Out of Joint -- Chapter 8 (Part 3)
Jun. 28th, 2005 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelleI did my final bit of landscaping detail today. The grandparents' yard looks awesome, but I am now so utterly tired I'm ready to fall over. (And it's only 10:00.) Posting this last segment of Chapter 8 requires very little thought, though, so up it goes!
(Huggles to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
makd. I really hope all went well today, dear.)
* * *
(Chapter 8 – Part 3)
It was more rundown than he remembered. Then again, parts of it were probably in better shape than they'd been when he'd left it. At least the lower level wouldn't be blown to bits.
As Spike paced through the dusty emptiness of the crypt, he tried to focus more on its outward appearance, rather than on the memories that threatened to slam into him from every corner. Tried not to think about how every inch of the sodding place reminded him of her -- the way she had always looked, framed in the doorway after she'd kicked it in, with the sun at her back and light in her hair. Tried not to remember how she'd kissed him for the first time, without the influence of some spell, as he'd steadied himself weakly on the edge of the tomb. Tried to bury the memory of how he'd buried himself in her the first time she'd come to him here, minus both a visible body and a set of inhibitions. It was one of the reasons he had never come back to the crypt after his return from Africa. Too many memories of what he had been. And far too many memories of her.
But it was the best little headquarters he could think of now. Almost six years ago he hadn't had any ties to this place, so neither Dru nor Angelus, even if they did find him AWOL during the day, would think to look for him here. And judging by how much time the Scoobies spent in the local cemeteries, they were bound to locate him sooner or later from the info he left with Rupert. That gave him just enough time to get the place cleaned up again to his satisfaction. The crypt smelled of pungent age and stale death, like it had when he first took up residency. That wouldn't do.
Not living in a sty, after all.
He inspected the area around the trap door that led to the lower level. When he moved the covering, a cloud of bitter dust belched up from below. If Spike had been human, the airborne sediment would have been gagging. Luckily, as a vampire, there were certain senses one could simply turn off. It was for that reason Spike didn't realize he had company until he heard the door behind him creak echoingly. He listened from his stooped position as it rattled open, the dull hollow sound of a dungeon door. Spike straightened his spine and raised his head. Well, that certainly hadn't taken long.
"Hadn't expected to hear from you quite so soon," he called out, smirking into the shadows as he rose to his feet. He waved a hand in front of his face to scatter the dust that had billowed up from the lower level. "Would've thought you'd still be up to your braces in dusty tomes, Rupes." He turned.
His smile flickered out like a dying candle at the image outlined by the doorway. Petite frame, leather pants and a scowl as sharp as the stake clutched in her hand. There was no sunlight behind her now, but she almost didn't need it. Just like the other night, she seemed to have her own. Spike's mouth went dry as he stared back at her. He took an unconscious breath, and that was when he fully sensed her.
Suddenly the memories of her that he had always associated with this place, the thoughts he had tried to be so careful to bury, came flooding back.
"Buffy."
* * *
Angel's crooked finger slid back and forth across his bottom lip as he stared at the gray and white images from the security camera. The lens was pointing directly into one of the several holding cells in the lower level of the Wolfram & Hart offices and the bleached figure inside hadn't stopped raging since being deposited there. Spike was now able to make good use of the limbs which had been previously bound to the gurney. He paced violently within the empty confines of the cell, and he occasionally released some of his obvious hostility against its steel walls.
Angel didn't turn when Wesley entered his office.
"Is he adjusting?" the former Watcher asked rhetorically.
"About as well as a bull in a broom closet," Angel replied with a heavy sigh. "Tell me Fred learned something useful about how to reverse the effects of the Cup."
"Nothing new, I'm afraid," Wesley answered. "Not anything more than we already know, anyway."
"Which isn't much." Angel leaned against the long mahogany boardroom table, staring at the screen, then pushed harshly away from it and stomped into the main room of his office. Wesley watched him go and was about to say something when the vampire spun around again; he stared past his friend to the monochrome image of Spike. The vampire on the screen was in full game face, shouting noiseless threats at the camera. "Have I mentioned how much I hate this, Wes?" Angel practically growled.
"It may have come up," Wesley said calmly.
"Typical," Angel continued, almost to himself for a moment before he shifted his gaze back to Wesley. "It's just so damn typical of him, you know? Never satisfied making his own mark on the world, even with the soul. Always had to cause the most trouble possible, making a play for anything that was mine. Buffy, the soul, the whole champion deal. And look what he's done now. All because he decided he wanted the Shanshu Prophecy too, he's back in the past, probably making mincemeat out of history as we speak, and what am I supposed to do here? Sit around babysitting Spike's demented half while he's back there, saving creation or destroying it?"
Wesley turned from Angel and stared at the security screen for several long moments. Without turning back, he spoke, "I wouldn't be so certain."
"Certain about what?" Angel barked back.
Wesley turned his head; his face was haunted and cautious. "Certain that Spike is the one with all the power here."
Angel's brow smoothed out and his features softened as the possibility behind Wesley's words sank in. "What do you mean?" he questioned warily.
Wesley exhaled. "It was something he said that first day he appeared here. When he told us how he'd used the amulet to destroy the Hellmouth. He said he'd done it . . . for love."
Angel rolled his eyes irritably. "Spare me, Wes," he said. "If it's all the same to you I'd really rather not think about Spike and Buffy at this particular moment." He started to walk away, toward his desk, but Wesley followed him with persistent swiftness.
"I'm afraid you may have to," the Watcher insisted. "It may be a matter of life and death. Of saving creation or destroying it."
Angel turned, his hands rooted to his hips, listening impatiently.
"I know it's difficult for you to see Spike as a champion," Wesley continued, "but there's no denying that it's true. However, he's not the same type of champion you are."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"Hear me out," Wesley persisted. "Spike is not a champion for the good fight, Angel. Not really. He may have saved the world, but he's not a champion of the world. He's not even the Powers' champion." He looked Angel directly in the eye. "He's hers."
Angel narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure I—"
"When Spike took that amulet into the Hellmouth," Wesley interrupted, "he didn't do it for the world or for creation. He didn't do it as any grand act of benevolence or even to gain some sense of atonement. He simply did it for Buffy."
Angel crossed his arms and shifted his weight to glare imposingly at Wesley. "Your point being?"
"That being the case, souled champion or not, I honestly don’t believe that the Shanshu Prophecy has anything to do with Spike. To gain a universal reward simply for falling in love? No." Wesley shook his head. "What I do believe," he added gravely, lowering his voice, "is that the Senior Partners gave you that amulet for a reason . . . and that maybe this is it."
Angel's brow furrowed even deeper. "You think this was the plan all along? A grand master conspiracy to get Spike to switch places with himself?"
"I'm saying it could be the next best thing to taking you out entirely," Wesley said. "Angel, think about where he's gone. Think about who you were then. How Spike obviously felt about you."
"Sunnydale, and Angelus," Angel replied. "Spike hated me then, but what else is new? The only thing that's different is he—" Angel froze, his lips parted in dread.
"He didn't love Buffy then," Wesley finished for him. "But he does now," he added.
"Oh, God," Angel breathed.
"If it came down to saving creation or saving Buffy, what do you think he would choose?" Wesley's voice was low and urgent. "If he had to decide between preserving the here-and-now and sparing Buffy any pain of which he has prior knowledge, what do you think would win out? Spike has your life in his hands, Angel. Perhaps all our lives - by association." Wesley's expression darkened. "But if it was what Buffy needed, do you think he would hesitate?"
Angel didn't have to answer that. He knew. And the thought chilled him to his core. "You said something about Spike not being the only one with all the power."
"He's not," Wesley answered. "It's a dangerous thing to claim a destiny that was never yours. And I don't feel the Shanshu was ever meant for Spike. But if this really is the destruction of creation mentioned by that prophecy, you have an equal amount of power here; you have a choice as well. Perhaps the very choice you were meant to make. Just because Spike drank from the Cup of Perpetual Torment doesn't mean the ultimate burden is not still yours."
"What do you mean?" Angel thought he already knew, but some sick feeling of horror in the pit of his soul compelled him to ask anyway.
"The burden," Wesley confirmed. "The choice. The risk of utterly destroying creation as we know it, and the cross of attempting to preserve what you can of the present. You also have the power to do this . . . ."
Both men turned their eyes to where Spike continued to thunder in the confines of his cell.
". . . by killing him. Here. And now."
* * *
To be continued . . .
(Huggles to
makd. I really hope all went well today, dear.)(Chapter 8 – Part 3)
It was more rundown than he remembered. Then again, parts of it were probably in better shape than they'd been when he'd left it. At least the lower level wouldn't be blown to bits.
As Spike paced through the dusty emptiness of the crypt, he tried to focus more on its outward appearance, rather than on the memories that threatened to slam into him from every corner. Tried not to think about how every inch of the sodding place reminded him of her -- the way she had always looked, framed in the doorway after she'd kicked it in, with the sun at her back and light in her hair. Tried not to remember how she'd kissed him for the first time, without the influence of some spell, as he'd steadied himself weakly on the edge of the tomb. Tried to bury the memory of how he'd buried himself in her the first time she'd come to him here, minus both a visible body and a set of inhibitions. It was one of the reasons he had never come back to the crypt after his return from Africa. Too many memories of what he had been. And far too many memories of her.
But it was the best little headquarters he could think of now. Almost six years ago he hadn't had any ties to this place, so neither Dru nor Angelus, even if they did find him AWOL during the day, would think to look for him here. And judging by how much time the Scoobies spent in the local cemeteries, they were bound to locate him sooner or later from the info he left with Rupert. That gave him just enough time to get the place cleaned up again to his satisfaction. The crypt smelled of pungent age and stale death, like it had when he first took up residency. That wouldn't do.
Not living in a sty, after all.
He inspected the area around the trap door that led to the lower level. When he moved the covering, a cloud of bitter dust belched up from below. If Spike had been human, the airborne sediment would have been gagging. Luckily, as a vampire, there were certain senses one could simply turn off. It was for that reason Spike didn't realize he had company until he heard the door behind him creak echoingly. He listened from his stooped position as it rattled open, the dull hollow sound of a dungeon door. Spike straightened his spine and raised his head. Well, that certainly hadn't taken long.
"Hadn't expected to hear from you quite so soon," he called out, smirking into the shadows as he rose to his feet. He waved a hand in front of his face to scatter the dust that had billowed up from the lower level. "Would've thought you'd still be up to your braces in dusty tomes, Rupes." He turned.
His smile flickered out like a dying candle at the image outlined by the doorway. Petite frame, leather pants and a scowl as sharp as the stake clutched in her hand. There was no sunlight behind her now, but she almost didn't need it. Just like the other night, she seemed to have her own. Spike's mouth went dry as he stared back at her. He took an unconscious breath, and that was when he fully sensed her.
Suddenly the memories of her that he had always associated with this place, the thoughts he had tried to be so careful to bury, came flooding back.
"Buffy."
Angel's crooked finger slid back and forth across his bottom lip as he stared at the gray and white images from the security camera. The lens was pointing directly into one of the several holding cells in the lower level of the Wolfram & Hart offices and the bleached figure inside hadn't stopped raging since being deposited there. Spike was now able to make good use of the limbs which had been previously bound to the gurney. He paced violently within the empty confines of the cell, and he occasionally released some of his obvious hostility against its steel walls.
Angel didn't turn when Wesley entered his office.
"Is he adjusting?" the former Watcher asked rhetorically.
"About as well as a bull in a broom closet," Angel replied with a heavy sigh. "Tell me Fred learned something useful about how to reverse the effects of the Cup."
"Nothing new, I'm afraid," Wesley answered. "Not anything more than we already know, anyway."
"Which isn't much." Angel leaned against the long mahogany boardroom table, staring at the screen, then pushed harshly away from it and stomped into the main room of his office. Wesley watched him go and was about to say something when the vampire spun around again; he stared past his friend to the monochrome image of Spike. The vampire on the screen was in full game face, shouting noiseless threats at the camera. "Have I mentioned how much I hate this, Wes?" Angel practically growled.
"It may have come up," Wesley said calmly.
"Typical," Angel continued, almost to himself for a moment before he shifted his gaze back to Wesley. "It's just so damn typical of him, you know? Never satisfied making his own mark on the world, even with the soul. Always had to cause the most trouble possible, making a play for anything that was mine. Buffy, the soul, the whole champion deal. And look what he's done now. All because he decided he wanted the Shanshu Prophecy too, he's back in the past, probably making mincemeat out of history as we speak, and what am I supposed to do here? Sit around babysitting Spike's demented half while he's back there, saving creation or destroying it?"
Wesley turned from Angel and stared at the security screen for several long moments. Without turning back, he spoke, "I wouldn't be so certain."
"Certain about what?" Angel barked back.
Wesley turned his head; his face was haunted and cautious. "Certain that Spike is the one with all the power here."
Angel's brow smoothed out and his features softened as the possibility behind Wesley's words sank in. "What do you mean?" he questioned warily.
Wesley exhaled. "It was something he said that first day he appeared here. When he told us how he'd used the amulet to destroy the Hellmouth. He said he'd done it . . . for love."
Angel rolled his eyes irritably. "Spare me, Wes," he said. "If it's all the same to you I'd really rather not think about Spike and Buffy at this particular moment." He started to walk away, toward his desk, but Wesley followed him with persistent swiftness.
"I'm afraid you may have to," the Watcher insisted. "It may be a matter of life and death. Of saving creation or destroying it."
Angel turned, his hands rooted to his hips, listening impatiently.
"I know it's difficult for you to see Spike as a champion," Wesley continued, "but there's no denying that it's true. However, he's not the same type of champion you are."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"Hear me out," Wesley persisted. "Spike is not a champion for the good fight, Angel. Not really. He may have saved the world, but he's not a champion of the world. He's not even the Powers' champion." He looked Angel directly in the eye. "He's hers."
Angel narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure I—"
"When Spike took that amulet into the Hellmouth," Wesley interrupted, "he didn't do it for the world or for creation. He didn't do it as any grand act of benevolence or even to gain some sense of atonement. He simply did it for Buffy."
Angel crossed his arms and shifted his weight to glare imposingly at Wesley. "Your point being?"
"That being the case, souled champion or not, I honestly don’t believe that the Shanshu Prophecy has anything to do with Spike. To gain a universal reward simply for falling in love? No." Wesley shook his head. "What I do believe," he added gravely, lowering his voice, "is that the Senior Partners gave you that amulet for a reason . . . and that maybe this is it."
Angel's brow furrowed even deeper. "You think this was the plan all along? A grand master conspiracy to get Spike to switch places with himself?"
"I'm saying it could be the next best thing to taking you out entirely," Wesley said. "Angel, think about where he's gone. Think about who you were then. How Spike obviously felt about you."
"Sunnydale, and Angelus," Angel replied. "Spike hated me then, but what else is new? The only thing that's different is he—" Angel froze, his lips parted in dread.
"He didn't love Buffy then," Wesley finished for him. "But he does now," he added.
"Oh, God," Angel breathed.
"If it came down to saving creation or saving Buffy, what do you think he would choose?" Wesley's voice was low and urgent. "If he had to decide between preserving the here-and-now and sparing Buffy any pain of which he has prior knowledge, what do you think would win out? Spike has your life in his hands, Angel. Perhaps all our lives - by association." Wesley's expression darkened. "But if it was what Buffy needed, do you think he would hesitate?"
Angel didn't have to answer that. He knew. And the thought chilled him to his core. "You said something about Spike not being the only one with all the power."
"He's not," Wesley answered. "It's a dangerous thing to claim a destiny that was never yours. And I don't feel the Shanshu was ever meant for Spike. But if this really is the destruction of creation mentioned by that prophecy, you have an equal amount of power here; you have a choice as well. Perhaps the very choice you were meant to make. Just because Spike drank from the Cup of Perpetual Torment doesn't mean the ultimate burden is not still yours."
"What do you mean?" Angel thought he already knew, but some sick feeling of horror in the pit of his soul compelled him to ask anyway.
"The burden," Wesley confirmed. "The choice. The risk of utterly destroying creation as we know it, and the cross of attempting to preserve what you can of the present. You also have the power to do this . . . ."
Both men turned their eyes to where Spike continued to thunder in the confines of his cell.
". . . by killing him. Here. And now."
To be continued . . .
