Out of Joint -- Chapter 9 (Part 1)
Aug. 2nd, 2005 04:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelleIt's been a while since I've been able to post a bit more of this. (Between my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
watchersdiaries fic and the dreaded RL, it's shaping up to be a busier summer than I thought it would be. Even without any big vacation plans.)
So I hope you enjoy this little offering. Comments are most certainly welcome!
(Hugs to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
makd -- she who is the finder and fixer of things!)
(Previous parts can be found here.)
Disclaimer: I claim not.
Rating: PG-13 (for language and violence)
Setting: Picks up mid-"Destiny" and goes AU from there
Feedback: Please, sir, could I have some more? *G*
Out of Joint
by Sharelle
Chapter 9 – Bound
Her smile was a crystal mask. She wore it so often, it was easy to forget just how fragile it was; it could be broken so effortlessly and spill out the fury she held just behind the surface. Her eyes twinkled brightly in the dingy light of the crypt, giving them an illusion of calmness.
However, Spike knew the Slayer was anything but.
“Looks like you’re not the only one who can make house calls, Spike,” she said evenly. She remained motionless in the doorway.
Spike snapped back to himself, straightened his stance and – finally – clapped his jaw shut. (Bugger. Had it been hanging open like a broken hinge since she came in?) To compensate for his momentary bewilderment, Spike tried to take extra care in measuring just the right amounts of composure, scorn, and playfully blatant flirtation to insert into his appearance. Sod it all, if he didn’t long for a time when he didn’t have to give so much thought to his temperament, or lack thereof. But the Slayer – this Slayer – would be expecting him to act a certain way, so . . . .
He took several steps away from the trap door and placed himself closer to the center of the room. He raised a suggestive eyebrow, crossed his arms and leaned back against the tomb. “To what do I owe, Slayer?” His voice was low and deep.
Some small part of him winced. Right, mate. What's say - more with the composure, and ease off with the come-hither. He shifted against the tomb, raised his chin, and forced a scowl. Oh, bloody, sodding hell. When had acting like an indifferent ass gotten so hard?
Buffy didn’t seem fazed. Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Oh, so it’s back to ‘Slayer’ again, huh? And here I thought we were doing so well, on a first-name basis and everything.” She brought forth an effortless scowl to match his. “Who do you owe? I guess, yourself, Spike” she said. Her wary eyes scanned the dark corners of the room as though she expected an ambush from the shadows. “Practically sent an invitation; complete with an address. So,” She opened her arms wide. “. . . here I am.”
Spike shrugged disinterestedly and turned to pick up his leather duster, which had been draped over the tomb. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Buffy. “If I’d have known I was getting company quite so soon, I’d have straightened up a bit more.” He brushed the coat off briskly and hung it over a large cement planter. "Figured you lot would be busy making with the research first."
Buffy smiled coldly. "Research is Giles' department. I've got other skills." Her eyes sparkled in the gloom as she obtrusively displayed the point of her stake for him to see. “I wouldn’t worry about the mess,” she added. “It’s about to get a lot dustier in here anyway.”
Spike couldn’t help but smile back. Sharp as that stake, his girl.
Unfortunately, despite her outward appearance, Buffy was far from amused.
Spike decided to drop what he could spare of the macho act. “So, since you’re here so quick, love,” he said, “I suppose it’s safe to say you don’t have anything for me yet.”
Buffy shrugged and took a few deliberate steps away from the door and into the body of the crypt. Apart from the occasional glance she would cast into the corners, her attention remained glued to Spike. His unbeating heart was a war of emotions – bitter resentment at the obvious hatred in her eyes, and unmitigated joy at just being able to have them on him again.
“If, by ‘anything,’ you mean a Sequoia with your name on it . . . ,” Buffy hefted the stake to shoulder height, and grinned pointedly. “. . . I’ve got that in spades.”
Spike took a few steps, as casually as possible, to put a wrought iron grating between himself and the Slayer. It would take some doing to convince the girl that he didn’t mean any harm, and if he wasn't careful, things were going to escalate to a much dustier end than they had last night. “Info, pet,” he insisted. “Since you found my new digs, I suspect you’ve been talking to the Watcher about why I stopped by to chat with him. Though I admit, I sort of expected to see him first.”
Buffy’s eyebrows raised. “You thought Giles would come out here to see you without me?”
Spike shrugged.
“That . . . was dumb.”
Spike tilted his head to take her in. For the first time in months, he was able to look at her and really see her. Last night, with the hurried explaining, the plaintive glances and, of course, the mortal combat, he hadn't had the chance to see her for what she really was. This was not just his idealized version of her, which Spike had carried with him through the empty halls of Wolfram & Hart during those maddeningly sleepless hours – the one who had said she loved him and meant it. This was the girl, the real girl -- the one with the fire and the passion and the beauty around the biting tongue. Spike realized that it was here, this point in time, where she had started to become the woman he loved. And he realized that Drusilla may have been right, after all . . . this may very well have been where he had started to become the man who loved her.
Before he could say anything, Buffy spoke again. "You may have Giles snowed with all this bogus prophecy talk, but I think we both know what you're really after." She took a step toward the wrought iron grate separating them.
Spike raised an eyebrow. "And you're here to enlighten me, Slayer?"
Buffy's face tightened. "Spike, in less than 24 hours, you've threatened both my mother and my Watcher. I'm here to kill you."
He certainly should have expected that. Spike took a deep unnecessary breath and straightened his body. He also stepped toward the iron grating. "Is Joyce all right?"
Buffy seethed as though that simple question had deeply insulted her. "She'll be fine once I take care of this little problem." Another step forward.
"And you haven't done that yet, because?"
"I want answers first." She halted. "How did you get into my home last night?"
Spike paused. Truth was, he didn't know. Somehow he didn't think the Slayer was going to accept that, however. "Not sure, really," he said, as he tried to weigh the appropriate amount of scorn in his voice. "Honestly, I wouldn't mind knowing the answer to that myself. But I think it's something to do with the prophecy I told your Watcher about."
"And we're back to that." Buffy shook her head incredulously. "You know this really is the lamest of the lame," she said with hostile amusement. "I get that an organ to your head was just a temporary solution to your presence in my life, but apparently, all your fancy vampire healing doesn’t extend to damaged brain cells. If you and Angel actually believe that I'm going to buy—"
Spike's features darkened and he covered the last few steps to the grating in an unblinking moment. "I'm not here on Angelus' orders," he growled. "Wouldn't be, even if he did ask. Fact is, I wish I knew why I'm here. But I do know this: it's all hinging on that bleeding Cup of Perpetual Torment and the Shanshu Prophecy that I described to Rupert, whether you want to believe it or not."
"Okay," Buffy rolled her eyes, but she never lowered the stake. "Between this new Cup of Torment and the dreaded Prophecy o' Sneezes, . . . now you just sound ridiculous. What the hell are you talking about?"
Spike's face remained dark, but his eyes softened. "I'm saying that I give up," he raised his hands. "I'm saying that something is going down and I need to figure it out, or the whole world might go to Hell in a hand basket."
"Jeez, Spike," Buffy snorted. "Self-important, much?"
"I'm saying," Spike continued, ignoring her sarcasm, "that this prophecy could lead to a serious big bad . . . and I need a little help to make sure it goes in the right direction."
"And by William the Bloody’s standards, which 'direction' would be the 'right' one?" Buffy asked dubiously.
Spike set his mouth in a grim line. He was tired of pretending to her. Tired of wearing a face that wasn't him anymore. "Whichever one saves the world."
Buffy snorted again, taking that final step toward her side of the grate, placing the two at an arm's reach (or a good solid staking distance) apart. "What makes you think I would help you do anything?" she hissed.
Spike blinked, tilting his head. With the exception of their fight yesterday, the last time she had been this close to him he had been looking at her through tongues of fire that had ignited from their joined hands. Right now, the fire in her eyes burned him. "Because," he answered, "saving the world is what you do, Slayer."
She paused for a moment, and Spike knew she was digesting the information. He could only hope she believed it. She raised her chin after a beat and said, "Why would a vampire be interested in saving the world?"
Because I have a soul now, fleeted through his head. But, as with the Watcher, Spike figured this reason would sound so far-fetched to her ears that it would sever any thin thread of belief that formed in her mind. He fell back on a reason he knew she would believe – because she had before. "I like this world," he said, plainly though abbreviatedly. "There's plenty in it worth saving." As an afterthought, because he thought she'd be more likely to buy it, he added, "And I wouldn't want to send myself shooting off into oblivion, now would I?"
"Oh, yeah," Buffy drawled. "You're a self-sacrifice and a half."
Spike tilted his head again. His entire face softened to match his eyes. "I suppose it's only fair if you don't believe me, Buffy," he said. "'Course, if that's the case, there's a way you could take care of that problem." And then he did something he had only done twice before – twice when The First's control over him had been at its highest and his despair at the thought of betraying her at its lowest.
He lowered his arms and offered his chest to Buffy's stake.
It was a crazy gamble, and he knew it. After all, she had absolutely no reason to trust him. But there had always been something, perhaps even from these beginning days, that had prevented them from killing each other. If not a mutual love, then maybe at least a grudging respect that only one warrior can have for another. Besides, if the Shanshu was really meant for him then Spike had a feeling those Powers-That-Be wouldn't want to see their new champion done in by the woman he loved. Then again, maybe they just had a warped sense of humor when it came to ironic justice.
Though, Spike thought, if it had to be anyone . . . he'd want it to be Buffy.
She locked eyes with him for a moment, hers a fraction wider than they'd been before. Spike tried to keep his expression even, but couldn't control the heavy rising and falling of his shoulders as his breaths reflexively deepened. They remained in that face-off for a timeless time. And then, without warning, Buffy let the stake fly.
Without conscious thought, Spike raised his hand and caught her wrist. The sharp wooden point halted a hair's breadth away from his heart. Her skin was warm and her pulse point beat evenly against the palm of his hand.
A corner of Buffy's mouth turned up dryly, then she tugged her wrist out of his grip. She lowered the stake and turned back to the door of the crypt, taking a few steps toward it. When she was far enough away from him, she looked at him again. "I don't know what this is all about," she said. "But if we find out anything about this prophecy or this Cup that doesn't support your story, or if you threaten anyone else that I care about, you and I are going to have a much dustier encounter."
Spike thought back to a day which had probably been the definitive turning point in his relationship with the Slayer – when he had gone to her for help after the chip. At the time, and for some time after, he'd thought she would accept him simply because he couldn't eat people. He thought it was time to show her, right from the start, a Spike who wouldn't hurt others. If she could see him that way – especially when she didn't know about the soul . . . well, some lingering selfish part of him liked that idea.
"Cross my heart, pet," he said. "Make a neat little bull's eye for your stake if I'm lying."
"We'll see," she retorted. "It takes a lot more than a puppy, a quart of pig's blood and your word to get me to buy anything you have to say."
"I came to you for help," Spike reminded her. "No blood of the innocent. Trust me."
Buffy sneered. "Not on your life." And she turned and made for the door.
"Slayer?" Spike's voice stopped her before she left. There was something he needed to know. She turned and glared at him.
"If I hadn't stopped you," he said with a raised eyebrow, "would you have done it?"
Buffy regarded him briefly. Then a genuine smirk bloomed across her face. Her eyes twinkled with the same light they'd had when she first entered the crypt. "Yep," she said. And she left.
Spike smiled after her retreating form as it was framed in the empty space of the doorway. "That's my girl."
* * *
"You also have the power to change this. By killing him. Here and now."
There was nothing cold or reproaching about Wesley’s tone, but Angel felt the accusation just the same – from deep inside – and it crept out over his skin like a clammy chill. He
shared the power to undo what had happened, just as he bore the responsibility of having caused it. He was certain that this implication had not been Wesley’s intention, but Angel, himself, knew better. Because he knew things his friend did not.
He may have known from the beginning that part of this had been his own fault. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it, because blaming Spike was often apt enough . . . and certainly easier.
Being grouped with Spike for any reason was not something he enjoyed, particularly when it came to sharing the blame for a creation-sized disaster, but that was where Angel nonetheless found himself. And, as much as it galled him to admit it, Spike hadn’t been the one to put him there. Angel had set those events into motion himself, long before he even set foot in Sunnydale last summer, with the significantly heavy amulet thrumming a conspicuous tattoo of power in his pocket. Long before Spike ever used that power to become the . . . champion . . . the universe had apparently branded him as.
But . . . .
He’s not the world’s champion. He’s not even the Powers’ champion. He’s hers.
Buffy’s, Angel thought dourly.
Or was he?
Angel’s growing anger churned. Spike didn’t care about creation. He said so himself. He didn’t care about atonement or the good fight or helping the helpless or anything else for which Angel had struggled for so long. All the son of a bitch cared about was himself, soul or no soul – and if he decided that it would get him in good with Buffy, the bastard would throw creation to the Wolves (and the Rams and the Harts for good measure).
So did that actually make Spike the Senior Partners’ champion?
Or did that brand belong to Angel himself? Had Wolfram & Hart been pulling his strings since the day he’d allowed Lilah to take him on that tour? Since the deal involving Connor? The Senior Partners had rearranged creation for Angel once. It wouldn’t surprise him if they’d expected the same done for them in return. Was that it? Was he doing exactly what they had planned when they gave him that amulet in the first place? Was Angel just doing exactly what the Senior Partners wanted? Or was Spike?
According to Wesley, both vampires with a soul had a choice, a burden. Both could destroy the creation they had come to know from their respective locations. But which of them was in the best situation to save it?
For a rare moment, Angel envied Spike his position. If creation went to Hell because of some inadvertent action on his part, he at least had ignorance on his side. But Angel . . . he couldn’t claim innocence. He never seemed to have that luxury. If saving creation meant ending the existence of the vampire who currently prowled within the holding cell downstairs – a creature who had no idea what was really happening to him – no matter the outcome, Angel would feel so much more like a cold-blooded killer than a champion.
Would that make him a true angel – with its wings dipped in the blood of the necessary sacrifices lining the road to salvation?
The thought of killing something he had created, even if it was Spike, crawled within Angel’s mind like a wormy parasite. He hadn’t said so, but it had been the same on the day Spike first appeared at Wolfram & Hart. On that day, Angel had nearly smashed the amulet that bound the other vampire to him – the amulet that, until recently, tied Spike’s life to the world.
Angel wasn't sure if his disgust at the thought of killing Spike meant that he cared about what happened to him. He highly doubted it. And Angel most certainly didn’t love him – Spike – not ever. He knew what it felt like to love something he had made.
No. It wasn't the same.
But even though Angel hated Spike at the best of times . . . damn it if the peroxided pest wasn’t still his.
A few months ago, to save Connor, Angel had all but ransomed creation – or at least a small part of it. To save creation, he would not ransom Spike. Or anyone. There had to be another way. And Angel obviously had to find it before Spike’s actions in the past took the choice away from him.
At the thought, Angel’s features became as cold and unforgiving as stone and his eyes sparked with anger. It must have shown clearly on this face, but he noticed that Wesley, to his credit, didn’t flinch or shy away. Angel thought it might be because Wes didn’t remember being exposed to Angel’s true menacing nature – the brutal side of him that had nothing to do with the soul – or the lack of it. After all, there wasn't a thin, telling scar spanning the former Watcher’s throat anymore to serve as a reminder. If it had been visible, Wesley would never remember when he’d gotten it. Or why. Or what had happened as a result. Angel had seen to that.
Sometimes it still pained Angel to remember.
You’re dead! You’re a dead man, Pryce! You’re dead! I’llkillyouI’llkillyouyou’readeadmandead!
Angel managed to reign in some of his hostility and he sighed heavily. He didn't want to take his anger at the situation out on Wesley. He was only trying to help, after all. But the former Watcher's words hung around Angel like a shroud. You also have some of the power here.
What Wesley didn’t realize was that Angel’s “power,” his choices, his ultimate bargain with Wolfram & Hart had possibly had a hand in causing all of this in the first place. The Senior Partners would have had no foothold for whatever it was they were hoping to accomplish if Angel, himself, hadn’t provided it. And his friends, in their carefully orchestrated innocence, didn’t even know. They were trying so hard to help, to figure out what had happened and how to fix it, completely unaware that Angel had been the one to place them all here. And he couldn’t even tell them why.
If there was a way to put a stop to this without losing anyone . . . anyone . . . Angel was determined to find it.
“Think,” the vampire finally said, his voice stern but quiet, far calmer than the storminess of his thoughts. He looked from the surveillance camera images of Spike back to Wesley. “Think for a minute about what it is you’re telling me to do.”
Wesley shook his head. “I’m not telling you to do anything,” he replied, his tone suddenly very weary, a stark contrast from the resolve which had hung around him upon first entering Angel’s office. “I don’t want anyone to die, Angel. I’m merely pointing out the seriousness of our situation. And the fact that you have as much claim to solving matters as Spike does.”
“Believe me, I’m well aware of the seriousness of our situation,” Angel snapped back, with a bit more hostility than he’d intended. He collected himself and tried to present a more composed face. “But did it ever occur to you that if I did something from here, it could only make things worse?”
“It’s a definite risk,” Wesley replied. “But, Angel, we have no idea what Spike is doing or when his actions may do irreparable harm to our present. The fact is, regardless of Spike’s position, the prophecy may still be about you. About your choices in handling this situation. Your destiny. The decision you must make.”
Angel took a step closer to Wesley, his eyes dark. “Consider it made,” he said. “I’m not choosing an option that comes at the cost of someone’s life. Even if it is . . . ,” He shot another glance at the pacing figure on the security monitor with an absent wave of his hand. “. . . that.”
Angel thought Wesley would protest, but he didn’t. The vampire felt some of the stiff tension leave him at that. He sighed heavily and his body sagged a bit of its own volition. “Besides,” he added, “there’s no guarantee that wiping Spike out of the next six years would solve anything. I hate to say it, but it might just make matters worse.” He looked at Wesley. “We could all wake up in Hell.”
Wesley tilted his head consideringly. “It’s possible that the events leading up to The First’s attempt to break into our dimension through the Hellmouth may not come to pass in exactly the same way. One never knows. Without Spike’s presence in Sunnydale it may not happen at all.”
“That’s the problem,” Angel replied. “We just don’t know. And I wasn’t talking about The First,” he admitted. “I was talking about . . . me.”
Wesley blinked, then frowned. “Angelus.”
“Six of one, half-dozen of the other,” Angel grumbled.
“Angel,” Wesley said assuagingly, “I know your dark period in Sunnydale is a difficult topic for you, but I don’t think Angelus’ failed endeavor to destroy the world solely hinged upon Spike’s survival. You said that Buffy was the one—”
“Who sent me to Hell.”
“And that Willow was successful in returning your soul,” Wesley countered, trying for reassurance.
Angel just stared at him. “Yeah, after. But not before I woke Acathla. Things were already set in motion, and Buffy wasn’t alone against me and Drusilla. Spike was there. It could have . . . .” He trailed off. Recalling what he had done was difficult enough without remembering Spike’s role in helping to save the world that Angelus had tried to destroy. “It could have made the difference,” he concluded softly.
Wesley raised his eyebrows a bit. “Yes, the age-old story of action and consequence -- I’ve seen It’s a Wonderful Life, Angel. But don’t you think you’re giving just one person a little more credit than—”
“It could have made the difference,” Angel repeated firmly, but the reluctance in this voice was apparent. “No one hates giving Spike undeserved credit more than me, Wes, and, yeah, maybe Willow could have even restored the soul when she did, but Buffy still would have been alone in that fight. She may not have had enough time to stop me . . . things . . . to stop things on her own. At least not before it was too late. And, okay, maybe Spike's absence could have meant a different turn of events leading up to Acathla, but that’s just one example,” Angel said as he paced back into the main room of his office. “Who knows what else has happened in the years I’ve been away from Sunnydale.”
Wesley nodded in compliance. “All right,” he said. “In terms of killing Spike, I agree that there would be too many potentially hazardous variables. But we may have to brace ourselves for the need to take drastic measures.”
“In the meantime,” replied Angel, “we use what we have. There are resources here that I’m willing to bet even the Watcher’s Council didn’t have access to.” He raised his arms as if to indicate the entire facility of Wolfram & Hart around him and lowered his voice. “If the Senior Partners planned this, they must have records on the Cup of Perpetual Torment. Stuff you’ve never seen. What it is, what it does . . . .”
“How to reverse its effects.”
“The information has to be here, Wes,” Angel said. “Facts not in your earlier research. Find it.”
Wesley nodded purposefully and turned for the door. Angel’s voice stopped him before he moved toward it.
“Wes?”
Wesley tilted his head back around and Angel took a few steps nearer.
“If things get out of hand,” Angel said, his voice quiet. “If it’s the only way . . . I’m the one to do it. Got me?”
Wesley narrowed his eyes.
“Spike,” Angel clarified. “If killing Spike is the only way to save creation, I’ll do it. No one else.” His jaw clenched and he looked grim as he added, “Please?”
“Of course,” said Wesley supportively. And with a final nod, he left.
* * *
To be continued . . .
watchersdiaries fic and the dreaded RL, it's shaping up to be a busier summer than I thought it would be. Even without any big vacation plans.)So I hope you enjoy this little offering. Comments are most certainly welcome!
(Hugs to
makd -- she who is the finder and fixer of things!)(Previous parts can be found here.)
Disclaimer: I claim not.
Rating: PG-13 (for language and violence)
Setting: Picks up mid-"Destiny" and goes AU from there
Feedback: Please, sir, could I have some more? *G*
by Sharelle
Chapter 9 – Bound
Her smile was a crystal mask. She wore it so often, it was easy to forget just how fragile it was; it could be broken so effortlessly and spill out the fury she held just behind the surface. Her eyes twinkled brightly in the dingy light of the crypt, giving them an illusion of calmness.
However, Spike knew the Slayer was anything but.
“Looks like you’re not the only one who can make house calls, Spike,” she said evenly. She remained motionless in the doorway.
Spike snapped back to himself, straightened his stance and – finally – clapped his jaw shut. (Bugger. Had it been hanging open like a broken hinge since she came in?) To compensate for his momentary bewilderment, Spike tried to take extra care in measuring just the right amounts of composure, scorn, and playfully blatant flirtation to insert into his appearance. Sod it all, if he didn’t long for a time when he didn’t have to give so much thought to his temperament, or lack thereof. But the Slayer – this Slayer – would be expecting him to act a certain way, so . . . .
He took several steps away from the trap door and placed himself closer to the center of the room. He raised a suggestive eyebrow, crossed his arms and leaned back against the tomb. “To what do I owe, Slayer?” His voice was low and deep.
Some small part of him winced. Right, mate. What's say - more with the composure, and ease off with the come-hither. He shifted against the tomb, raised his chin, and forced a scowl. Oh, bloody, sodding hell. When had acting like an indifferent ass gotten so hard?
Buffy didn’t seem fazed. Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Oh, so it’s back to ‘Slayer’ again, huh? And here I thought we were doing so well, on a first-name basis and everything.” She brought forth an effortless scowl to match his. “Who do you owe? I guess, yourself, Spike” she said. Her wary eyes scanned the dark corners of the room as though she expected an ambush from the shadows. “Practically sent an invitation; complete with an address. So,” She opened her arms wide. “. . . here I am.”
Spike shrugged disinterestedly and turned to pick up his leather duster, which had been draped over the tomb. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Buffy. “If I’d have known I was getting company quite so soon, I’d have straightened up a bit more.” He brushed the coat off briskly and hung it over a large cement planter. "Figured you lot would be busy making with the research first."
Buffy smiled coldly. "Research is Giles' department. I've got other skills." Her eyes sparkled in the gloom as she obtrusively displayed the point of her stake for him to see. “I wouldn’t worry about the mess,” she added. “It’s about to get a lot dustier in here anyway.”
Spike couldn’t help but smile back. Sharp as that stake, his girl.
Unfortunately, despite her outward appearance, Buffy was far from amused.
Spike decided to drop what he could spare of the macho act. “So, since you’re here so quick, love,” he said, “I suppose it’s safe to say you don’t have anything for me yet.”
Buffy shrugged and took a few deliberate steps away from the door and into the body of the crypt. Apart from the occasional glance she would cast into the corners, her attention remained glued to Spike. His unbeating heart was a war of emotions – bitter resentment at the obvious hatred in her eyes, and unmitigated joy at just being able to have them on him again.
“If, by ‘anything,’ you mean a Sequoia with your name on it . . . ,” Buffy hefted the stake to shoulder height, and grinned pointedly. “. . . I’ve got that in spades.”
Spike took a few steps, as casually as possible, to put a wrought iron grating between himself and the Slayer. It would take some doing to convince the girl that he didn’t mean any harm, and if he wasn't careful, things were going to escalate to a much dustier end than they had last night. “Info, pet,” he insisted. “Since you found my new digs, I suspect you’ve been talking to the Watcher about why I stopped by to chat with him. Though I admit, I sort of expected to see him first.”
Buffy’s eyebrows raised. “You thought Giles would come out here to see you without me?”
Spike shrugged.
“That . . . was dumb.”
Spike tilted his head to take her in. For the first time in months, he was able to look at her and really see her. Last night, with the hurried explaining, the plaintive glances and, of course, the mortal combat, he hadn't had the chance to see her for what she really was. This was not just his idealized version of her, which Spike had carried with him through the empty halls of Wolfram & Hart during those maddeningly sleepless hours – the one who had said she loved him and meant it. This was the girl, the real girl -- the one with the fire and the passion and the beauty around the biting tongue. Spike realized that it was here, this point in time, where she had started to become the woman he loved. And he realized that Drusilla may have been right, after all . . . this may very well have been where he had started to become the man who loved her.
Before he could say anything, Buffy spoke again. "You may have Giles snowed with all this bogus prophecy talk, but I think we both know what you're really after." She took a step toward the wrought iron grate separating them.
Spike raised an eyebrow. "And you're here to enlighten me, Slayer?"
Buffy's face tightened. "Spike, in less than 24 hours, you've threatened both my mother and my Watcher. I'm here to kill you."
He certainly should have expected that. Spike took a deep unnecessary breath and straightened his body. He also stepped toward the iron grating. "Is Joyce all right?"
Buffy seethed as though that simple question had deeply insulted her. "She'll be fine once I take care of this little problem." Another step forward.
"And you haven't done that yet, because?"
"I want answers first." She halted. "How did you get into my home last night?"
Spike paused. Truth was, he didn't know. Somehow he didn't think the Slayer was going to accept that, however. "Not sure, really," he said, as he tried to weigh the appropriate amount of scorn in his voice. "Honestly, I wouldn't mind knowing the answer to that myself. But I think it's something to do with the prophecy I told your Watcher about."
"And we're back to that." Buffy shook her head incredulously. "You know this really is the lamest of the lame," she said with hostile amusement. "I get that an organ to your head was just a temporary solution to your presence in my life, but apparently, all your fancy vampire healing doesn’t extend to damaged brain cells. If you and Angel actually believe that I'm going to buy—"
Spike's features darkened and he covered the last few steps to the grating in an unblinking moment. "I'm not here on Angelus' orders," he growled. "Wouldn't be, even if he did ask. Fact is, I wish I knew why I'm here. But I do know this: it's all hinging on that bleeding Cup of Perpetual Torment and the Shanshu Prophecy that I described to Rupert, whether you want to believe it or not."
"Okay," Buffy rolled her eyes, but she never lowered the stake. "Between this new Cup of Torment and the dreaded Prophecy o' Sneezes, . . . now you just sound ridiculous. What the hell are you talking about?"
Spike's face remained dark, but his eyes softened. "I'm saying that I give up," he raised his hands. "I'm saying that something is going down and I need to figure it out, or the whole world might go to Hell in a hand basket."
"Jeez, Spike," Buffy snorted. "Self-important, much?"
"I'm saying," Spike continued, ignoring her sarcasm, "that this prophecy could lead to a serious big bad . . . and I need a little help to make sure it goes in the right direction."
"And by William the Bloody’s standards, which 'direction' would be the 'right' one?" Buffy asked dubiously.
Spike set his mouth in a grim line. He was tired of pretending to her. Tired of wearing a face that wasn't him anymore. "Whichever one saves the world."
Buffy snorted again, taking that final step toward her side of the grate, placing the two at an arm's reach (or a good solid staking distance) apart. "What makes you think I would help you do anything?" she hissed.
Spike blinked, tilting his head. With the exception of their fight yesterday, the last time she had been this close to him he had been looking at her through tongues of fire that had ignited from their joined hands. Right now, the fire in her eyes burned him. "Because," he answered, "saving the world is what you do, Slayer."
She paused for a moment, and Spike knew she was digesting the information. He could only hope she believed it. She raised her chin after a beat and said, "Why would a vampire be interested in saving the world?"
Because I have a soul now, fleeted through his head. But, as with the Watcher, Spike figured this reason would sound so far-fetched to her ears that it would sever any thin thread of belief that formed in her mind. He fell back on a reason he knew she would believe – because she had before. "I like this world," he said, plainly though abbreviatedly. "There's plenty in it worth saving." As an afterthought, because he thought she'd be more likely to buy it, he added, "And I wouldn't want to send myself shooting off into oblivion, now would I?"
"Oh, yeah," Buffy drawled. "You're a self-sacrifice and a half."
Spike tilted his head again. His entire face softened to match his eyes. "I suppose it's only fair if you don't believe me, Buffy," he said. "'Course, if that's the case, there's a way you could take care of that problem." And then he did something he had only done twice before – twice when The First's control over him had been at its highest and his despair at the thought of betraying her at its lowest.
He lowered his arms and offered his chest to Buffy's stake.
It was a crazy gamble, and he knew it. After all, she had absolutely no reason to trust him. But there had always been something, perhaps even from these beginning days, that had prevented them from killing each other. If not a mutual love, then maybe at least a grudging respect that only one warrior can have for another. Besides, if the Shanshu was really meant for him then Spike had a feeling those Powers-That-Be wouldn't want to see their new champion done in by the woman he loved. Then again, maybe they just had a warped sense of humor when it came to ironic justice.
Though, Spike thought, if it had to be anyone . . . he'd want it to be Buffy.
She locked eyes with him for a moment, hers a fraction wider than they'd been before. Spike tried to keep his expression even, but couldn't control the heavy rising and falling of his shoulders as his breaths reflexively deepened. They remained in that face-off for a timeless time. And then, without warning, Buffy let the stake fly.
Without conscious thought, Spike raised his hand and caught her wrist. The sharp wooden point halted a hair's breadth away from his heart. Her skin was warm and her pulse point beat evenly against the palm of his hand.
A corner of Buffy's mouth turned up dryly, then she tugged her wrist out of his grip. She lowered the stake and turned back to the door of the crypt, taking a few steps toward it. When she was far enough away from him, she looked at him again. "I don't know what this is all about," she said. "But if we find out anything about this prophecy or this Cup that doesn't support your story, or if you threaten anyone else that I care about, you and I are going to have a much dustier encounter."
Spike thought back to a day which had probably been the definitive turning point in his relationship with the Slayer – when he had gone to her for help after the chip. At the time, and for some time after, he'd thought she would accept him simply because he couldn't eat people. He thought it was time to show her, right from the start, a Spike who wouldn't hurt others. If she could see him that way – especially when she didn't know about the soul . . . well, some lingering selfish part of him liked that idea.
"Cross my heart, pet," he said. "Make a neat little bull's eye for your stake if I'm lying."
"We'll see," she retorted. "It takes a lot more than a puppy, a quart of pig's blood and your word to get me to buy anything you have to say."
"I came to you for help," Spike reminded her. "No blood of the innocent. Trust me."
Buffy sneered. "Not on your life." And she turned and made for the door.
"Slayer?" Spike's voice stopped her before she left. There was something he needed to know. She turned and glared at him.
"If I hadn't stopped you," he said with a raised eyebrow, "would you have done it?"
Buffy regarded him briefly. Then a genuine smirk bloomed across her face. Her eyes twinkled with the same light they'd had when she first entered the crypt. "Yep," she said. And she left.
Spike smiled after her retreating form as it was framed in the empty space of the doorway. "That's my girl."
"You also have the power to change this. By killing him. Here and now."
There was nothing cold or reproaching about Wesley’s tone, but Angel felt the accusation just the same – from deep inside – and it crept out over his skin like a clammy chill. He
shared the power to undo what had happened, just as he bore the responsibility of having caused it. He was certain that this implication had not been Wesley’s intention, but Angel, himself, knew better. Because he knew things his friend did not.
He may have known from the beginning that part of this had been his own fault. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it, because blaming Spike was often apt enough . . . and certainly easier.
Being grouped with Spike for any reason was not something he enjoyed, particularly when it came to sharing the blame for a creation-sized disaster, but that was where Angel nonetheless found himself. And, as much as it galled him to admit it, Spike hadn’t been the one to put him there. Angel had set those events into motion himself, long before he even set foot in Sunnydale last summer, with the significantly heavy amulet thrumming a conspicuous tattoo of power in his pocket. Long before Spike ever used that power to become the . . . champion . . . the universe had apparently branded him as.
But . . . .
He’s not the world’s champion. He’s not even the Powers’ champion. He’s hers.
Buffy’s, Angel thought dourly.
Or was he?
Angel’s growing anger churned. Spike didn’t care about creation. He said so himself. He didn’t care about atonement or the good fight or helping the helpless or anything else for which Angel had struggled for so long. All the son of a bitch cared about was himself, soul or no soul – and if he decided that it would get him in good with Buffy, the bastard would throw creation to the Wolves (and the Rams and the Harts for good measure).
So did that actually make Spike the Senior Partners’ champion?
Or did that brand belong to Angel himself? Had Wolfram & Hart been pulling his strings since the day he’d allowed Lilah to take him on that tour? Since the deal involving Connor? The Senior Partners had rearranged creation for Angel once. It wouldn’t surprise him if they’d expected the same done for them in return. Was that it? Was he doing exactly what they had planned when they gave him that amulet in the first place? Was Angel just doing exactly what the Senior Partners wanted? Or was Spike?
According to Wesley, both vampires with a soul had a choice, a burden. Both could destroy the creation they had come to know from their respective locations. But which of them was in the best situation to save it?
For a rare moment, Angel envied Spike his position. If creation went to Hell because of some inadvertent action on his part, he at least had ignorance on his side. But Angel . . . he couldn’t claim innocence. He never seemed to have that luxury. If saving creation meant ending the existence of the vampire who currently prowled within the holding cell downstairs – a creature who had no idea what was really happening to him – no matter the outcome, Angel would feel so much more like a cold-blooded killer than a champion.
Would that make him a true angel – with its wings dipped in the blood of the necessary sacrifices lining the road to salvation?
The thought of killing something he had created, even if it was Spike, crawled within Angel’s mind like a wormy parasite. He hadn’t said so, but it had been the same on the day Spike first appeared at Wolfram & Hart. On that day, Angel had nearly smashed the amulet that bound the other vampire to him – the amulet that, until recently, tied Spike’s life to the world.
Angel wasn't sure if his disgust at the thought of killing Spike meant that he cared about what happened to him. He highly doubted it. And Angel most certainly didn’t love him – Spike – not ever. He knew what it felt like to love something he had made.
No. It wasn't the same.
But even though Angel hated Spike at the best of times . . . damn it if the peroxided pest wasn’t still his.
A few months ago, to save Connor, Angel had all but ransomed creation – or at least a small part of it. To save creation, he would not ransom Spike. Or anyone. There had to be another way. And Angel obviously had to find it before Spike’s actions in the past took the choice away from him.
At the thought, Angel’s features became as cold and unforgiving as stone and his eyes sparked with anger. It must have shown clearly on this face, but he noticed that Wesley, to his credit, didn’t flinch or shy away. Angel thought it might be because Wes didn’t remember being exposed to Angel’s true menacing nature – the brutal side of him that had nothing to do with the soul – or the lack of it. After all, there wasn't a thin, telling scar spanning the former Watcher’s throat anymore to serve as a reminder. If it had been visible, Wesley would never remember when he’d gotten it. Or why. Or what had happened as a result. Angel had seen to that.
Sometimes it still pained Angel to remember.
You’re dead! You’re a dead man, Pryce! You’re dead! I’llkillyouI’llkillyouyou’readeadmandead!
Angel managed to reign in some of his hostility and he sighed heavily. He didn't want to take his anger at the situation out on Wesley. He was only trying to help, after all. But the former Watcher's words hung around Angel like a shroud. You also have some of the power here.
What Wesley didn’t realize was that Angel’s “power,” his choices, his ultimate bargain with Wolfram & Hart had possibly had a hand in causing all of this in the first place. The Senior Partners would have had no foothold for whatever it was they were hoping to accomplish if Angel, himself, hadn’t provided it. And his friends, in their carefully orchestrated innocence, didn’t even know. They were trying so hard to help, to figure out what had happened and how to fix it, completely unaware that Angel had been the one to place them all here. And he couldn’t even tell them why.
If there was a way to put a stop to this without losing anyone . . . anyone . . . Angel was determined to find it.
“Think,” the vampire finally said, his voice stern but quiet, far calmer than the storminess of his thoughts. He looked from the surveillance camera images of Spike back to Wesley. “Think for a minute about what it is you’re telling me to do.”
Wesley shook his head. “I’m not telling you to do anything,” he replied, his tone suddenly very weary, a stark contrast from the resolve which had hung around him upon first entering Angel’s office. “I don’t want anyone to die, Angel. I’m merely pointing out the seriousness of our situation. And the fact that you have as much claim to solving matters as Spike does.”
“Believe me, I’m well aware of the seriousness of our situation,” Angel snapped back, with a bit more hostility than he’d intended. He collected himself and tried to present a more composed face. “But did it ever occur to you that if I did something from here, it could only make things worse?”
“It’s a definite risk,” Wesley replied. “But, Angel, we have no idea what Spike is doing or when his actions may do irreparable harm to our present. The fact is, regardless of Spike’s position, the prophecy may still be about you. About your choices in handling this situation. Your destiny. The decision you must make.”
Angel took a step closer to Wesley, his eyes dark. “Consider it made,” he said. “I’m not choosing an option that comes at the cost of someone’s life. Even if it is . . . ,” He shot another glance at the pacing figure on the security monitor with an absent wave of his hand. “. . . that.”
Angel thought Wesley would protest, but he didn’t. The vampire felt some of the stiff tension leave him at that. He sighed heavily and his body sagged a bit of its own volition. “Besides,” he added, “there’s no guarantee that wiping Spike out of the next six years would solve anything. I hate to say it, but it might just make matters worse.” He looked at Wesley. “We could all wake up in Hell.”
Wesley tilted his head consideringly. “It’s possible that the events leading up to The First’s attempt to break into our dimension through the Hellmouth may not come to pass in exactly the same way. One never knows. Without Spike’s presence in Sunnydale it may not happen at all.”
“That’s the problem,” Angel replied. “We just don’t know. And I wasn’t talking about The First,” he admitted. “I was talking about . . . me.”
Wesley blinked, then frowned. “Angelus.”
“Six of one, half-dozen of the other,” Angel grumbled.
“Angel,” Wesley said assuagingly, “I know your dark period in Sunnydale is a difficult topic for you, but I don’t think Angelus’ failed endeavor to destroy the world solely hinged upon Spike’s survival. You said that Buffy was the one—”
“Who sent me to Hell.”
“And that Willow was successful in returning your soul,” Wesley countered, trying for reassurance.
Angel just stared at him. “Yeah, after. But not before I woke Acathla. Things were already set in motion, and Buffy wasn’t alone against me and Drusilla. Spike was there. It could have . . . .” He trailed off. Recalling what he had done was difficult enough without remembering Spike’s role in helping to save the world that Angelus had tried to destroy. “It could have made the difference,” he concluded softly.
Wesley raised his eyebrows a bit. “Yes, the age-old story of action and consequence -- I’ve seen It’s a Wonderful Life, Angel. But don’t you think you’re giving just one person a little more credit than—”
“It could have made the difference,” Angel repeated firmly, but the reluctance in this voice was apparent. “No one hates giving Spike undeserved credit more than me, Wes, and, yeah, maybe Willow could have even restored the soul when she did, but Buffy still would have been alone in that fight. She may not have had enough time to stop me . . . things . . . to stop things on her own. At least not before it was too late. And, okay, maybe Spike's absence could have meant a different turn of events leading up to Acathla, but that’s just one example,” Angel said as he paced back into the main room of his office. “Who knows what else has happened in the years I’ve been away from Sunnydale.”
Wesley nodded in compliance. “All right,” he said. “In terms of killing Spike, I agree that there would be too many potentially hazardous variables. But we may have to brace ourselves for the need to take drastic measures.”
“In the meantime,” replied Angel, “we use what we have. There are resources here that I’m willing to bet even the Watcher’s Council didn’t have access to.” He raised his arms as if to indicate the entire facility of Wolfram & Hart around him and lowered his voice. “If the Senior Partners planned this, they must have records on the Cup of Perpetual Torment. Stuff you’ve never seen. What it is, what it does . . . .”
“How to reverse its effects.”
“The information has to be here, Wes,” Angel said. “Facts not in your earlier research. Find it.”
Wesley nodded purposefully and turned for the door. Angel’s voice stopped him before he moved toward it.
“Wes?”
Wesley tilted his head back around and Angel took a few steps nearer.
“If things get out of hand,” Angel said, his voice quiet. “If it’s the only way . . . I’m the one to do it. Got me?”
Wesley narrowed his eyes.
“Spike,” Angel clarified. “If killing Spike is the only way to save creation, I’ll do it. No one else.” His jaw clenched and he looked grim as he added, “Please?”
“Of course,” said Wesley supportively. And with a final nod, he left.
To be continued . . .
