Out of Joint -- Chapter 3 (Part 2)
Nov. 11th, 2004 09:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelle"Mighty Forces, I suck at Latin, okay?" (Even if I do earn my living imparting one of the other Romance Languages to teenage students.) I tried to make my best guesses based on my knowledge of Spanish structure, but if the (small amount of) Latin hereby used in this story is totally off the mark, I'll try to fix it as best I can. Just let me know. (On the upside, Spuffy angst! Oooh! Ahhh!)
Without further ado, here's the next part of the story. (As usual, previous sections can be found here.)
(Chapter 3 – Part 2)
* * *
Wesley reached up with two fingers and pinched at the bridge of his nose. The group had reconvened in one of the main boardrooms at Wolfram & Hart where they were soon joined by Lorne and Gunn. Each had sat patiently, if a bit on edge, as the former Watcher leafed through the Shanshu documentation, searching for any pertinent information.
Finally, he allowed his hand to fall and raised his head.
“I’m not certain I can give you any better information than I had an hour ago,” he admitted, his voice tired and frustrated. “I’m not terribly familiar with this ‘new’ translation that Sirk claims to have uncovered, but, of course, that doesn’t mean it isn’t authentic.”
He heaved a full-body sigh, for what felt like the thousandth time since the group had sequestered themselves in the boardroom, and rubbed absently at the back of his neck. Wesley spread out the papers before him and met the eyes of his coworkers, collecting himself and starting over from the beginning. Again.
“From what I’ve been able to analyze so far, there at least seems to be an element of accuracy to what Sirk has told you,” Wesley announced, thumbing though the pages on the table. “I think I’m understanding where some of his translation is coming from. Root of the tree splits . . . balance falters . . . Cup of Eternal Torment . . . vampire with a soul who saves creation or destroys it . . . .”
“Sounds familiar so far,” Angel muttered.
“Except for the ‘Eternal’/‘Perpetual’ part,” Gunn added.
Wesley glared at him humorlessly. “Yes, well, I blame my lack of fifty-cent words on the same number of sleepless hours. But I’ll be sure to see the Senior Partners if I find myself in desperate need of a vocabulary download.”
Gunn looked affronted. “Ouch, man. Harsh.”
Wesley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again, this time shoving his hand upward and scrubbing wearily at his forehead as well. “My apologies,” he murmured. This session hadn’t been easy on any of them, after all. Everyone was feeling punchy.
“S’okay, Wes,” Gunn said with a calming yet tired grin. “No harm, no foul.”
“I suppose where my opinion differs from that of Rutherford Sirk is at the point where the new group of verses mentions this Cup directly,” Wesley continued. “I would have been inclined to agree with you, Angel. That any reference to a Cup of Perpetual Torment was merely a very colorful metaphor.” He spared a conciliatory look to Gunn upon modifying the artifact’s name, then shook his head. “But since you were able to actually find it in the very place Sirk described, I’m forced to question if my theories wouldn’t have been the wrong ones.”
Fred nibbled unconsciously on her thumbnail. They had been here a while and were no closer to discovering what had happened to Spike than they had been an hour ago in Angel’s office. What had started out as a very probable theory on Wesley’s part seemed to have fizzled out during their endless session of rehashing the details of the Shanshu Prophesy. It seemed that no explanation would be yielded by the text either for how Spike may have lost his soul, or even for how he might have been replaced by an alternate version of himself altogether, which was what Wesley had come to believe.
But they had found no solid leads, and Fred was concerned about leaving the other vampire strapped down and alone in the med lab. Whether she was more concerned for him or about what he might do, Fred really couldn’t be certain. Either way, she was antsy to get back there, though she knew Angel would hardly go for that idea.
After a moment, Lorne rose from the table. “Well, guys and dolls, I don’t know about the rest of you, but these long research sessions are starting to leave me perpetually parched.” The Pylean demon glanced good-naturedly at those around him as he stretched his legs. “So unless there’s another prophesy that predestines us to go sustenance-free for the next few hours, I say we take a breather, I’ll take some orders, and then I’ll pop on over to Chen’s China Palace for some nourishment. What do you say, compadres?”
Groans of gratitude rose up from all sides and Lorne set to work making a list of what to bring back for everyone. Through the chorus of voices requesting moo shu pork and the ‘Hawaii-Two-O Special,’ Angel glanced over at Wesley. The former Watcher remained hunched over the documents in front of him for a moment before grimly rummaging through the papers again.
“. . . Another. Yes . . . ,” he muttered under his breath. “. . . something I’m not seeing.”
“Wes?” Angel questioned as he watched his friend shuffling through the mound of information.
Wesley shook his head. “If I knew how Sirk formulated this exact translation,” he said, “perhaps I could use that information to derive my own.” He sighed, holding up various pages. “But with a mesh of over a dozen different languages here, some of which aren't even human, the steps he and his team could have taken to decode it are infinite. Does one begin with the Babylonian translation,” he raised one page up randomly into the air, followed by another, “or the Fylaric demon?” Both his hands dropped to the desk along with his eyes.
“Relax, Sweetie, you know what they say – 'a prose by any other name . . . bound to fry your brain if you don’t eat something,'” Lorne soothed as he placed his fingers over the mouthpiece of his cell phone. “You’ll think better after you’ve fueled-up. What am I ordering for you?”
Wesley didn’t move. He continued to stare at the documents around him.
“Wes, honey,” coaxed Lorne, “I’ve got the nice Asian lady on hold here.”
The former Watcher raised his eyes, which held a partially enlightened look. “. . . any other name . . . ,” he whispered.
Angel’s brow furrowed as he watched his friend begin to sift back through the information spread over the table, this time, however, with sudden purpose. “What is it?” he asked.
“ . . . torment . . . ,” Wesley muttered as he moved a large pile of paper out of the way, the cogs in his mind clearly spinning. “. . . hell . . . fire . . . .”
Lorne shrugged. “Hot ‘n spicy, it is, then.” He took his fingers off the phone’s mouthpiece. “And one order of General Tsao’s Chicken. Extra sauce . . . .”
Angel leaned over the table, trying to get Wesley’s attention. “Wes,” he urged again. “What is it?”
Wesley glanced up, though his fingers kept moving. His face was still tired, but his eyes brighter. “Burst of inspiration, I hope,” he replied, reaching, at last, for a large hardcover volume.
“What are you doing?” Angel prodded, hoping to understand his friend’s sudden insight.
Wesley looked back down at the book he had been searching for. He intoned aloud and clearly, “Aurum Defeci Aeternum, Wyndam-Pryce,” then opened it to a clean, blank sheet. Looking back up at Angel, he took a deep breath. A moment later, extensive paragraphs began to appear in the pages of the previously blank text. Wesley released the air from his lungs and refocused his attention on them before answering Angel’s question. “Cross-referencing.”
* * *
He couldn’t feel the tingle of the coming day. Not yet. Dawn was still a ways off. And that was a good thing, because he wasn’t sure how much longer it would be before he was able to force himself to take another step forward.
This was familiar territory, at least. Almost too familiar. But as Spike’s feet found their way to Revello Drive, they had immediately and unconsciously slowed their pace. His initial sprint had reduced considerably once in sight of her neighborhood. In fact, it had taken him a timeless time just to walk halfway up the block, as though he had been trudging through waist-deep water, fighting his way forward with every step. When he finally found himself beside a very well-known tree, he also found that his legs seemed to lack the power to go any farther. Staring at the house before him was suddenly just as unnerving as being barraged by all those spirits that Pavayne had sent to torment him a few months ago. Without the dismemberment, of course, but just as chilling. Just as ghostly.
It was like a dream. A vision he had seen in his head nearly every day since his reappearance in Angel’s office. Unsettling waking dreams, since as a ghost he hadn’t slept. Visions which crept to the forefront of his conscious mind and ended differently each time he had them. Some times less pleasant than others – either hopeful enough to save him from the madness of his incorporeal existence, or dark, despairing -- threatening to topple him over the brink.
And now that it was finally, inexorably real, he had to wonder which of those outcomes would be the most likely to occur. Spike knew quite well what he wished would happen, but had to face facts: he was about to literally show up on her bloody doorstep after she had thought he’d been dead for months. Knowing Buffy, there was a chance she’d take it less than glowingly. Especially after finding out where he had actually been all this time.
Not like it was your fault, mate, Spike’s brain rationalized. Not like you could pick up a bloody phone and ring her, even if you had known she was here all along. You could barely lift a coffee cup, much less manage a handset.
Not for the first time since becoming corporeal, his fingers itched nervously. He really should have picked up a pack of fags while he was downtown. Absently, he rubbed his thumb between his first two fingers, simulating the feel of a cigarette between them and continued to stare at the house.
Harris had done a right job fixing it back up, that was for sure. Spike had to admit the boy did good work. Damned decent, even, despite his current limited depth perception. The front windows looked like new. In fact, the entire building appeared veritably unscathed, considering the damage it had undergone over the last year alone. Spike hadn’t expected to find it looking so good, though now that he thought of it, he wasn’t exactly surprised. No more Hellmouth meant fewer nasties rocking the foundations on a daily basis. And it had been . . . how many months now?
How many months. And Buffy had been here the whole time. Not off on the bloody Continent, but a mere two-hour drive from L.A. The whole time.
Angel had to have known, too. From the minute Spike had appeared in his office, Angel had known.
Where-- where is she?
Europe, last I heard from her.
Spike scoffed. He should have realized the Ponce had answered too quickly that first day. Should have known Angel’d have some stock answer ready in case any “undesirables” came ‘round asking about the Slayer. Should have bloody known.
But Spike was here now. No Angel to stop him. To keep him away from her. So why couldn’t he bloody move? This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? Ever since he’d gotten his body back, it had been all he’d thought about. (Give or take after the whole Harmony incident. But who could blame him, really. He’d been a bit high on being newly-solid at the time. Momentary lapse of reason was what it’d been.) But as soon as he’d regained his senses, he’d known exactly where he wanted to go.
Europe.
Or wherever it was she turned out to be.
He didn’t even know what possessed him to sidetrack after that bloody Cup in the first place. It had only been a detour from his desired destination anyway. If it were physically possible for Spike to do so, he might have admitted that Angel had been right. Maybe this whole grail quest had been more about Spike taking something away from his grandsire than anything else. It was no secret that Spike enjoyed what he was. He was satisfied with being a creature of the night, thank you, and had no designs on becoming human. Not really. In hindsight, he’d hated most aspects of his human life. Didn’t really have a desire to go back to the weakness that accompanied such an existence. To be able to feel your frail body dying all around you as each mortal moment slips inexorably away. And that was just the physical weakness. William had been well acquainted with weakness on many levels. If Angel wanted that, then bully for him. Let him have it.
No, what Spike had wanted from the whole Cup debacle was some kind of validation. A sort of cosmic seal-of-approval for what he had done in Sunnydale. If the vampire-with-a-soul Shanshu twaddle had really been his destiny, and not Angel’s, then it would be proof that Buffy’s faith in him had been well-founded. It would have confirmed to his Doubting-Thomas-of-a-soul that he was worth more than his guilt-ridden spirit would have him believe. That maybe he was a champion after all. And maybe this time he’d believe it himself.
He wanted that -- the sense that what he had done had really mattered. And he wanted it before he looked Buffy in the eyes again.
But drinking from the Cup of Perpetual Torment had somehow sent him here. Right to where he had wanted to be all along. To the front porch of the one person who could verify it all for him. Probably wouldn’t have done that if the prophesy hadn’t been meant for him, right? So why couldn’t he sodding move out from under this sodding tree?
A thousand thoughts collided within Spike’s head. Not the least of which regarding the torment he had been promised as a result of drinking from that Cup. Right now, he couldn’t help thinking that walking up to Buffy’s door might lead to the discovery that what he had done hadn’t mattered at all. Maybe to the world, sure. Glad enough to keep spinning. But what if it didn’t to her? Did he really want to discover that while she had been constantly in his thoughts, he had never once pervaded hers? That she was happy and content and fine . . . without him? Perhaps in love by now. Real love that could grow with her and wasn’t afraid to see the sunlight in her eyes.
Bollocks to that. His love was sod-all if it wasn’t real. Of course it was real. And he had seen the sunlight in her eyes. More than once, in fact. ‘Course the first time he hadn’t had the presence of mind to appreciate the sight, but the other . . . . It was one of his final memories before he died, something his brain had clung to as the fire consumed him from the inside out and he felt his flesh sear away. Being able to prove that love was why he had gotten the soul in the first place, wasn’t it? But that didn’t mean it was what his Slayer truly deserved.
In the end, he had seemed to realize that. After all, the last thing he had done was let her go.
I love you.
No, you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.
That single action had burned more than all the sunlight flooding through his soul. But he had needed to do it. Because a world that kept spinning was just a glorified cosmic top without her in it. He needed to know she would still be there. She needed to be there. Giving purpose, giving light. Buffy needed to live. He had learned that lesson over one very dreadful, very dark summer.
Of all the times he had saved her in dreams, he had finally done it right for real. His life, and death, had been her gift, the only thing of worth he had to give her. And he couldn’t fault her for where she chose do go from there. Of course, that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. Although the bloody soul kept naggingly insisting that if she had found happiness since his departure, it was exactly what she had earned, what he wanted for her, the rest of him continued to wonder if it would be better for both of them if he never found out for sure.
At the same time, the not-knowing was killing him.
. . . And cue the torment.
Spike sighed and leaned fully against the bark of the tree, tilting his head to the upstairs bedroom window. Soft light filtered through the semi-closed horizontal blinds and formed a pale grid slanting down the slope of the porch roof. It looked almost like a ladder of pale sunlight, one which he could use to reach her if he chose, but one that might burn him badly as a result.
He had gotten the soul so he could give Buffy what she deserved. At the time, he hadn’t even considered that what she deserved was something far better than him.
Right now he hated that bleeding Cup.
Well, there was nothing to be done for it. He was here now and he had waited this long to see her. Another night certainly wouldn’t matter. He could find somewhere to lay low during the daylight hours and think of the best way to approach this. And if it turned out that the best course of action would be for him to do nothing but leave her to her happy new life, then that was what Spike would do.
For now, however, this vampire would spend what remained of the darkness basking in the scented presence of those humans who had come to mean more to him than his very unlife.
Spike inhaled.
And froze.
Strange. There was something very . . . wrong about what he was sensing. Like a finished puzzle with a single missing piece. Something that most observers would dismiss as unimportant – unless, of course, you were among those who cared enough about the puzzle to see it completed, whole.
Spike cared. And something was definitely wrong with this picture.
Spike shouldered himself off the tree and stood rigid in the Summers’ front yard. His empty hands clenched and released at his sides. He raised his chin slightly, closed his eyes and inhaled again. This time more deeply. The unnecessary air which filled his lungs brought with it a wafting scent, filled with the essence of that house. He held it, keeping the sensation inside himself, separating its many parts, trying to pinpoint just what was wrong.
Buffy. Her essence was strongest, and he felt some relief at that. Spike had to fight not to linger on it as the heady rush of Slayer, his Slayer, washed over him.
Spike was able to isolate traces of the boy and the witch, of course, and even . . . Spike paused and smiled. A sad smile. He could even detect hints of Joyce. Still potent, even after all this time, evidence that such a strong and determined lady could never really be gone from this world. He wondered if Buffy could ever still sense her mother’s presence. Even if it wasn’t in the same way Spike could . . . .
Then he stopped. Spike’s eyes slowly opened and he released the breath he had been holding, his shoulders leveling and his gaze focusing on the house once more. Oh, God.
The vampire’s face was suddenly a flood of disbelief, misery, and even wide-eyed horror. He shook his head, a slow movement of pure dissent, protesting to no one but the empty night, before finally speaking aloud. His voice was cracked, strained, horrified.
“No. God, no.”
And Spike was running then. All thoughts of waiting forgotten, any words of explanation abandoned. Even the notion of knocking first was discarded as he bolted onto the front porch of 1630 Revello Drive, his hand closing fast around the door handle.
* * *
To be continued . . .
Without further ado, here's the next part of the story. (As usual, previous sections can be found here.)
(Chapter 3 – Part 2)
Wesley reached up with two fingers and pinched at the bridge of his nose. The group had reconvened in one of the main boardrooms at Wolfram & Hart where they were soon joined by Lorne and Gunn. Each had sat patiently, if a bit on edge, as the former Watcher leafed through the Shanshu documentation, searching for any pertinent information.
Finally, he allowed his hand to fall and raised his head.
“I’m not certain I can give you any better information than I had an hour ago,” he admitted, his voice tired and frustrated. “I’m not terribly familiar with this ‘new’ translation that Sirk claims to have uncovered, but, of course, that doesn’t mean it isn’t authentic.”
He heaved a full-body sigh, for what felt like the thousandth time since the group had sequestered themselves in the boardroom, and rubbed absently at the back of his neck. Wesley spread out the papers before him and met the eyes of his coworkers, collecting himself and starting over from the beginning. Again.
“From what I’ve been able to analyze so far, there at least seems to be an element of accuracy to what Sirk has told you,” Wesley announced, thumbing though the pages on the table. “I think I’m understanding where some of his translation is coming from. Root of the tree splits . . . balance falters . . . Cup of Eternal Torment . . . vampire with a soul who saves creation or destroys it . . . .”
“Sounds familiar so far,” Angel muttered.
“Except for the ‘Eternal’/‘Perpetual’ part,” Gunn added.
Wesley glared at him humorlessly. “Yes, well, I blame my lack of fifty-cent words on the same number of sleepless hours. But I’ll be sure to see the Senior Partners if I find myself in desperate need of a vocabulary download.”
Gunn looked affronted. “Ouch, man. Harsh.”
Wesley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again, this time shoving his hand upward and scrubbing wearily at his forehead as well. “My apologies,” he murmured. This session hadn’t been easy on any of them, after all. Everyone was feeling punchy.
“S’okay, Wes,” Gunn said with a calming yet tired grin. “No harm, no foul.”
“I suppose where my opinion differs from that of Rutherford Sirk is at the point where the new group of verses mentions this Cup directly,” Wesley continued. “I would have been inclined to agree with you, Angel. That any reference to a Cup of Perpetual Torment was merely a very colorful metaphor.” He spared a conciliatory look to Gunn upon modifying the artifact’s name, then shook his head. “But since you were able to actually find it in the very place Sirk described, I’m forced to question if my theories wouldn’t have been the wrong ones.”
Fred nibbled unconsciously on her thumbnail. They had been here a while and were no closer to discovering what had happened to Spike than they had been an hour ago in Angel’s office. What had started out as a very probable theory on Wesley’s part seemed to have fizzled out during their endless session of rehashing the details of the Shanshu Prophesy. It seemed that no explanation would be yielded by the text either for how Spike may have lost his soul, or even for how he might have been replaced by an alternate version of himself altogether, which was what Wesley had come to believe.
But they had found no solid leads, and Fred was concerned about leaving the other vampire strapped down and alone in the med lab. Whether she was more concerned for him or about what he might do, Fred really couldn’t be certain. Either way, she was antsy to get back there, though she knew Angel would hardly go for that idea.
After a moment, Lorne rose from the table. “Well, guys and dolls, I don’t know about the rest of you, but these long research sessions are starting to leave me perpetually parched.” The Pylean demon glanced good-naturedly at those around him as he stretched his legs. “So unless there’s another prophesy that predestines us to go sustenance-free for the next few hours, I say we take a breather, I’ll take some orders, and then I’ll pop on over to Chen’s China Palace for some nourishment. What do you say, compadres?”
Groans of gratitude rose up from all sides and Lorne set to work making a list of what to bring back for everyone. Through the chorus of voices requesting moo shu pork and the ‘Hawaii-Two-O Special,’ Angel glanced over at Wesley. The former Watcher remained hunched over the documents in front of him for a moment before grimly rummaging through the papers again.
“. . . Another. Yes . . . ,” he muttered under his breath. “. . . something I’m not seeing.”
“Wes?” Angel questioned as he watched his friend shuffling through the mound of information.
Wesley shook his head. “If I knew how Sirk formulated this exact translation,” he said, “perhaps I could use that information to derive my own.” He sighed, holding up various pages. “But with a mesh of over a dozen different languages here, some of which aren't even human, the steps he and his team could have taken to decode it are infinite. Does one begin with the Babylonian translation,” he raised one page up randomly into the air, followed by another, “or the Fylaric demon?” Both his hands dropped to the desk along with his eyes.
“Relax, Sweetie, you know what they say – 'a prose by any other name . . . bound to fry your brain if you don’t eat something,'” Lorne soothed as he placed his fingers over the mouthpiece of his cell phone. “You’ll think better after you’ve fueled-up. What am I ordering for you?”
Wesley didn’t move. He continued to stare at the documents around him.
“Wes, honey,” coaxed Lorne, “I’ve got the nice Asian lady on hold here.”
The former Watcher raised his eyes, which held a partially enlightened look. “. . . any other name . . . ,” he whispered.
Angel’s brow furrowed as he watched his friend begin to sift back through the information spread over the table, this time, however, with sudden purpose. “What is it?” he asked.
“ . . . torment . . . ,” Wesley muttered as he moved a large pile of paper out of the way, the cogs in his mind clearly spinning. “. . . hell . . . fire . . . .”
Lorne shrugged. “Hot ‘n spicy, it is, then.” He took his fingers off the phone’s mouthpiece. “And one order of General Tsao’s Chicken. Extra sauce . . . .”
Angel leaned over the table, trying to get Wesley’s attention. “Wes,” he urged again. “What is it?”
Wesley glanced up, though his fingers kept moving. His face was still tired, but his eyes brighter. “Burst of inspiration, I hope,” he replied, reaching, at last, for a large hardcover volume.
“What are you doing?” Angel prodded, hoping to understand his friend’s sudden insight.
Wesley looked back down at the book he had been searching for. He intoned aloud and clearly, “Aurum Defeci Aeternum, Wyndam-Pryce,” then opened it to a clean, blank sheet. Looking back up at Angel, he took a deep breath. A moment later, extensive paragraphs began to appear in the pages of the previously blank text. Wesley released the air from his lungs and refocused his attention on them before answering Angel’s question. “Cross-referencing.”
He couldn’t feel the tingle of the coming day. Not yet. Dawn was still a ways off. And that was a good thing, because he wasn’t sure how much longer it would be before he was able to force himself to take another step forward.
This was familiar territory, at least. Almost too familiar. But as Spike’s feet found their way to Revello Drive, they had immediately and unconsciously slowed their pace. His initial sprint had reduced considerably once in sight of her neighborhood. In fact, it had taken him a timeless time just to walk halfway up the block, as though he had been trudging through waist-deep water, fighting his way forward with every step. When he finally found himself beside a very well-known tree, he also found that his legs seemed to lack the power to go any farther. Staring at the house before him was suddenly just as unnerving as being barraged by all those spirits that Pavayne had sent to torment him a few months ago. Without the dismemberment, of course, but just as chilling. Just as ghostly.
It was like a dream. A vision he had seen in his head nearly every day since his reappearance in Angel’s office. Unsettling waking dreams, since as a ghost he hadn’t slept. Visions which crept to the forefront of his conscious mind and ended differently each time he had them. Some times less pleasant than others – either hopeful enough to save him from the madness of his incorporeal existence, or dark, despairing -- threatening to topple him over the brink.
And now that it was finally, inexorably real, he had to wonder which of those outcomes would be the most likely to occur. Spike knew quite well what he wished would happen, but had to face facts: he was about to literally show up on her bloody doorstep after she had thought he’d been dead for months. Knowing Buffy, there was a chance she’d take it less than glowingly. Especially after finding out where he had actually been all this time.
Not like it was your fault, mate, Spike’s brain rationalized. Not like you could pick up a bloody phone and ring her, even if you had known she was here all along. You could barely lift a coffee cup, much less manage a handset.
Not for the first time since becoming corporeal, his fingers itched nervously. He really should have picked up a pack of fags while he was downtown. Absently, he rubbed his thumb between his first two fingers, simulating the feel of a cigarette between them and continued to stare at the house.
Harris had done a right job fixing it back up, that was for sure. Spike had to admit the boy did good work. Damned decent, even, despite his current limited depth perception. The front windows looked like new. In fact, the entire building appeared veritably unscathed, considering the damage it had undergone over the last year alone. Spike hadn’t expected to find it looking so good, though now that he thought of it, he wasn’t exactly surprised. No more Hellmouth meant fewer nasties rocking the foundations on a daily basis. And it had been . . . how many months now?
How many months. And Buffy had been here the whole time. Not off on the bloody Continent, but a mere two-hour drive from L.A. The whole time.
Angel had to have known, too. From the minute Spike had appeared in his office, Angel had known.
Where-- where is she?
Europe, last I heard from her.
Spike scoffed. He should have realized the Ponce had answered too quickly that first day. Should have known Angel’d have some stock answer ready in case any “undesirables” came ‘round asking about the Slayer. Should have bloody known.
But Spike was here now. No Angel to stop him. To keep him away from her. So why couldn’t he bloody move? This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? Ever since he’d gotten his body back, it had been all he’d thought about. (Give or take after the whole Harmony incident. But who could blame him, really. He’d been a bit high on being newly-solid at the time. Momentary lapse of reason was what it’d been.) But as soon as he’d regained his senses, he’d known exactly where he wanted to go.
Europe.
Or wherever it was she turned out to be.
He didn’t even know what possessed him to sidetrack after that bloody Cup in the first place. It had only been a detour from his desired destination anyway. If it were physically possible for Spike to do so, he might have admitted that Angel had been right. Maybe this whole grail quest had been more about Spike taking something away from his grandsire than anything else. It was no secret that Spike enjoyed what he was. He was satisfied with being a creature of the night, thank you, and had no designs on becoming human. Not really. In hindsight, he’d hated most aspects of his human life. Didn’t really have a desire to go back to the weakness that accompanied such an existence. To be able to feel your frail body dying all around you as each mortal moment slips inexorably away. And that was just the physical weakness. William had been well acquainted with weakness on many levels. If Angel wanted that, then bully for him. Let him have it.
No, what Spike had wanted from the whole Cup debacle was some kind of validation. A sort of cosmic seal-of-approval for what he had done in Sunnydale. If the vampire-with-a-soul Shanshu twaddle had really been his destiny, and not Angel’s, then it would be proof that Buffy’s faith in him had been well-founded. It would have confirmed to his Doubting-Thomas-of-a-soul that he was worth more than his guilt-ridden spirit would have him believe. That maybe he was a champion after all. And maybe this time he’d believe it himself.
He wanted that -- the sense that what he had done had really mattered. And he wanted it before he looked Buffy in the eyes again.
But drinking from the Cup of Perpetual Torment had somehow sent him here. Right to where he had wanted to be all along. To the front porch of the one person who could verify it all for him. Probably wouldn’t have done that if the prophesy hadn’t been meant for him, right? So why couldn’t he sodding move out from under this sodding tree?
A thousand thoughts collided within Spike’s head. Not the least of which regarding the torment he had been promised as a result of drinking from that Cup. Right now, he couldn’t help thinking that walking up to Buffy’s door might lead to the discovery that what he had done hadn’t mattered at all. Maybe to the world, sure. Glad enough to keep spinning. But what if it didn’t to her? Did he really want to discover that while she had been constantly in his thoughts, he had never once pervaded hers? That she was happy and content and fine . . . without him? Perhaps in love by now. Real love that could grow with her and wasn’t afraid to see the sunlight in her eyes.
Bollocks to that. His love was sod-all if it wasn’t real. Of course it was real. And he had seen the sunlight in her eyes. More than once, in fact. ‘Course the first time he hadn’t had the presence of mind to appreciate the sight, but the other . . . . It was one of his final memories before he died, something his brain had clung to as the fire consumed him from the inside out and he felt his flesh sear away. Being able to prove that love was why he had gotten the soul in the first place, wasn’t it? But that didn’t mean it was what his Slayer truly deserved.
In the end, he had seemed to realize that. After all, the last thing he had done was let her go.
I love you.
No, you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.
That single action had burned more than all the sunlight flooding through his soul. But he had needed to do it. Because a world that kept spinning was just a glorified cosmic top without her in it. He needed to know she would still be there. She needed to be there. Giving purpose, giving light. Buffy needed to live. He had learned that lesson over one very dreadful, very dark summer.
Of all the times he had saved her in dreams, he had finally done it right for real. His life, and death, had been her gift, the only thing of worth he had to give her. And he couldn’t fault her for where she chose do go from there. Of course, that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. Although the bloody soul kept naggingly insisting that if she had found happiness since his departure, it was exactly what she had earned, what he wanted for her, the rest of him continued to wonder if it would be better for both of them if he never found out for sure.
At the same time, the not-knowing was killing him.
. . . And cue the torment.
Spike sighed and leaned fully against the bark of the tree, tilting his head to the upstairs bedroom window. Soft light filtered through the semi-closed horizontal blinds and formed a pale grid slanting down the slope of the porch roof. It looked almost like a ladder of pale sunlight, one which he could use to reach her if he chose, but one that might burn him badly as a result.
He had gotten the soul so he could give Buffy what she deserved. At the time, he hadn’t even considered that what she deserved was something far better than him.
Right now he hated that bleeding Cup.
Well, there was nothing to be done for it. He was here now and he had waited this long to see her. Another night certainly wouldn’t matter. He could find somewhere to lay low during the daylight hours and think of the best way to approach this. And if it turned out that the best course of action would be for him to do nothing but leave her to her happy new life, then that was what Spike would do.
For now, however, this vampire would spend what remained of the darkness basking in the scented presence of those humans who had come to mean more to him than his very unlife.
Spike inhaled.
And froze.
Strange. There was something very . . . wrong about what he was sensing. Like a finished puzzle with a single missing piece. Something that most observers would dismiss as unimportant – unless, of course, you were among those who cared enough about the puzzle to see it completed, whole.
Spike cared. And something was definitely wrong with this picture.
Spike shouldered himself off the tree and stood rigid in the Summers’ front yard. His empty hands clenched and released at his sides. He raised his chin slightly, closed his eyes and inhaled again. This time more deeply. The unnecessary air which filled his lungs brought with it a wafting scent, filled with the essence of that house. He held it, keeping the sensation inside himself, separating its many parts, trying to pinpoint just what was wrong.
Buffy. Her essence was strongest, and he felt some relief at that. Spike had to fight not to linger on it as the heady rush of Slayer, his Slayer, washed over him.
Spike was able to isolate traces of the boy and the witch, of course, and even . . . Spike paused and smiled. A sad smile. He could even detect hints of Joyce. Still potent, even after all this time, evidence that such a strong and determined lady could never really be gone from this world. He wondered if Buffy could ever still sense her mother’s presence. Even if it wasn’t in the same way Spike could . . . .
Then he stopped. Spike’s eyes slowly opened and he released the breath he had been holding, his shoulders leveling and his gaze focusing on the house once more. Oh, God.
The vampire’s face was suddenly a flood of disbelief, misery, and even wide-eyed horror. He shook his head, a slow movement of pure dissent, protesting to no one but the empty night, before finally speaking aloud. His voice was cracked, strained, horrified.
“No. God, no.”
And Spike was running then. All thoughts of waiting forgotten, any words of explanation abandoned. Even the notion of knocking first was discarded as he bolted onto the front porch of 1630 Revello Drive, his hand closing fast around the door handle.
To be continued . . .
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-11 06:59 pm (UTC)I think I know what Spike has noticed (or rather noticed that he's not noticing) and I won't sleep until you post the next section.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-11 09:07 pm (UTC)And I think you just might know, too. *evil grin* Glad you're enjoying it!
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-11 10:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-12 01:05 pm (UTC)