, violently. "Don't--don't touch me!" he pants. He's fallen into the hands of some... some... Well, he's heard tell of such things, but... And he's never been in a fight in his life, at least not one that he can remember, but he's prepared for one now. His fists clench and his body tenses, and he's resolute that he will hurl this man away should he try to force his desires on him again. "You--You will not presume to--to--whatever ideas you have regarding me, I suggest you abandon them now, sir! I am not... not..." He can't finish. His mind is reeling. Kissed me. Called me friend. The man's dark eyes had been soft, and--dare he even think it? Loving. Faced with the full force of his outrage, the man just chuckles. "Should've guessed you wouldn't have that many layers," he says. Then he plucks the shell-like device out of his pocket again and pokes at it, shaking his head once more. It makes chirping sounds as he does so, and then he is talking, turned away as if he doesn't want to be overheard. "Hello, Buffy?"
__________ Chapter 5 "A hex, huh?" A day and a night have passed. He's been shut up in the room the whole time, the door barred against him. After pacing every inch of the floor of the small space, probing for any other possible opening or crack in the walls, he'd eventually given up and tried to sleep, curled up on the rough plank flooring with the provided blanket wrapped around his head. He remained on edge the whole night anyway, alert despite the hour, although how he even knew what time it was made for a small mystery in itself. There was no window in his tiny room, which was really little more than a closet. A desk in one corner, piled high with boxes, suggested it might once have been an office. Whatever its original purpose had been, it was his prison now. The dark man had come back, this time with a woman at his side. He peeps out at her from under the blanket. She is tiny, dressed in tight-fitting clothes in peacock-bright colors. A stage performer, he decides, an actor or a singer, in circus costume. It feels a reasonable guess--everything about her looks theatrical, including her hair, arranged in flowing waves over her shoulders. The two of them are talking as if William isn't even there. "I really don't have the faintest idea what they did to him." The dark man is addressing the woman, who watches him with reverent attention. "He was supposed to meet with a witch from a local coven last night. Next thing I know, he's turned up making no sense at all. I'm guessing amnesia spell." The blonde woman sighs. "Well, could be worse, I guess. I mean, I've... kind of dealt with no-memory Spike before. Not exactly a world-ending problem." "Well, it might be now, if this goes on too long," the dark man says. "Okay, okay, I get the picture. So what do we do?" "All the coven leader would tell me was that he's got to fulfill his 'deepest desire' to take it off." "Deepest desire?" "I already tried my theory." At her arched eyebrow, the dark man shook his head. "Don't ask. But whatever it is, I'm willing to bet it has something to do with you." The woman shrugs. "I guess. But..." There's something guarded now about the way she's standing, shifting on her feet, her arms folded defensively around her body. "The 'deepest' thing. I mean, I don't know. It's not like he's ever made a deep, dark secret out of anything he's ever wanted from me." The man looks away evasively. "Still, you'll probably have more patience than I would in trying to figure it out." "Oh, now I get it." The woman smiles at her companion, lips turned up just so. "This is just you trying to get off the hook, isn't it?" "Well, yeah." The dark man smiles, then the look fades, is replaced by a furrowed brow. "I can't stay here, Buffy. It's too big a risk." "I know, I know." She sighs again, and then she's looking directly at him, and her face is... tender. Gentle, with some pity, the way you might look at an injured animal. He feels a little bubble of anger at this, although he can't quite understand why he would feel this way. He doesn't know her. She's a stranger to him, this woman. An unknown quantity. He sits up, throws off the blanket. "Excuse me," he blares from his position on the floor. "I believe I have been very patient with this nonsense so far, but I have been kept here for a day and a night now against my will, and I demand to know who you people are." He glowers, looks from one face to the other. "You see what I mean," the dark man says. The woman makes a sort of face, a pained grimace. Neither one of them answers him. "Excuse me!" he blurts again. The pair continue to ignore him and speak to each other. "So, can you handle this front, while I see what I can get out of the coven?" "Yep. Guess I'm on it." "Don't let him out of here. He doesn't remember about the sun." "Got it." "See you soon, then." "I'll be here." The man leaves, shuts the door behind him, sealing the room with the woman inside. With him. She remains where she is for a moment, looking down at him where he's sitting on the floor. That same expression of near-pity in her eyes. All at once, he can't stand it. He gets to his feet. "I have no wish to harm you, woman, but I insist that you stand aside. I'll be leaving now," he says firmly. "I don't think so," she says then, and walks toward him, apparently not at all concerned by his greater height and weight, or the fact that she's all alone with him, with her protector and his jailer now gone. He could overpower her easily. She's so tiny. He glares at her fiercely, and it doesn't even shift that pitying look from her face. "Stand aside," he grates through his teeth, and she just smiles, shakes her head. And then she's so close that he couldn't shut her out of his field of vision even if he tried to, her liquid green eyes looking up at him, childlike. Her bizarre costume is... disquieting, up close, with its tight mannish trousers clinging to her slender legs and fitted blouse that fails to cover even the whole of her belly. It's some ways, it's worse than if she were naked, pale pink flesh shockingly exposed, as he's seen in any number of illustrations and paintings. Nude, she would be a model for an artist, a goddess herself, a Venus. Or a cheap prostitute flaunting her wares. But this... half-dressed and with her naked feet in sandals painted in jewel colors, she's more like a heathen, an innocent from one of those countries where women parade about covered in nearly nothing but jewelry, seeing no wrong in the act. It takes a moment for all the implications of his thoughts to sink in. A prostitute. That would rather explain her bravery in being alone with men. Her lack of fear that he might lay hands on her. It's while he's still standing there trying to think that she reaches out and lays her hands on him--on his chest, very lightly. Brightly lacquered fingernails tracing along the stiff lines of his leather overcoat. "I love you," she says quietly, and then she lifts her chin just so, as if steeling herself to say something difficult. "More than Angel." More than angel. That sounds blasphemous at best. Worse if she is a woman of low means, using such terms to try to entice him. It smacks of the perverse. He reaches up to take her hands, moves them firmly away. "Miss, I don't know you. I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else." Their ploy now seems quite obvious. The man had errands to run. The woman, no doubt, a bribe to encourage him to linger. Still, no reason to be overly rude to this poor creature. She looks utterly shocked. "O-kaaay," she says shakily. "Guess that wasn't it." He shakes his head, reminding himself that she is probably not to blame for her circumstance. Perhaps she's had to take up this trade, unfortunate and penniless, to support a family. It certainly doesn't hurt him to show charity. He merely needs to convince her to step aside, to let him go. He backpedals, trying to put some distance between her and himself. But she refuses to cooperate, and follows him instead, pressing ever closer until his back is up against a wall, and she trails her fingertips along the sides of his face, not unlike the dark man had before her. He twists and gasps and tries to wriggle away, but she is relentless in her nearness, and her breath is sweet, like mint... "Please, miss, I just... If you would please..." This isn't the kind of circumstance he's ever been prepared for in dealing with women. And to his embarrassment, she is... having an effect on him, despite himself. One that he does his best to hide. To do otherwise would be... ungentlemanly to say the least. Not to mention poorly timed. He needs to focus his entire will upon escape, not--not-- Her entire body is pressed against his full length now. He's breathless, desperate that she not discover his shameful problem, wrestling with the twin urges to gather her softness close or to push her aside and run. He's never had... any other experience like this. He's almost loath for it be over. Still, he's mortified when the woman steps back, and her eyes drop, lingering on the very spot he's trying to conceal. He wraps himself up tighter in his leather greatcoat with a glare, and even his embarrassment does nothing to lessen his desire. Then she laughs. Laughs. His anger flares up immediately. "Look, I told you I don't know you, woman! And I don't want what you're offering. Please, just leave me alone!" Instead, she stretches out an arm then, and--oh, god! Touches him. There. "You don't want, huh? Are you sure you don't remember me?" she says then, humor in her voice, and squeezes him through his trousers. He gasps, and pushes her away. "I said take your hands off me, y-you... brazen hussy!" Her little face crinkles up. "Wow, you really don't remember anything, do you?" "I have had enough of this charade," he says, and he is indeed angry now, angry enough to shove this woman aside if need be. He's been patient. No, he's been more than patient. "I am going to leave here, and find my way home," he continues. "I have had enough of your games, and I do not wish to hurt you, but I can no longer afford to leave my mother alone and waiting for me. I have responsibilities, do you understand? Now step aside." "Your mother?" The crinkled expression grows even more intense. "Oh. You're... you're William, aren't you?" "So you know my name. Well, do not presume to think that means you know me. Stand aside." "I know it doesn't mean that," she answers, and her expression is sad now. "I wish it did." This... touches him, although he's not sure why. "What's your deepest desire?" she says then, abruptly. "M-My--?" he sputters, wordless. The insanity refuses to end. "I mean, I know it's kind of a personal question." And then she's stepping forward again, standing so near that even through his coat he swears he can feel the heat radiating from her body, smell the delicate scent of her skin. "I'm a brazen hussy, huh?" she says playfully, and traces her fingers in a circular motion. He reaches up to remove her hand, only to find both of his hands grasped firmly in both of hers. Her grip is surprisingly powerful. He struggles for a moment, uselessly. He can't escape. In her small face, her eyes seem huge. "Let go of me!" he gasps. Now he is nearly sure once again that this must be a dream, because he cannot budge her, not even the slightest. Struggling with her is like fighting the grip of a stone statue. "I can't," she says. "I'm sorry. I can't let you go." He keeps struggling anyway, desperate. He needs to wake, to pull away from this trap his mind has set for him, to be free. She lets him go. He stumbles back, falls. Hits the ground hard, the leather cloak around him tangling his legs, trapping him like a net. She turns away from him. Walks out the door and shuts him inside. There's the sound of a lock. Prisoner. Even in his dreams. __________
What the hammer? what the chain,
__________ Chapter 6 When the woman returns again, some hours later, she's wearing different clothing. A dressing gown of some heavy flocked material that covers her neck to ankles. She carries a thick crockery mug. "Brought you dinner," she says brightly, and holds the mug aloft. He turns away from her, arms folded. He makes sure his voice is flinty when he speaks. "How long am I to be prisoner here?" "Huh? You're not a prisoner. It's just that..." Her brow crinkles. "You're sick." "Sick," he repeats. "Yep. You need help. And... we're doctors. Because you're contagious. And we have to isolate you so you don't infect anybody." "So I'm under quarantine." "Uh-huh." She smiles like a child hiding something. He's not convinced by this story at all. "For what disease?" "Um..." She thinks for an instant. It's amazingly transparent. "The plague?" "The plague." He makes his words mocking. "I've somehow contracted the Black Death." "Yep. So you see why you can't go outside." "How unusual. Since I can't say I've noticed any symptoms. Unless I happen to be covered with suppurating boils." He lifts an eyebrow, watches her smile falter. "Um...no. But it's, uh, it's in early stages yet." She thrusts the mug at him. "And hey, dinner!" He eyes the mug with undisguised suspicion. Once again, he's come to believe that his current situation is no dream, and that his lack of strength earlier against this tiny woman was due to the potion the man had given him. Obvious. "That would be drugged, no doubt?" "What? No! Of course it's not." "Oh? Isn't that how you and your--" he waves a hand toward the door, loath to describe her probable relationship with the other man. "--patron are keeping me here? I'm not stupid, you know. I've figured it out. You can keep your tainted drink." She sputters briefly, upset. "T-That's not... that's not true." "You drink some then." She recoils visibly, then tries to recover. "It's--it's got medicine in it, for your--" "I will not touch it." She sighs. "Look, Sp--William. We're not trying to drug you. I swear. Angel and I are just trying to help you." "Angel," he repeats. "Is that the--" The sodomite. He can't bring himself to say it, despite his suspicion that little would shock this woman. "That's his name," she says. "And I'm Buffy." "You are buffy?" He can't even guess what that description is meant to imply. She frowns. "It's my name." She sounds a bit defensive. Foreign name. "Miss Buffy," he says flatly. "Pleased to meet you." He's not actually pleased at all, but it's what one says. In response, though, she smiles brilliantly, as if he'd handed her a huge compliment. Then she bites her lip, considers. Lifts the mug to her mouth. Downs a healthy gulp. "Um, tasty," she says, lowering the cup. The contorted face she makes renders her statement less than convincing. She pushes the cup forward again, offering. "I promise, there's nothing bad in it." The drink has left her lips painted red. He frowns, reluctant to let go of his suspicions. But he is hungry. Hesitant, with a pointed glare, he takes the mug from her hands and drinks the remainder down. It's the same thick, warm drink that the man gave him. Oddly filling, considering it's all he's had in hours. And in the well-lit room he can now see the potion's color--dark red. It smells like a meaty syrup. Another flash comes to him, looking into the empty cup. Like one of the visions he'd had before he'd been foolish enough to accompany the dark man here. Pictures of violence, of torn throats and screaming young women. "What is this?" he asks. He can't help but think it looks rather like blood. "Protein shake," she says immediately. "I mean... It's a special treatment. We're... very experimental with the herbal medicines and natural... um, stuff. It's good for you." He returns the mug to her, suddenly repulsed, and turns slightly away. She is quiet and just stands there, watching him. There are gaps in his memory. Disturbing. He still doesn't know where he is, or how he'd arrived there. Anything could have happened during that time, anything. He could have been missing for years, for all he knows. Entered the merchant navy, sailed away somewhere. Perhaps he has been working as a butcher. It would explain his clothing, the odd thoughts of... slashed meat. "I know why you thought you were drugged," she says, speaking to his back. "It's because I was stronger than you, before. Right? I guess that would be pretty weird for you." He turns around again to face her. "You have another explanation then?" "Sure." She tosses her hair confidently, but doesn't rush to say anything else for several seconds. He gets the distinct impression she is stalling. "Because... you like that." "I like that," he repeats mechanically. "I have no idea what you're talking about." "Right. You don't remember. Because you've had an accident. But... it's this thing you like to do. With me." "Thing." "Yeah. You... like to... like me to... you know. Be... really strong. With you." She studies him intently as she speaks, as if waiting for something. "Dressed as a teacher. A really... stern... school marm." She's very beautiful. Flaxen-haired. Delicate-boned. Face colored with compassion. There are women like her in the visions he's been seeing. Tawdry, penny-paper horrors. Exactly the sort of thing he normally avoids. He's never been one for following tales of criminals or gawking at trials. He's never once gone to a single public execution, even before they were abolished, when he was 21. His brow furrows. Her own expression takes on a cast of the frantic, and she rushes to say more. "Or, or you... we, uh... we like to meet up, in places where nobody would ever guess that... things are going on. And you and I--" "Miss..." He closes his eyes. He loves books. Poetry and literature. Paintings and lithographs. In fact, his father had owned several etchings of lovely unclothed women, kept them hidden in a drawer in his study. He'd discovered that secret not long after his father's death. He'd moved the drawings to his own room, traced the lines with his fingers. Fit for worship, those bodies. Wonder and adoration. Not... torn open and mutilated. Venus hacked to bits. He can't quite keep his voice from trembling. "I no longer wish to speak to you, miss." He turns his back.
__________ Chapter 7 "No luck?" Angel is sitting just inside the entrance to the warehouse. Cloaked in shade, he sits perched on a box. Buffy is outside, her face turned upward to the daylight like a flower. "More like anti-luck. I ran out of ideas almost right away." Her posture slumping, she tiredly sits on a packing crate. "You should've heard me in there. I just didn't want to hurt him, and he was so... pushy about wanting to get out, and he doesn't know his own strength..." She sighs. "I totally panicked." "Panicked? You?" She winces. "I told him we were doctors." Angel laughs, a sudden cough, then catches himself, rearranges his features into an expression of concern. "So you didn't tell him--" "I couldn't just tell him the truth. I mean, what if his 'deepest desire' is to be human or something?" Angel shifts uncomfortably, his hands sunk deep into his coat pockets. "Maybe." "I've totally screwed it up," she says miserably. "He won't even to talk to me now." Angel looks at her, puzzled. "What did you do?" She shrugs. "I dunno. Just... tried to think of the kind of stuff he might, you know, fantasize abo--" "That's okay," Angel cuts in. "You can skip the details." She shoots him a sour look. "This isn't funny." "I didn't say it was." "He looked at me like I was a street corner hooker yelling 'hey, sailor!'" "Yeah, I kinda got that impression too," Angel says, and then adds hurriedly, "I mean, the uptight thing, not you. With the... street corner." She ignores him, staring out into the distance at the sunlight sparkling on the Thames. "He's all... serious and starchy," she says, speaking almost as if to herself. "Totally not what I expected." "Well, didn't he ever tell you anything about himself? As a human, I mean?" "Not really." She looks dejected, picks at her nails. "I mean, he told me how he became a vampire. In that sort of big, boasty way that he has that made it sound like this big amazing deal." Then she lets out a laugh, helpless, self-deprecating. "Kinda starting to think I didn't really get the whole story there." Angel shrugs. "Wish I could help you with that. But I really didn't know him as a human. After you're turned... things change." "But you were there, right? You must remember something." Buffy waits, and after a decent interval adds, "Well?" "I'm thinking. It's kinda been awhile." "You don't remember?" "I'm over 250 years old, Buffy. After your second century, sometimes it gets hard to keep track of the birthdays." She rolls her eyes. "I think..." Angel folds his arms, scowls, thinking hard. "Okay, London. That's a start. It must have been..." He snaps his fingers. "It was right around the time of that Jack the Ripper thing. Spike was there when it was in the papers." Her eyes widen. "You didn't... I mean, he didn't..." "What? Oh no, we didn't do it. We just laughed abou--" He cut himself off. "Um, you might want to forget I said that." She shakes her head sadly, looks away. "It's not like you have to protect me, you know. I know what it was like for you two." "Actually, you don't." At her startled glance, Angel smiles tightly. "You've never been a vampire yourself, Buffy. You can't know." She takes a deep breath. "Angel," she says shakily. "Not now. Things are bad enough without you playing the 'it's a vampire thing, you can't understand' card. And it's not him being a vampire that we're talking about right now." "Yeah, but..." Angel looks thoughtful, glances away. "You're right. Never mind." "So why him? Why William?" "Why did Drusilla make him a vampire, you mean?" Angel ponders, then lifts his broad shoulders, lets them fall. "It's hard to know why she'd do anything." "Because of the crazy, right." "Not just that. She didn't exactly ask me for my opinion." "So you didn't discuss it beforehand? She just came home one day and went, 'hey, look what I did'?" He nods. "Pretty much." Buffy sighs. "Great." Angel fidgets, looks down. "Okay. I don't know if this will be any help, but... one thing about William. He wrote poetry." Her eyebrows nearly touch her hairline. "He what?" "He had a whole notebook full of it. He used to read it to Dru." "Poetry." "Yeah. She loved it." "Spike wrote poetry," she repeats. "Really." "William did. I don't know if he ever wrote anything again after becoming a vampire." Angel shrugs. "But some of it was pretty good. I mean, I thought so. It was sort of... evocative." "Poetry," she says again. "Huh." __________ "I hear you write poetry." William eyes her suspiciously and says nothing. She's come around again to his cell, the way she has every couple of hours, just to try talking to him. He stopped answering her several visits ago. He's been their prisoner for three nights now, and become convinced that his initial impression was right, that this is indeed some kind of kidnapping ring. He can hear the sound of the ocean from his tiny prison--probably they are waiting for the arrival of a ship to sell him into forced labor. "I'd love to hear some." Still trying to engage him in conversation. He has nothing to say. He turns his back, arms folded. "C'mon. I'd really love to hear something you've written. Do you... remember any off the top of your head?" He makes a show of studying the wall, as if he hasn't already examined every inch of the room. She sighs. "Okay. I give up. I really didn't want to upset you, but I can't..." She sighs again. "I don't know enough about you to do this. Not if you won't talk to me." He owes her nothing, not after the treatment he's received. He remains turned away. "I lied to you before. You're not sick. But you probably guessed that, right?" He still refuses to answer. It's not as if she needs his acknowledgment. "The truth is... you're... okay, this is going to be kind of hard to explain." He waits, listening. The urge is there now to turn and look at her. There is a new honesty in her voice, but he refuses to allow himself to be drawn in by what is undoubtedly another ploy. "You are..." There's a small laugh, and she mutters to herself. "This is really hard." Another pause, and she begins again. "You know all those stories about monsters and witches and vampires? They're real." She stops again, as if to let him absorb this, then continues. "You were put under a spell. By a witch. She made you... forget things. And that's why you don't know where you are or... who we are." This finally makes him turn, incredulous. He looks at her coldly, still in his arms-folded posture, takes in her earnest expression, her pleading wide eyes. "A spell." She nods. "So you are a witch." "No. I'm... something else." "You're queen of the fairies, perhaps?" "No, I'm--" She sucks in a deep breath. "I'm the Slayer." "Slayer," he echoes. "Of what?" She bites her lip. "Okay. There's... more. It's... you're not just under a spell. You're..." She swallows hard. "You're a vampire." "A vampire." He speaks slowly. "Right." She nods again, her face serious. "You're... this is your future, Sp--William. That's why I didn't want to--it's something that just happens to you, and I didn't want--" Her stoic expression breaks, and her mouth works for a second. "You're different from other vampires," she says urgently then. "It's important that you know that. Because I'm... a Vampire Slayer, okay, it's my job to kill vampires. But I couldn't kill you. Because you were always different." She pauses, and then walks over to him, stops right in front of him and stares up at his face with her liquid green eyes. "I fell in love with you," she says softly. "William. And I need you to come back." He studies her carefully, eyes narrowed, thinks on her words. She waits, her face open and anxious, filled with hope. "You, madam," he says finally, after thinking it fully through. "Are absolutely mad." __________
When the stars threw down their spears
__________ Chapter 8 The door to the tiny office room slams open. There's a cracking sound as the solid panel hits some crates stacked behind it and wood splinters. "Nice going," Angel says. "You're not even Spike yet, and you've still managed to get her really upset." William eyes him guardedly. There's an insolent look on his face, disdainful. "I don't see how I owe you any explanations, villain." "Oh, good. I'm the villain of the piece. That's perfect. Well, you know what, William. Believe it or not, all of this is actually for your own good." Angel steps into the room, his dark shape nearly filling the small space. William's face contorts, his chin thrusting out, and suddenly there's nothing at all in his expression to distinguish him from Spike. "You seriously expect me to believe that." "It's the truth. We're trying to help you." "So say you. Is it in the cause of helping me that you've kept me shut up in a room for three days?" "In this case, yes." "How so? The only advantage I can see is to protect you from prosecution for your kidnapping ring." "Oh, knock it off with your conspiracy theories." Angel presses forward menacingly; William reflexively backs away. "Besides, wouldn't you rather hear what I've really been up to for the last two days?" "I'm sure I have no idea how criminals spend their time." William's lip curls in distaste, he folds his arms around himself, protective. "I've been trying to find out more about that spell you're under." Angel says. "Kind of a waste of time, because the witch who did this to you wouldn't even talk to me, but I did find out one interesting thing. Wanna hear it?" "Spells and witches. So you share that woman's madness." "Oh, she's not mad. You don't know from madwomen. Yet." William stabs a finger at the open door, indicating Buffy in absentia. "That... woman thinks I am a vampire. Like something out of a stage play or one of those turgid Gothic novels. Polidori and Byron's fantasies about monsters. And you dare to suggest to me that she is not mad?" "Well, if she is then we all are, because you are a vampire." William laughs harshly. "Oh, wonderful. Criminals aren't bad enough. I have to fall in with lunatics." "Save it. It's not 1895 anymore, William. It's 2005. You've been a monster for over a hundred years." The second half of Angel's sentence doesn't even register. William simply gapes. "Eighteen-ninety--do I look like a 48-year-old man?" "Maybe you should try finding a mirror and see for yourself." Angel advances further. Unwittingly, William backs himself into a corner. "You've lost your mind y-you..." William's eyes dart around the room, looking for escape routes. "For the last time, leave me alone!" "You're the one that's lost your mind," Angel says, and leans forward suddenly, his hands slapping the wall on either side of William's head, trapping him. "You're not alive, William. You've been dead for a century. You're nothing but a ghost," he whispers, lips nearly touching William's ear. William's forced calm finally breaks. He feints to one side, then ducks under Angel's outstretched arms and bolts for the door. He nearly reaches it before Angel grabs him by the collar of his coat and yanks him back. "Help!" William begins to scream out the open door, fingers clawing at the doorframe. "Help! Hel--" His scream is abruptly cut off by a big hand wrapped around his neck. "You're not really a Victorian gentleman," Angel continues. Pleasantly, as if there were nothing strange in holding a conversation with someone you happen to be choking. "You haven't been shifted in time. You're just an old memory inside the head of a notorious vampire. Which is, don't get me wrong, a good thing for us all. Because time paradoxes? Not so fun." William makes wheezing noises, unable to speak. "Oh, cut the drama. You think you really need to breathe?" Angel's gives William's body a mild shake. "Don't tell me you haven't felt how different you are now. That's not the sort of thing you miss." There is a tearing sound then, and his face ripples and shifts, becomes a terrifying mask of ridges and razor-sharp fangs. William's eyes widen, and he lets out a strangled cry. "What the hell are you doing?" Buffy's voice cuts across the tense air in the room like a descending knife. Then it's as if gust of wind moves between the two men. Buffy slams a hand into Angel's chest, knocking him back, and he rockets across the room to land hard against a box-lined wall. William, deprived of support, staggers backward in the opposite direction, collapsing into an ungainly heap. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" Buffy demands again. Her eyes are red and puffy from recent crying. She places her hands on William's shoulders and hovers over him protectively, glaring at Angel. "Shock treatment." Angel stands, broken lumber falling all around him. His face is still vampire-ridged, fearsome. "Shock treatment? You figured he wasn't freaked out enough that you had to add some trauma on top of it?" "At least now he knows we're not lying. He's got no choice but to face up to the truth." Angel eyes the smaller man on the floor, holding his throat and coughing. "We're getting nowhere with him, Buffy. He's got to help us or we're never going to figure this out." "And you thought choking him would put him in the mood to help?" "I know Spike. And there's nothing he's ever wanted that he didn't fight for." Buffy sets her jaw in a hard line. Her entire body trembles with restrained anger. "Get out," she says tightly. Angel opens his mouth to say something. "No, just get out. I don't want to hear it. You've done enough. Let me handle this." Angel considers her for a moment, as if about to say more, then thinks the better of it, and without another comment, he leaves. __________ "I'm so sorry that had to happen to you. I didn't want you to find out about it that way." The woman is there with him, her hands making soothing motions on his shoulders. She's talking in a soft, quiet voice, comforting. He's still on the floor. Rocking on his heels, arms wrapped around his knees, curled into a tight ball of misery. His throat hurts from the dark man's attempt to choke him, but it's a dim echo compared to the pain in his mind. The man's face. Bestial and monstrous. You're not really William. Don't tell me you haven't felt how different you are now. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, sweet Jesus." He keeps muttering this to himself, over and over again. Even though he knows it won't help. Because he has felt it. Of course he has. He can't not notice it now, how different his body feels, the conspicuous lack of internal motions, the hidden store of strength. Three days, and no urges from his body other than simple hungers--and he'd thought it had been his captivity, the limited diet of drink, but... Blood. They'd been feeding him blood. Those draughts the woman gave him, that she watched him drink down so intently as if it were important that she see him drain every drop... Medicine indeed. Like meat to a savage dog. "You are a vampire," the woman is saying now, "but you're not a monster. I don't know what exactly he told you, but you're not. You've changed. You fought to get your soul back, Spike. You saved the world. You're not a monster. Not anymore." Everything in him is absolutely still. Dead. His heart doesn't beat. "What," he rasps hoarsely, "what did you just call me?" She pauses. "Spike. It's... it's your name. Now." There are pictures in his mind. Vivid and color-drenched, like waking dreams. He is in an elegant house, and there is blood spattered on the carpet. The carpet looks familiar, as does the man on the floor, begging and pleading on his hands and knees. There's something heavy and pointed in his hand. Rusty metal that he sets to the whimpering man's temple and just... pushes. He knows what the name means. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, sweet Jesus," he says again. Then he leans over, hands hitting the floor with a hard slap, and retches. __________ After his humiliating display, the woman leaves for a short interval, returns with a glass of water. He accepts it gratefully and drinks it down without question, after which he feels quite a bit calmer. It occurs to him then that it's probable she has dosed him with some tincture to still his nerves, just like he'd assumed she'd been doing earlier with the blood. Ironic, that. He wonders why such things would still have an effect on him now. On this still and unworking body. Behind the closed door, during the time she had been missing, there had been shouting. Bitter arguing between the woman and the dark man. He'd discovered that if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear every word. Oaths and accusations. Fierce debate about what is to be done with him. He stops listening, uncaring. He is a monster, it's true. His eyes, when he focuses them just so, can see details even in the dark. He hadn't noticed until exactly that moment that he'd not been wearing his spectacles. The alternative would be that he's just gone mad. It's an attractive thought, in some ways. Madness. It certainly would explain much--the nightmare visions, the strange characters tormenting him like devils. He's heard tales of soldiers who'd gone mad because they'd seen more horror than they could bear. Poor tortured souls. But then the question remains of what terrifying event could have happened to him to make him so, and he shudders. He can't help but wonder then, despairingly, what might have happened to his mother. He can smell his captors in the next room. The woman's scent is delicate yet strong. Familiar somehow. Her body's perfume is as sharp in his mind as the memory of a color. Burned into his memory like the sun in his eyes. Silence had fallen after the argument that lasted for some time. The man had apparently left, his footfalls fading into the distance, the roar of his machine sounding as he sped away. Only the woman remained behind. An hour or more passed--he had no real idea of the time anymore--before she stepped again inside his cell, this time carrying a large tray. "I thought you might like... something else to eat," she says meekly, padding softly to his side. He looks up, blearily. She is still wearing the thick dressing gown to shield her body from his eyes. A concession to his sense of modesty--all false. His sense memory tells him things his conscious mind cannot--that he knows this woman, knows every inch of her in the most intimate and carnal sense. She has no mysteries to hide from him. Her clothing makes no difference. She sets down the tray on a crate. It holds a plate of food, a glass of water, a fork. The dish is thick gravy over white rice, wafting a strong scent of spices. "A curry," he says tiredly. "Very kind of you. I have had small occasion to sample such things. Very few dinner parties in my circle of acquaintances have been fortunate enough to have a chef trained in the Raj." "I thought... well, you like spicy hot things, so..." "Can I even eat? Like this? As what I am?" His voice is quiet and hoarse. It is almost an effort simply to talk. "Yes," she says immediately. "Yes. You love to eat. You're the only vampire I know who really does." "Why?" In truth, he doesn't actually much care. It's just something to ask. "You... enjoy it," she says. Her face has that earnest look again, a little desperate. "You like greasy fried stuff and spicy things. A-And you love hot chocolate." She picks up the fork and hands it to him. He takes it. He can't gather up the strength necessary to disappoint her. Easier just to comply. He samples a forkful of the food. "Good?" Her face is expectant. Worried, like a bride nervous about her cooking. He nods. "It's fine." The rice is tasteless. Texture only. The sauce, though, he can taste, and its fire is somewhat of a comfort, an assurance that not everything has been lost. He continues to eat, aware of her eyes on him, until all the food on the plate has gone. "You kill vampires," he says then, staring at the empty plate. "Isn't that what you said? That you kill them?" He can hear the soft sound of her swallowing, her heartbeat speeding up. "Yes. But you remember what I told you before, right? Why I couldn't kill you?" "Because I'm different," he says dully. "Because you love me." "Yes. I do." He pauses, taking in the messages of his senses, her elevated heartbeat, her nervous scent. The sound of her voice. There is another memory-picture, just beyond the reach of his mind. Hovering there, like a faded photograph, left out too long in the sun. A memory of brilliant light, of heat and flame. He toys with the fork. "No," he says then, sadly. "No. You don't."
__________ Chapter 9 The woman leaves after that. Gets up, walks out, shuts the door behind her. Locks it. He lays down on the floor and stares up at the ceiling, hands folded across his chest, and thinks about what he's seen, what he's been told. What to do. A monster. That was the tale both the man and the woman had told. He's seen the truth of it in the other man's face, felt the signs of it in his own body. Seen the visions that confirmed it, bloodshed and horror and sorrow. She's still in the next room. Just on the other side of the wall. He can sense her, her small sounds, breath hitching, a salt water tang layered over her own distinct scent. Crying. Poor thing. She'd insisted that he was more than a monster. That he was special somehow. Loved. Ridiculous. Her actions all pointed away from the idea anyway, even if it were possible to feel anything for a creature such as he'd seen in his visions, so terrible. She'd been kind to him, no more. For love wasn't just compassion, the kind one would show to those less fortunate. Love didn't keep its beloved prisoner either, or tell it lies. Love brought joy, and he sensed nothing of that sort from her. No, her behavior, and that of the man, was more that of someone who wanted something. He'd had ample experience with that after his father's death--as heir, he'd had certain legal rights over his father's finances, his business. Some papers only he could sign, some decisions only he could make. And there'd been plenty of men, business associates of his father's, who wanted things from him during that time, with offers and smiles and false friendship. And he'd been young then, naive... he might have made some very bad choices, were it not for his mother's guidance. It's those thoughts, eventually, that drive him to stand and move toward the door of his prison, place a hand on it. He'd had enough of being treated as something to be manipulated and pitied. Merely useful. Even if he was a monster. No, it was time for him to make his own decisions. Make his own way. He leans hard against the wooden panel and pushes. The strength he'd felt in his sinews earlier is still there, and he can't help but marvel at it; the timber splinters and cracks, gives way, and he steps through the ragged opening he made, over the broken daggers of lumber, out into the larger room. The woman looks up with a gasp. She is seated, slumped on a packing crate, a sea of brightly colored objects scattered around her--clothes and personal items spilled from an open valise. Rays of sunlight streak through cracks between timbers, filling the box-lined room with hazy light. "What do you want?" the woman says coldly. Her cheeks are damp with tears, but her face is hard, all unforgiving lines. "I was tired of being locked in a room," he says to her, mildly. Her mouth works at his words, and she looks away. "What is it that you want from me?" he asks then, and her head swivels back around to face him, her expression painted with shock. "What?" she blurts. "I-I'm trying to help y--" "You've kept me prisoner here," he says. Coldly now, because he has no more interest in being lied to. "Concealed things from me. Obviously I have something of value to you. What is it?" She slumps even more at this, her whole posture sagging, and he waits. "You're very important," she says. Tiredly, as if the words required great effort. Her voice is scratchy, hoarse. "To the world. There's this prophecy... about a great climactic battle of good versus evil... you're part of that. So we need you to get your memory back." She pauses then, as if to say something else, then adds, "That's all." A prophecy. Good versus evil. Unlikely, but he absorbs it anyway, then takes a seat facing her, on the edge of another crate. "And this... spell of yours. Tell me about it." "It made you forget who you really are." This time she speaks without pause, businesslike. "You have to fulfill your deepest desire to take it off." He turns this over in his mind to study from every side. Deepest desire. "So that is why you treated me as you did?" Her brow furrows in confusion. "Treated you--?" "Why you were so... forward?" He looks down at the floor, puts the question as delicately as he can, more for his benefit than for hers. "You thought your... offer would be my deepest desire?" She blushes with embarrassment once his meaning becomes clear to her, her cheeks flaring red. "Yeah," she mutters. "I mean, obviously you don't remember, but... it used to be that I was what you wanted. Or at least... that's what I thought, anyway. You were... in love with me." He raises an eyebrow. His new awareness had told him that there had been nearness with this woman, carnality. The beast inside him rutting, an image equally fascinating and horrible. Her body offered up to him like that of a well-dressed goose, ready to be served up to the table. But the words she was speaking now... those were new. Always before she'd spoken of her desire for him. Never before had she suggested that her feelings were returned. "Were we... wed?" The question makes her jump, as if stuck with a pin. "N-No." She looks down at the floor. "It's like I told you before. We were enemies, and then..." "You fell in love with me," he finishes the sentence for her. "Isn't that what you said?" She shoots him a look. "Yeah. But you fell in love with me first." Another surprise. "Is that so?" he murmurs, and wonders at the idea, studying her through lowered lashes. So tiny, this woman. Thin-boned and fragile. Her hair, seen in this light, is clearly not natural. Not at all the sort of woman that he would normally find attractive, without even taking into account her odd manners, artless and strange. No, his tastes ran more toward the sort of lady he'd been introduced to at a party recently--Cecily, that was her name. Tall and dark haired, with a regal bearing and a fullness of figure that spoke of glowing health. A woman who knew her own mind and wasn't afraid to speak it--that he respected, found alluring. This girl was... elusive, hidden. A mystery. Not his type at all. "So what is it?" she says bluntly. He looks up at her with a start. What is--oh. Deepest desire. "I have no idea," he tells her, honestly. And other than mundane desires, he really doesn't--he'd always thought to have the same kind of life as those around him, an eventual wife and family, some small success in business. Perhaps a career in writing on the side, a little travel here and there, a study filled with artifacts he'd picked up on his journeys. He'd put away his more childish desires after his father's death, and more recently, his mother's illness. Because he had been a dreamy child, no question about that. His favorite reading material had always been tales of grand adventure, brave heroes and virtuous heroines, soul-stirring romances, danger and quest. Once upon a time, he might have wished for a career as an explorer or an adventurer, a knight of the queen facing down grave threats. Such dreams that he still tried to put down on paper, to capture in dramatic verse. Responsibilities, though, had to come first. "You don't know?" Her eyebrows lift. "That's... unexpected." She studies him, something in her eyes like regret. He's a bit taken aback. "Unexpected, madam? I was not under the impression that you very much knew me." He can't help the way the words sound, pushing past his desire to be civil to this woman, however... unnatural their connection. It stung him, still, the way she'd used notions of love and desire. As a manipulation, to get what she wanted. She obviously didn't know what was truly in his heart. "I do know you," she says, a little defensively. "And can you please not call me madam?" "Miss," he says then, brittlely. "Am I not very different then, from the... person you knew?" "No, you're different," she says immediately, and makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "For starters, I can't even imagine you not knowing what you want." He frowns, annoyed. Comparing him to the monster. Unfavorably. "It's not an easy question," he insists, and when her face shows she's not convinced, he blurts his own challenge, impulsive. "Well, what do you want then, if it's such a simple matter?" She makes a surprised face. "Huh. Well... that's interesting." "I do not hear your answer." It gives him a strange charge to look at her, the odd light in her eyes as she looks back at him, puzzled yet almost pleased. "I'm getting to it!" She nearly laughs, then looks thoughtful. "I think... well, until this year, I would have said it was just to live a regular life. Without all the danger and the--" She does laugh then, like a cough. "--strange happenings." "And you would not say that now?" There was definite ambivalence in her voice. Never mind her strange professions of love for a monster, a vampire, how poorly that matched a desire for a life free of strange happenings. She was a puzzle to be solved. Mysterious. She twists away a little under his stare, and shrugs, indifferent. "I sort of have that now. But it's not really what I expected." He lets out a small sound, not quite a snort. A bit obvious, really. The woman was a paradox. Wanting one thing and saying another. Or merely lying, still trying to deceive him; either could true. "If it were truly your greatest wish, it would bring you joy," he says firmly. "And nothing would have kept you from pursuing it." She laughs again, a bubbling sound. "That is so like something you would say." Her expression this time is almost fond, and he frowns a little again, uncertain what to make of her moods. He stands then, suddenly feeling the need for motion. All at once, he decides that he will learn nothing more from lingering. His desire, whatever it is, is nowhere in this room. "Well, this has all been very helpful." He says this without sarcasm, keeps to the cordial. "I thank you for your hospitality, miss, but I'm afraid I'll have to be going now." With that, he begins walking toward the door. She scrambles off her perch on the crate and moves to bar his way. "What? William, y-you can't go outside right now. It's daylight. Don't you understand what that means?" "Yes, yes," he says then, and this time he doesn't bother to conceal his impatience. "I am a vampire. An unclean thing that can be destroyed by sunlight or warded away by symbols of the church. I've seen the play." He steps forward again, runs into her upraised hands. "This isn't a play," she insists. "If you step out that door, it'll kill you." He looks at her hands on his chest, then back at her face. "You've lied to me before." She sucks in a breath in a long hiss. "I'm not lying now." "No matter. You've told me what I need to know, and for that I thank you. But the goal is for me to find my desire, is it not? And for that, I have to leave." And all of a sudden he is absolutely certain that this is what he needs to do. Just the sight of the door, sunlight seeping through the cracks all around it, fills him with unswerving conviction. His future lies beyond that barrier, whatever the cost. He is sure of it. He take another step forward, and is pushed back again, a little more violently this time. "Fine. Fine," she huffs. "If you really want to go that bad, we'll go. Just... wait until dark, okay, and I'll come with you." "I do not require your company, madam, thank you." Her frown deepens. "Is your deepest desire to kill yourself, is that it?" "Even if it is, what business is it of yours?" "It is my business," she insists. "Sp--William. I--" Rage boils up in him then, jets of furious steam. He thinks he knows what she is about to say, and he's heard it before. Doesn't care to feel the untruth of it again. "This has nothing to do with you, madam. Your feelings are not the question here." He starts walking again. Then he's knocked flat, his legs swept out from under him. He looks up, stunned, to find her sitting crouched on his chest, like stories he's heard about cats stealing breath. "You're not going anywhere," she growls, and with her hoarse voice, it does sound rather catlike. "You will not stop me," he growls back, and twists out from under her, tipping her off balance and onto the floor. He scrambles to his feet. Dashes forward again, fingers clawing for the door handle. She fetches him back by the scruff of his coat--it snaps tight around his shoulders, and he goes down. "Stay down, damn you!" she shouts. She is sobbing now, knees pressing into his back, and her can hear her labored breathing. "I can't go through this again!" "This has nothing to do with you!" he howls at her. Flexing his back, he finally unseats her, pushing himself upright as she recovers, nimbly rolling to poise on the balls of her feet. He points at her, livid. "How many times do I have to tell you that I don't know you, woman! You don't have a say in this! This is about me, about my desire, and what I want. And what I want right now is for you to get out of my way!" He makes to spin away, and pain blooms in his face before he can take another step. He staggers, grasping at his face. "Youb... boken my bleedin' dose!" he sputters. "You are not going," she grates again, and through watering eyes he can see that she too is crying, tears streaming down her face. Her chest heaves with emotion. "You are not going because I-I... Oh, please I so don't want to do this. Please, Spike, please don't make me do this!" He does feel compassion for her at her piteous cry. Holding his streaming nose, he blinks at her, at her agonized expression, and for the briefest instant he can imagine holding her like a lover, gathering her into his arms and stroking her hair until she calms, whispering softnesses into her ear. Poor thing. The impulse vanishes, though, at the sound of her speaking the monster's name. "Again, madam, I don't know you," he says, taking his hand away from his face. He straightens. "And you most definitely don't know me." He turns again, resolute. She knocks him down with a kick to the back of his leg. "I can't let you go," she sobs. "I just c-can't." "Get the hell off me, you... bitch!" He flails, and then drags himself forward on his fingers, on his belly. Determined to throw her off, get away. She won't let go of him, her own hands clawing at his back, his shoulders, and in a last, desperate motion, he dredges up everything he can remember from his boyhood wrestling matches, and twists his body around to curl around hers, one arm locking around her forehead, the other snaking up to circle her throat. Her reaction is a terrified squeak, and she struggles, frantic. "I have no wish to hurt you, miss," he murmurs. Blood from his broken nose pours over his lips as he speaks, his throat filling with a coppery taste, hot-slick, and it sickens him to feel a pang of hunger. Monster. Eventually she goes limp. He holds on until he is convinced that she is indeed unconscious, then lets go. She slides from his grip to the floor and lays there, spread out like a painting of a sleeping goddess, her golden hair streaming across the boards. The sight brings a wave of overwhelming sadness with it, of guilt. No matter. He gets up. Weaves unsteadily on his feet toward the door. Places his hand on it. Outside the door is his future. Possibly death, like the woman said. But unknown. Unknowable. Uncharted. And his. He's chosen this. Whatever awaits him, it's his. He's free. He opens the door.
__________ Chapter 10 At first, he's dazzled by the light, a flood of it from the open door, like ocean breakers rolling into the shore. And he feels light himself too, brilliant-bright... but then he blinks and refocuses... and it's just the last rays of sunset streaking low across the sky, the overhang from the warehouse roof shielding him so that he's standing in shadow, a golden stripe of light barely an inch from his boots. And then he's looking down at them, his boots, a bit dazed, thinking you really do need to get yourself a new pair, mate, those are looking more than a mite shoddy, when it dawns on him that something's changed, that everything has changed. He remembers. Remembers all of it, the spell, the last few days of ignorant confusion, a hundred years and more of history stretching back into the past. All at once, like a flood. And then he laughs. Not because it's at all funny, but because it's so ridiculous, the whole goddamn thing--the stuck-up witch and her simpleminded spell, his own stupid misinterpretations, thinking he was something he's not, Angel--oh god, Angel--and... Oh. Buffy. Buffy. He looks back, over his shoulder and into the shadows of the warehouse. She's still lying where he left her, unconscious, her hair artfully fanned out, one arm outstretched. And yeah, he gets it now, like a punch to the gut, why the sight of her in that pose had brought such an uneasy feeling. It was nearly the same posture she'd been in after she'd leapt from that tower and died. He closes the door again, shutting out the light. Rests his forehead against the wooden panel, listens to the faraway toot of a horn across the river. For a moment, when he'd first opened the door, he'd felt... free. And he's beginning to get it now, why that witch had thought she'd had him in such a grand trap. Because his great desire now was always going to be for that moment, that sublime moment that he'd only really felt that once, though he'd come close a couple of times before and since. When he'd brought himself down to a critical instant of understanding, of this is what I have to do and knowing that he would see it through. No matter what the cost. Too bad for him that feeling of knowing what to do came so rarely. That he spent most of his time just flailing around. But he'd known in that moment, in the Hellmouth. And he'd been happy then, content--he'd laughed. Not that she'd seen that--she'd left herself by then, not knowing what it meant to him, not really. His deepest desire. He walks back to Buffy's side then and crouches down, waits for her to wake. __________ It doesn't take long. It's only a minute or two before she begins to stir. "It's alright, Buffy, everything's fine," he tells her soothingly as soon as she begins to blink, the first warning notes of panic already flashing across her face. She gasps, and looks up at him. "Spike?" "Yeah, love, it's me," he says, then mentally kicks himself for the wording. "Didn't do myself in after all. Although after that last bit, I'll understand if you don't exactly want to cheer." "Don't put words in my mouth," she mutters, and then avoids his eyes, puts a hand to her head. "And oh, headache--ugh. What did you do to me?" "Sleeper hold, little knockout trick. Cuts off the flow of blood to your brain. Kind of surprised you don't know that one, Slayer." "Oh, right. With the blood flow. Like that would work on vampires." She rubs her forehead. He purses his lips. He can think of a time or two when that same trick worked just fine on vampires, but doubtful she's gonna want to have that debate right now. He stays silent. She's moved on to other topics anyway. "So what did it?" "What did what?" Of course he knows what she's asking. "Was it winning a fight with me? Was that it?" "No." He scowls. It burns, in a way, that she really has no idea. "Not like I haven't had plenty of chances to do that over the years." She snorts. "You wish." He just meets her eyes calmly, even as some part of him thinks, that's my girl. It was very like her to rewrite her own history to leave out parts that she didn't like, such as the fact he'd had her on the ropes in their first fight--he'd have done for her then if Joyce hadn't beaned him on the head with that fire-axe. Never mind the nine ways to Sunday he could've killed her after that. Easier for her to forget, probably. Leave the past behind. He gets that. She levers herself up on her elbows, locks her eyes on him. "So what, then? You really wanted to get away from me that bad?" Oh, yes, she was hurt. Hurt and needing to show it. "The way you kept going on about how it 'wasn't about me'--" "And it wasn't," he tells her firmly. "Nothing to do with you." Not totally true, but he's still working out how he's going to explain it, what he felt, why it worked out the way it did. Why it had been important for him to fight her, fight past her, and yet... not. It wasn't personal. "Did you... want to die?" Her chin is wobbling a little now, and he can't help but think how surreal it is how often he's seen her cry in this one day, and all of it somehow over him. "Spike, did you really want to die?" Hurting the one he loves. He's really become an expert. "No." He shakes his head, and just lets the words fall out. "It was--when I went outside, you know, through the door? It was bright out there, and the sun was shining, and it was like... the whole world was in front of me and waiting for me to make the next move. And then I just... remembered. Because... I'd made the choice to be there, you know? And not because it was given to me by someone else--I made it, myself. Does that make any sense?" It made sense to him. In ways he'd never be able to explain. It was at the heart of every important move he'd ever made, that moment of choice. Glory, the Slayers he'd fought, getting his soul, facing down the Apocalypse and turning himself to ash... in every one of them, he'd made his call, got stuck in, didn't back down. And it was thinking back on his human life that had made him understand that, finally. The kind of timid person he'd been then, one who turned the other cheek. Tradition and rules and social standing to tell him where he stood, what could and couldn't be done. Until he'd become a demon and turned his back on all that. And spent the next century fighting his way out of that cage. What could and couldn't be done. Nothing was written in stone anywhere, no matter what all the venerable old rules said. He could make his own future. He had. "I-I guess," she says slowly, her expression giving no clue as to whether she understands this or not. "You guess," he repeats. He doesn't mean for it to sound mocking. She bristles a little. "Okay, so you're a rugged individual. I get it." He laughs. "Not exactly. I didn't do any of it alone. Even if I'd like to think I did. Never would have gotten this far if it weren't for you." That was a compliment to her, even if she didn't get it, and he couldn't blame her if she didn't--it was hard to explain. She'd been his dragon to be slain, then his princess, then his queen. Always something to strive for. And everyone else in his past--Angel, Drusilla... the same. He'd always been reaching for something above him. She wasn't getting it. "What do you mean?" "You gave me something to look up to, Buffy. Carried me even when you didn't know you were doing it. Made me want to be more." Her face is looking strained now, still not understanding, so he changes the subject before he can start spouting inspirational-poster nonsense about one set of footprints in the snow. "So, did you mean all those nice things you said to get my memory back?" She avoids his eyes immediately. That tells him plenty. "Right now?" she says, rubbing her neck, and he can hear it in her voice too, the avoidance. "Well, after you knocked me out and called me a hussy, I'd--" "No, not now," he cuts in. Doesn't feel like hearing her evade. "I mean then. Did you mean them then?" I love you more than Angel. Not too likely. For the first time, however, he's okay with it. She could say it to his face right now and it wouldn't matter, tell him that she loves Angel more and always has. He'd give her his congratulations and wish her well, tell her to have a nice life, although chasing after old broody face might make that a hard proposition. Which in turn reminds him of Angel's own attempts at spell-breaking, and internally he smiles, tries to think of the best way to torment Angel with everything he remembers about that kiss. He's half-tempted to have a Valentine card inscribed. "You really think I lied to you?" she says softly, then sighs, rubs her arms. "I want to get out of here. This place is cold." __________ They set out shortly after sunset. Grab the Tube at the nearest stop and ride it back over the river to the City proper. His plan is to take her to a hotel, put her up someplace posh for the night to make up for the days she's spent sleeping in a warehouse on his behalf, but she's not buying. Just stays sitting next to him, huddled up small, and refuses to get off when he makes his suggestions about places to stay. He has no idea what she wants from him, really. Not anymore. A couple of pierced-lip types are glaring at them from the seats across the way, the posers. Twenty-five years too late to pass for anything like real punks, and they probably thought he was the poser, a businessman who wore leather after hours. With his cheerleader girlfriend. He glares back, sneering. That's right, baby. I'm dangerous. You don't want to mess with me. "I want to see where you grew up," Buffy speaks up suddenly then. Shaken out of his staring match, he turns to look at her; her gaze is fixed on the row of posters above the windows, as if planning a trip to the Tower of London or other tourist destinations was really holding her attention. "Take me there." __________ They ride the Tube to Russell Square, and he walks her to the sidewalk in front of his mother's house. Points it out. She just stands there, hugging her elbows, taking it in. "It's a hotel." "Well, yeah, it is now," he says. Not sure how to feel about her tone. "Was a house, though, when I was small. A fashionable one. All of these places were." He indicates the rest of the circle with a sweep of his hand. "Fashionable," she repeats. "When ladies were in long skirts." He gives her a glance then, and sees her brows draw inward, and he can't help but wonder now if she'd really believed the life story he'd told her once, about how he'd always been bad. It would probably serve him right if that was the one time he'd pitched a tall tale and managed to make it convincing. "Things were... different then," he says, and then he just keeps talking like he doesn't know how to stop. "I... didn't live very much before I died, Buffy, that much of what I told you about myself was true. Didn't have much of a life other than going to work and taking care of my mother." "Work?" She looks surprised. Like it's never occurred to her that he worked before. "I was--" He looks down, shuffles his feet. "Worked in insurance. Wrote policies for Lloyd's. Don't tell anyone that." "Insurance?" She laughs, but it's not an unkind laugh. "You. Mister Risk-Taker." "It paid the bills," he says stubbornly. "And I wasn't just some tool, I'll have you know. I wrote some of my own... work on the side. And managed my father's collections." Oh, he's digging himself a hole here, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "I took degrees, you know, classical studies. Attended meetings of science societies. Went to literature readings. I was big on the arts and culture--music, paintings. If I'd lived long enough, might have shaped up to be a regular Renaissance man." "I get that." She nods, and her gaze returns to the house. "You always were up to date on the movies and the TV. Maybe not so much the music. And you wrote poetry." She looks at him sideways. "I remember." Whups, he'd forgotten that she'd mentioned that. Angel must have told her. "I wrote a little. Nothing special," he says shortly. "I'd like to hear some one day. I mean... Angel said it was pretty good." He squirms. Pretty good. Like that was a wonderful compliment coming from Angel. Him and his Barry Manilow. It helped, he'd found, not to care what anyone thought. His last hurrah before the final battle in L.A. had been to read his poetry aloud to the toughest room he could think of, and in doing so he'd sloughed off a century of shame over his own sentimental crap verse. If it sucked, yeah, so what? He'd still done it, and that was more than most could say. Bloody awful, yeah right. So what if it is? Let's see you have the bollocks to stand up and read your own trite leavings, you simpering twit. He'd have had a wholly different future if he'd had half that kind of conviction at the time. But reading his old poems to Buffy? The thought made him shudder. "Did you... used to read them to girls? Your poems?" she asks delicately then, and the question goes straight to its target, like a stake to the heart. She always could find his weak spots, without even looking. "Not until Drusilla," he answers, honestly. Dying to get her off the topic, truth be told. "Never really had a girl to read to before that." Her eyebrows raise. "Never?" "Oh, come on, Buffy, what do you think?" He can't help the way it sounds, suddenly defensive and pissed off. Well, he is. Getting more agitated by the moment by this little trip down memory lane. "Did you get the impression from old William that he really had all that much experience with women? Well, hey, now's your chance to make fun of William the bloody virgin. Have at." She winces then, with an awkward smile, a little upset, and he looks away, flustered himself. Okay, didn't handle that right. Should've been long over that by now, not be so touchy. "I-I'm... I'm sorry, pet. Mouth runs away with me sometimes." "I know." She shrugs. "Did you ever write any poems for Drusilla?" Can't he get her off this subject? The question's enough, however, to make him wonder why he hadn't. He'd read his old poems to Dru, sure, but that had been almost more to laugh at them than anything else... or at least he'd thought so at the time. They made different kinds of poetry together, he and Dru. They didn't need the words. "No." It's an answer. "Did you ever write any for me?" Another tailspin. He gathers his nerve for a second before answering. "No." She drops her head a bit then, as if she's disappointed. Disappointed? "You want to see the house?" he asks her then, desperate to move on. In fact, the sooner the night's over with, the better--if he can just get Buffy satisfied with whatever she's trying to figure out, set her on her way, he can get back to his own new life. No more of this hemming and hawing and fencing without touching. No more bloody games. "You mean get a room?" Her eyes widen. He actually hadn't thought of that. Getting a room for Buffy here. In his old house. Her sleeping in his old room. The thought puts such an ache of longing in him it's almost too much to bear. "Maybe not such a good idea," he says hoarsely. "Why?" she says, and there's a teasing lilt to her voice. "Because you never introduced me to your mom?" And then he's thinking of the time he'd brought Drusilla home to meet his mother, and he's more convinced than ever that he doesn't want to do this. "No, let's... let's just get out of here." She tilts her head just so, to study him. "Is it about your mom?" she asks quietly, and again, there she is with her finger pressing on a nerve that she doesn't even know is there. He never told her about his mother, never explained. He didn't need to. She doesn't really know him, but she does. It's spooky. "Yeah, something like." He puts his hands in his pockets, fidgets, ready to roll out. "You coming?" She remains for a second more, thoughtful. "I'm glad you met my mom," she says softly then. He doesn't even have time to wonder at this before she turns and starts walking back to the station.
__________ Chapter 11 This time he doesn't ask for her approval, just takes her straight to the Ritz. Because he has some cash to flash, and why the hell not. Plenty of old fashioned elegance there if she's interested in history, although the building that stands there is newer than he is--he remembers the old Walsingham House that used to occupy the spot, but close enough. He hires the poshest suite available because she deserves some bloody pampering, even all he wants to do at this point is push the damn room key at her and give Angel a call so he can come and take over. Buffy's been silent for quite some time now and it's making him nervous. But more's the pity, his cell phone's gone lost to that Good Samaritan Goth girl at King's Cross, and that's another thing he needs to talk to Angel about. Getting a new phone, all warded up with the proper spells so as to be untraceable. Essential for their line of work, communication no one else can tap. Bloody crucial. They ride the lift to the top. Buffy speaks up once, asks him to spend the night, because she doesn't want to be alone. What else can he do, right? He gives her a nod, and then gets them to their suite, keys them inside, and picks out a bloody bedroom for himself, never mind what she's doing, and turns on the TV. He doesn't really want to think too hard on why he's gotten so touchy around her, why he'd almost rather not look at her right now, other than he's just plain tired of having their same conversations and feels he's opened himself more than enough for her amusement lately. Especially lately. He hears the sound of the shower somewhere in the background. Seems she's made herself at home elsewhere, which is fine with him. He settles onto the bed comfortably, coat and shoes off, and is fully engrossed in the satellite feed of a nicely satisfying footy match by the time she reappears. Toweling her hair. Otherwise naked. And for a moment, it seems like a hallucination, not real. Buffy had never been all that comfortable being starkers in front of him before. Always found some excuse to hide herself underneath blankets or rugs, when she wasn't otherwise occupied. He was fairly certain that had more than a little to do with her not wanting to seem like she had any interest in pleasing him, the way she refused to show herself off. She hadn't even done that on his last night, the night before he burned--they'd lain together then, body to body and skin to skin, and still it was just something she'd needed to say, a show of forgiveness. Not something for the pleasure of it, not for the joy. He watches her cross the room then, wary. Half-expecting her to shut off the TV and launch into some weird diatribe, like her being naked will somehow help him listen to her talk, but she just gets into bed with him without another word and... falls asleep. Bemused, he turns the sound on the TV down to a whisper and just sits there. Propped up and watching, fully dressed and above the covers while she snuggles into him with a blanket half over her, naked skin glowing in the flickering blue light. He's not sure how long he sits there, eyes on the screen and unseeing, before the rhythm of her breathing catches up with him, and he drifts off himself. Oddly content. __________ When he wakes, it's after midnight. Vampire Happy Hour by his internal clock, and his every nerve is vibrating with the need for some kind of action. He gingerly extracts himself from Buffy's loose embrace--she has an arm looped around his waist and her face smooshed into his shoulder--and slides out of bed. He's got his boots on and is pulling on his coat when Buffy yawns and stirs. "Are you going out?" she says sleepily. "Just going to nip out for some cigarettes, maybe a pint, no worries, be back soon," he says hurriedly, and shrugs the coat on, looks around for where he left the key. She sits up, blanket falling loose around her waist. Pink-tipped breasts looking very pert and pretty in the flickering half-light, and she shivers a little from the touch of the air, slightly cold. "Wait a minute," she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "I'll come with you." Then she's out of bed and scampering into the other room for her clothes. And then he's just standing there, hands in his pockets, trying to figure out what to make of her and what's going on, and wishing desperately again for a phone to call Angel when she re-emerges covered in clothes, shaking out her hair and generally looking ready for action, if a bit sleepy. He shrugs, and pulls open the door. "After you," he says. __________ The pubs are all closed, of course, at this hour, so he takes them to a bar. Gets a table and drinks three pints down while she nurses her one, and chainsmokes the entire time, and she doesn't complain about the smoke once. Odd. Eventually, she speaks up. "You kinda drink a lot, you know that?" This delivered with a funny little smile. She might be teasing him; he's not sure. "What, this? You know how much it takes to get a vampire drunk?" "I think so." This time he can tell she's being teasing, or at least flirty, from the way she tosses her hair a bit. Or maybe she's tipsy herself, which seems likely, given what a lightweight she is. Half a pint of beer was probably her useful limit. "It's less than one of your big bottles of booze, anyway. You were drunk that one night I came to your crypt and we did all that drinking, and then with the kitten poker, remember?" Tipsy Buffy. That was an alright memory. Hella cute. He flashes her a smile. "You think that's all I had that night? Newsflash, Slayer--probably had at least that much before you ever got there." She frowns. "Oh. Huh." And then winces, like something just occurred to her. "Guess you did a lot of drinking that year, huh?" "Nothing much else to do. Fellow's got to have a hobby," he mumbles, and then tips back his current pint, calls for another. Gets a shot too, while he's at it. He doesn't like thinking about that year too much. Not just because of the guilt issues, the ones that press on his chest all the time now, but just because it was a miserable year. He'd felt so aimless, useless, and he hated to think about that, the way he'd had more purpose in his life before Buffy had come back, when she had been dead. At least he'd had things to keep him busy back then. Demons to kill, a place in her gang like he was worth something... and he'd have kept up that routine as long as he'd been able, had not that damn dancing demon come along--thank you very much, Xander Harris. Sure, it had hurt being Buffy's "friend," keeping his mouth shut about his feelings, but that had been nothing compared to what was to come, when she'd let it be known she didn't want his company around on patrol anymore, didn't want him at her house, in fact didn't even want to run into him while she was out walking around... ...and then just like that, he'd been stuck puttering around his crypt like a housewife, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but drink and wait for her to want him and show up. Boredom. It was one of his biggest weaknesses, probably--that job with the demon eggs that had ruined things for him and Buffy, that had been boredom, sheer boredom, right there. Never mind the money, a demon at his door like a traveling salesman, looking for a safe place for storage, and he'd been so lonely he'd practically invited the guy in for tea. It makes him think of Joyce again, and his own mother. Joyce, who'd asked him in for hot chocolate, although he certainly couldn't have been great company at the time. And his own mother, how confined she must have felt, although it wouldn't have crossed her mind to say so until she became a demon. But that was a mother's love for you, putting her own freedom aside to take care of someone else. He gets that, now. Buffy's silent some more, sips at her beer, and then she pipes up out of nowhere that she wants to spend the day in London tomorrow, have him show her around like a tour guide. He nearly does a spit-take. "What?" he blurts, and she flinches. "I want to see your city, Spike," she says stubbornly. "I mean, you spent all those years with me in Sunnydale with me, and--" "Not like I was there just to learn about California culture," he cuts in. Best to remind her. And wondering now if she needs reminding how much of this city has less than good memories for him, places where all his best recollections are really grand kills, the sort of thing that now fairly puts him off looking at anything. She just picks up where she left off. "I know that. I'm just saying, I want to know about you. And I want to see your city. With you." He sighs, and calls for another pint. Nods, because what else can he do? She's spent time taking care of him, plenty of it. He can do this for her. And then she smiles--and oh yes, she's drunk--and starts to lay out her plans for the day, sights she wants to see. Bugger. __________ They head back to their room after bar closing time. Once inside, she sheds her clothes again, dropping them on the floor as she walks and cat-crawls her way back into his bed, her bare little ass shining like the moon, and dammit, he's not made of stone. But she's out and snoring by the time he throws off his own clothes and climbs in next to her. Still, she snuggles right up against him once he's in, although he can't quite figure out why she would want to--thanks to the lovely English winter weather, his body's all but ice cold. He warms up, though, once she's wrapped around him, and this time he falls asleep almost immediately, her heat seeping into him until he feels... almost human.
__________ Chapter 12 He's dragged out of sleep the next morning to the feeling of something soft brushing his face. Like a cobweb. Muzzily, he raises a hand to push it away, but in another second, it's back. He repeats the motion, groggy, and a soft feminine voice giggles in his ear. "Hey, you," it says softly. "Trying to do this without the throwing things, okay? C'mon, sleepyhead, time to get up." His eyes snap open. The voice was Buffy's, of course--she's leaning over him, elbows in the pillows, and she's using a lock of her hair like a feather, running tickling trails over his face. She's wearing the world's cutest smile, sunny bright, and for a fraction of a second, everything in him clenches up with petrifying fear. A dream. It must be. "Good morning!" she says brightly. "Sleep well?" And then he manages his own smile, pushing it past the half-frozen feeling in his chest. "Yeah. Good. Thank you." And that part's true, now that he thinks about it, now that the panic's beginning to fade--panic he doesn't really want to examine too closely. He doesn't know when he's ever slept so well, in fact, warm and relaxed and... at peace. Not for a very long time, at least. The last few nights he'd spent with Buffy, maybe, with his arms circled around her, floating on the feeling that she trusted him enough for that. Maybe then. But it's getting hard to remember, really, what he felt then. Such a strange mixture of resignation and hope. And fear. "I slept good too, thanks for asking," she says, and falls back onto her side, propping her head up with one hand. "So what now? We can go get you some blood once we're out, but until then, do you drink coffee or anything? Or is it a British thing in the morning to have tea?" The happy chatter's a little headspinning, though. "What is this, Buffy?" he finds himself saying. She gives him a patient look, a little head tilt. "It's called having a nice morning," she says evenly. "What, is there some rule that we have to have a huge conversation about every little thing?" "Right," he answers, and then he gets it. She doesn't want arguments or discussions. Just wants a nice day. And that's fine. He'll tour guide her around as she likes, make a few pleasant memories. All well and good. And then they'll both get back on course with their lives. He gives her a nod and she smiles back, slides out of bed. Still naked and parading around--hard to get used to, that--and heads over to do battle with the tea service, all set up very elegantly on a side table. He can tell from the way she fiddles with the teapot that she's probably never seen the plug-in type before, frowning and studying it like a rare artifact. "So how do we handle the daylight problem?" she asks. She's figured out the pot now, has moved on to examining the biscuits and tea. "Should we, like, rent a car, or--" "What's the weather like out there?" he interrupts. He leans back, hands locked behind his head. She puts a biscuit packet down and heads to the window, carefully slides the curtain aside, making sure to hold it in such a way that the light doesn't reach him. A small thing, but it puts a throb of affection in his chest, a swelling ache. She's lovely framed in the window. Dreary gray light on her pink skin. "Ugh, it's raining. Wow, it's really coming down." "Welcome to winter in England," he says simply. "Don't think we're gonna have much of a problem." __________ And they don't. Sure enough, it's still raining heavily by the time they're dressed and downstairs. He borrows a big old black brolly from the front desk for the day. Buffy laughs when she sees it, but cheerfully huddles under its protection once they're out on the streets, running through the downpour from one Tube stop to the next. The places she wants to visit are all typical tourist fare: Buckingham Palace and Piccadilly Circus, the Tower of London and Big Ben. He only balks at some of the more crowded attractions, like Madame Tussauds, because he's not going to stand in any damn queues, but it goes alright. Not so many bad memories in those places. Too public. It's the spots in between that do his head in, the back alleys and half-glimpsed corners that he recognizes from the old days. He finds himself unconsciously taking his old sunlight avoidance routes to stay out of the rain--pedestrian underpasses and department stores that can be cut through, the occasional covered arcade--and plenty of memories jump up at him there. He keeps seeing them, sooty old bricks sticking out beneath shiny facades, evidence of the old city, and his own bloody history is right there too, like bones jutting out through torn flesh. They're crossing Trafalgar Square when he nearly runs into Buffy, not realizing that she's come to a halt. "Are you okay?" she asks. She's staring up at him, troubled. He shifts his grip on the umbrella. He hadn't realized that he'd fallen silent. She'd been cheerful, chattering, asking questions and making jokes. He'd barely been listening. "Everything's alright, pet. I'm fine." It comes out sharper than he wanted, and he does his best to cover it, change the subject. "So what's next on your little list? Wanna duck inside somewhere for awhile, get out of this rain?" "No, you're not fine. You're being really quiet. What is it?" He rolls his shoulders, looks away. "It's nothing, Buffy." "It's not nothing. Spike, I wanted us to have a nice time together. I can't have a nice day if you're not." I can't have a nice day if you're not. She's really trying. He relents, tries to lighten up his mood for her sake. "Buffy, it's fine, alright? Just pick a new spot, and I'll take you there. Let's go." He waves his hand. After you. Her expression doesn't change, still colored with worry, but she presses her lips together and begins to page through her dampened guidebook, rain spattering in a fine mist off her white vinyl coat. "Okay, how about the National Gallery? You could show me some of that art you say you like." She turns to point at the building, directly across the way. And oh, leave it to her to go right for one of his favorite haunts as a human, a place where he'd contemplated things of beauty. And not so coincidentally, where he'd also waited on the steps like a predator for an acquaintance who'd laughed over his verses at that last, fateful party. A man he'd eventually turned into another kind of art, the kind the newspapers wrote headlines about. Portrait of man with his insides on the outside. "No, let's go to the Portrait Gallery instead. It's right around the corner," he says gruffly, and grabs her hand, starts pulling her along before she even has a chance to answer. New building, not even there when London was his city, sweeping away all traces of the old workhouse across from St Martin-in-the-Fields. No nasty memories there, not now. And stuffy old pictures of kings and queens. Perfect. She's still shooting him funny looks as they step inside, check the umbrella, their coats. But she walks around obligingly and examines all the pictures, silently reading the little captions. He follows her, pretends to be interested. It's something of a relief to be bored. And the irony is, when he was soulless, this would have been his deepest desire, no doubt about it. Even the boring parts. Buffy at his side. Buffy laughing and smiling. Buffy wanting his company. Ridiculous to even think of it now, but he can't help it. Deepest desire. Christ, what a joke. Once upon a time it would have been Drusilla. He stamps down on his thoughts, focuses on the paintings. Kings and queens. Standard education, in his day, to memorize long lists of of their names: Ethelred the Unready and Edward the Confessor. Harefoot and Lionheart and Longshanks. And William the Conqueror, his namesake. But then again, he has his own name now, doesn't he? Just as earned as any king. William the Bloody. Jesus Christ, but London was messing with his head. "Spike?" Buffy calling him. He looked up. She was across the room, beckoning, pointing at a particular painting. He walks over to see. It's small portrait of a woman done in an antique allegorical style. A fairytale landscape is visible over her shoulder, a knight on horseback, a tiny castle on a hill. In her hands, a small rosette of flowers. Ribbons in her dark hair. It's a painting of Drusilla. __________ For a long minute, he stares at it, gape-mouthed. Reads the caption card, the name there, the year. An obscure scion of royalty, 1875, by a semi-famous painter. One of a pair of portraits, the card informs, of sisters, the other in the hands of a private collector. The second painting is reproduced in black-and-white miniature next to the card. Darla. His first thought, that some researcher at the gallery had simply gotten his wires crossed, promptly vanishes. He grabs Buffy's hand and pulls her with him toward the gallery's floor map. "What is it?" she hisses, a conspiratorial whisper. "Did you know abo--" "No," he cuts her off shortly. His finger traces lines on the map, tracking out a route. He launches into motion again, pulling her behind him, her hand still in his. They climb the stairs to an upper floor. He takes the steps two at a time. Finally he reaches a room more dominated by photographs than paintings, and he searches the images, moving quickly. He finds what he's looking for in a glass case. A studio portrait that he actually remembers being taken, around 1885 or so, in Paris. His head's held proudly high in a dark-draped room, his arm leaning casually on a classical column. The caption identifies him as the last holder of an old English name that died out before he was born. There's a picture of Angel in the case too, taken in the same photo studio. Similar caption. He reads the two cards again and again, looking for clues. "That's really not your real name, is it?" Buffy whispers. She squeezes his hand, and he glances at her, shakes his head. Then tugs at her to follow him. They collect their umbrella and coats, leave the gallery. He sets a brisk pace, almost too fast for Buffy. She has to trot quickly to keep up. While they were inside, the rain had stopped, replaced by gusty winds and scudding gray clouds. Buffy yanks the closed umbrella from his hand and opens it anyway, nervously glancing at the sky. "Where are we going?" She's panting, a little breathless, her arm extended at full stretch to keep the umbrella over his head. "Somewhere we won't be watched," he growls, and leads them at sharp speed through old routes, weaving through back alleys and over the Thames into Southwark, to an out-of-the-way pub, the kind that only survives on the patronage of locals. He pitches his accent right for the area and orders them pints, sits her down in a dark corner and puts his own back to the wall, a place where he can see the entire room. Pint in front of her, a flickering candle dimly illuminating her face, Buffy sucks in a breath and finally speaks. "So what was that all about? Why did they have your picture? Or are you really royalty and I never knew?" Her expression tells him that she's already guessed his answer. "No, love, sorry. Not a frog prince." He manages a grim smile. "Those were wanted posters, Buffy. Mug shots. And I'll give you one guess who had them put there." She just looks at him, frozen silent. Not wanting to believe it, maybe. He can't imagine she hasn't come to the same conclusion she has. He sucks in his own breath, says it. "Your council. Your new council of Slayers."
__________ Chapter 13 "The council," Buffy repeats. "My council. What are you saying?" Her face is stubborn. Closed off, anger sparking. He's seen that face before, oh sure, plenty of times. When she's gearing up for a good, hard fight, just about ready to get stuck in. There are variations to it, of course--the light in her eyes she gets when she's excited, when she knows she's going to win, the look of flat misery he remembers seeing more than once after she'd been dead and come back. The anger, pure, like gasoline keeping her upright and running. The Slayer deathwish in full bloom. Not this time, though. There's hope in her face, just enough of it to look like hurt, a silent plea of tell me it isn't true. He can't. Wishes he could, but he can't. He keeps his voice low. Tries to make it gentle, soften the blow. "It's a government building, love." "So? That doesn't prove anything." "It proves someone with high-level pull got those pictures in. Not like just anything gets to hang in those halls." She couldn't be so far into denial not to realize that. "You think it was demons, working for the National Trust?" "Why not? You said that there were demons everywhere in the government, in big positions of power--wasn't that the whole point about you and Angel a-and... Wolfy Heart?" "Yeah, sure. If it was just me and Angel, I'd say maybe. But it doesn't hold up as a reason for Dru. No reason for a demon to go after her." He drums his fingers, makes himself say it. "There's only one group that would bother keeping tabs on her, and that's yours." Her jaw could have been carved in granite, locked tight. "Then it was a mistake. Somebody really thought that she was a princess or something." "Oh, right. And Darla too." "Sure, why not? They were old paintings. Maybe they really look like those sisters." "Bollocks, Buffy." He takes a swig of his drink, then another. Sets down the glass with a bang. She doesn't believe him. Not that he really blames her, and he can't really explain--not to her. The method was familiar to him because he recognized it from the old days--a code demons used with each other, when photographs weren't to be had by just anyone with a Brownie camera. No, back then you had to work the grapevine for information, and some pieces of information had been worth quite a lot in trade. Such as what certain people looked like. Faces of Slayers. He'd paid good money to demon go-betweens to find out where the Chinese Slayer he'd eventually killed had looked like, where she lived--clues that had been hidden in a painting on an exported piece of Chinese cloisonné. The greatest challenge a vampire could ever face. Or at least that's what he'd thought at the time. "You're seriously suggesting that those galleries are full of secret messages about vampires?" "Why not?" And the real seriousness of the situation strikes him even as he says it. Slayers organized, an army of Slayers, all turned against him, all with easy access to his picture, a name, a kill order. Or... actually, maybe Buffy's theory, that it was demons, might be something to worry about after all. Add a whole new twist to the already choppy waters he and Angel were swimming around in. ...and for the first time it occurs to him that this is how Buffy must have felt back then. The world's only Slayer, all alone. The world filled with nothing but victims to protect or assassins out to kill you. He'd only ever understood this before from the other side. A hunter's understanding of its prey. "Since when are you so paranoid?" she scoffs. "The council's not out to get you, Spike." "Well, not like you keep up with them anymore, do you? Why are you so sure?" His forearms are tingling. He's remembering the last time he'd had truck with the council, damn that Andrew, tweed-wearing little ponce. No telling, really, what was going on back in those halls. What they were telling those girls. She considers this, face screwed up and doubtful. "But... oh, c'mon Spike, be serious. It just doesn't make any sense. If they really after you, why wouldn't they just... well, email your picture around to all the Slayers?" Okay, really good point. Twenty-first century technology. He stares at her, head spinning, and his mouth is suddenly very dry. "How do you know they didn't?" "I would've heard something." "You're still on their mailing list?" She glares, but still shakes her head, not sold. "No. You're wrong. It's not possible. Giles wouldn't--" Then she stops, and their eyes meet. She looks down at the table quickly, and her hands are suddenly busy, tightly grasping her glass. And oh, he feels it then, a surge of sympathy for her. A flash of self-hatred for bringing that kind of pain back into her life. Making her choose. But then, just as quickly, he lets it go. He hasn't got time for hating himself, not anymore, not against something like this. Let them come and try to take him down. Not like he hasn't spent years tempting fate, throwing himself at battles he had no business winning. Let old Rupes come and try. He has work to do now, real responsibilities, and there's only one person he'll accept as his judge. And none of these new Slayers are her. Buffy picks up her glass then and begins to drink. Chugs back almost half the pint, and he watches her in some surprise, brows drawn in. "If it's true," she gasps, pulling the glass away from her lips, setting it down. "Then something must have gone wrong. This isn't how it was supposed to be. I'll go to the council, okay? I'll find out." "Whatever you say, Buffy." No point debating it anymore. She meets this statement with a vicious glare. If her eyes could shoot arrows, he'd be riddled. "Don't do that to me," she says through closed teeth. "Don't talk to me like that." "Like what?" He actually doesn't know what she's talking about this time. "Like you're humoring me. Like you've got your own plan already, and I'm not part of it." He rolls his eyes. "Forget it, Buffy. You're probably right anyway. Maybe there's nothing to worry about. But just in case... maybe it's time for me to make myself scarce." "Hah! I knew it." She sends a little puff of air blowing through her nose, a petite arena bull. "This is my fight too," she says tightly. "I came here to help you, Spike, because I care about you, you... stupid vampire, and if anyone's messing with you, then they're messing with me. No matter who they are." She gets to her feet, shoving herself back from the wooden table in a violent motion. Stalks to the bar and gets them both some more to drink--another round for him, a big cup of coffee for her. And he just watches her, recognizing the steam of determination rising from her small shoulders, her narrow little frame held so straight she could well be wearing a suit of armor. Battlefield Buffy. His beautiful little Bodicea. And for the first time in he doesn't know when, he feels a little glimmer of hope. Because that's his girl. __________ For the return trip, he takes them up and over the rooftops. Easy to spot a hostile approach from any direction, leaping from building to building, all the crowds and traffic left far below. The whole of London spread out beneath them in a brilliant blanket, pinpoints of light like scattered jewels. White smoke rising from the brick towers of chimneys, and life and history everywhere--the curve o |