Out of Joint -- Chapter 8 (Part 2)
Jun. 25th, 2005 09:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelleThis morning, I actually finished the latest OoJ chapter that I'd been working on. (Happily, I've managed to get few chapters ahead of my postings.) So, to celebrate, here's more of Chapter 8. (Hugs to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
makd.)
This is the bulk of the chapter. There's one more brief part to follow. The rest is here.
Enjoy!
* * *
(Chapter 8 – Part 2)
Spike had to remind himself to take some of the swagger out of his step as he entered the doors of the factory. He knew he should probably keep up appearances as far as Dru and his ponce of a grandsire were concerned, but he couldn't help it. Even with a soul, he still felt some self-satisfaction at being able to one-up the Watcher. The fact that he wasn't completely certain Giles would actually do as he asked didn't change his mood either. Oh, Spike was fairly confident that the man would research the Shanshu Prophecy and the Cup of Perpetual Torment -- the wanker was too pedantic not to. He just wasn't sure if Giles would be big with the sharing once everything was said and done.
Still, it was the only thing Spike could think of to figure out his present situation. Turning to the Watcher, a man who hated him in any time period, soul or no soul, was self-depreciating enough as it was. But Spike had gotten a few of his own licks in before the conversation with Rupert had finished; he felt some satisfaction at that.
He was also feeling a bit more physically rejuvenated now. Good thing, too. He wondered if Giles would have backed down at all had he known just how close to running on empty Spike had actually been during their confrontation. He had made a second stop at the only reliable all-night butcher in town; it certainly helped to clear his head. At least it offered a little spot of nourishment. Sure the shop proprietor didn't know him from Adam at this point in his rather screwy history, but eyebrows were bound to be raised at buying two quarts of pig's blood in one night. Luckily, just as he used to, the butcher didn't ask any unnecessary questions and Spike was able to get his second container of pig's blood quickly and leave. He managed to finish it and dispose of the Styrofoam cup before arriving back at the factory.
He felt a presence behind him as he shambled through the door, careful to inject just the right amount of drudgery into his steps. Spike did not, however, move to acknowledge his encroacher until he was addressed directly.
"Where you been?"
Spike turned and was greeted by a raised eyebrow and an almost too-innocent smile. He clenched his jaw until it throbbed and stared back at the bastard who had stepped out of the shadows.
Angelus.
And out of all the denigrating facial expressions in the ponce's repertoire, he was currently wearing Spike's least favorite. Back at Wolfram & Hart, Spike had constantly been subjected to that demeaning glare that said Angel couldn't give two sods. This one sent the same message, except Angelus said it with a smile.
Spike scowled at his grandsire like an angry dog. At least he didn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances as far as that was concerned. Chair-bound or not, he had never made any false pretenses to cover his hatred for the bastard. The exception being his playacting following the truce with Buffy, Spike had always worn his disdain outwardly and openly ever since Angelus had moved in on his life.
`Course right now – now that he was physically able – he wanted to do more than just glare daggers at him. Lots more. A violent amount of more. How often had Spike dreamed of a perfect moment like this while he’d been incapacitated? How often had he wished he could give the poof just what was coming to him for the torture he had endured while in that chair? At this point years ago, when Spike had first realized he was healing, he’d started to bide his time, waiting for just the perfect moment. But still . . . not a day went by that the nearly irresistible desire to lunge out of the chair and drill Angelus to the ground with a two-by-four didn’t flash through his head. The fact that he still couldn’t do it now was bloody ironic. But with Spike being the walking, talking anachronism that he was, he wasn’t sure how much it would effect the grand order of things should he decide to haul off and wail on the wanker the way Angelus deserved.
Even without the chair, Spike was biding his time, and hoping he could rely on the Watcher to come through with the information that he needed. Because if Spike found out that he’d been sent here for a reason by those sodding Powers That Be that Angel’s Soul Squad was constantly yammering about . . . . If drinking from that Cup of Perpetual Torment meant that he was supposed to square off against Angelus with his pins all strong and solid beneath him . . . . If saving creation and fulfilling that Shanshu Prophecy meant wiping that smarmy grin off the bastard’s face, Spike was going to do more than just surrender to his Champion-ly duty. He was going to bloody enjoy it.
Until he found out for sure, though, he had no choice but to try and play as close to actual history as he could – with a few minor, and unavoidable, alterations, of course. Spike glanced down at his legs beneath him, then looked back up, inhaling deeply. His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. He met Angelus’ eyes.
“What’s it to you?”
Angelus shrugged, sliding off the post upon which he had been leaning and taking a few steps closer. “Oh, come on, Spike,” he said with a sigh and an insincere smirk. “Can’t a guy show concern for his family?”
Spike snorted. “Oh, yeah,” he droned. “Bloody patriarch, you are. Funny how you couldn't give a toss about my comings and goings when I was still on wheels.”
It was Angelus’ turn to laugh, playful and nasty. "Really?" he said, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "It's funny to know you think that because your 'comings and goings,' Speed Racer? They looked an awful lot like ‘stayings’ to me." He grinned. "Didn't give me any reason to be concerned."
"You'd've loved that, wouldn't you?" Spike growled in response. "If it had stayed that way?" He turned and stalked deeper into the factory's main room, forgetting for a moment to infuse his gait with the appropriate amount of limp. He remembered after only a few steps and began lumbering heavily to pass the table at the center of the room.
Drusilla was sitting there like a rapt child, lacing threadbare strips of cloth through her fingers and humming tunelessly to one of her antique dolls, which was propped upon the table in front of her. Slowly she leaned forward and carefully adjusted the frayed ribbon of red material that had always hidden the doll's eyes. Then, she leisurely and methodically added one to its mouth, wrapping it around like a gag. "Shh, Miss Edith," she cooed. "No telling."
Spike halted his trudging steps, standing still beside the woman who had shared his existence for more than a century. The last time he'd seen her, it hadn't been her at all, but a shadow of The First. Knowing that, however, hadn't shielded him from the pangs of longing each time he had been presented with her incorporeal form. Even the soul, now, couldn't protect him from the bereft feelings that came with knowing he'd lost his dark rose forever. And his unwavering love for Buffy would never completely purge Drusilla from his heart. She would always be there, but it was different now. So different. He looked down upon her, no longer with the passion for an eternal love, but with pity for a cursed woman-child.
He still felt for her. Very strongly. But it was no longer the same.
She turned and smiled up at him, eyes twinkling between dark lashes. She had just finished binding her doll's wrists with yet another strip of fabric. "Look, Spike," she said, her voice as much a seductive growl as a maternal murmur. "Miss Edith's hands are tied."
Spike's jaw clenched as he stared down at her. He quickly averted his eyes from hers and shifted them hatefully to Angelus, who continued to stand there with that unholier-than-thou grin on his face. Without another word, Spike turned and continued on his way, toward the dilapidated office which had served as his room. He shouldered the door open and lumbered inside. Before he could pull it closed behind him, a hand reached out and caught its edge.
"Seriously, Spikey," Angelus muttered softly as he leaned toward Spike, buttressing his body against the door. His voice was a slide of silk through the air between them. "I'm worried about'cha. First time on your feet in how many months? Don't want to see you biting off more than you can chew. We almost didn't get you home last night." Another pleasantly insincere smile.
Spike had wanted to avoid any interaction with Angelus. Or at least any interaction that hadn't already been dictated by past events. But standing there, listening to the sanctimonious bastard and all his artificial concern was more than Spike could stomach. He'd had enough of Angel's self-righteousness back at Wolfram & Hart. He wasn't going to stand for it now from the Soulless Avenger. Spike squared his shoulders against his grandsire and tilted his head to regard him. His upper body angled in conjunction with his head as Spike took a step back in the other direction, coming to a stop a hand's span away from Angelus' face. "So, what? Is this you handing out the curfew, gramps? What's wrong? Worried?"
Spike's head tilted to the other side and he flashed a smile of his own. "Sure you are, but not about my well-being. Not feelin' so much like the alpha male now that Spike's got his pins all straight and solid again, are we?"
Across the room, Drusilla rocked her doll, and her tuneless song had begun to develop some lyrics:
". . . Daddy's gone a-hunting
Through the silver and the glass.
Where only night can enter,
And the spirit mustn't pass . . ."
Angelus' face darkened at Spike, the insane playboy façade melting away as quickly as if he'd shed his game face. "Watch yourself, William," he said, low and dangerous. Tiniest hints of his old Irish brogue seeped into his voice. "The wrong person might mistake that as a threat."
Spike recognized that voice. It was no longer the taunting and acerbic lilt that Angelus had donned in the months after losing his soul. No longer filled with playful derision and world-ending insanity. It was more calculated in that moment, more deliberate and harsh. It was the voice that Spike knew from the old Angelus, the one who was just as volatile, just as murderous . . . though not even half as crazy as the man before him had become.
Perhaps it's my advancing years that make me so forgetful, William. Remind me. Why don't we kill you?
Yeah. That was the one.
The sudden desire to show Angelus just how much of a threat he could be swelled up once again. Almost overwhelming him. So much of what his grandsire had done during this time – to Buffy, to the bloody Scoobies, certainly to himself, and even a fabricated flash here and there of Dawn – had Spike clenching and unclenching his fists to keep from doing anything rash. But holding back had never been Spike’s strong point.
In the end, however, he managed to reign in his temper. He merely snorted in disgust – Certainly no acting or pretending required there. – and turned away. "Sod off, pops."
Angelus’ voice was at his back. "You never answered my question."
Spike stopped walking after only a few paces. "And which one was that?"
"Where were you?" His grandsire's voice was again a slither of silk -- gentle, coaxing and cold.
Spike turned then and risked meeting Angelus' eyes full on. Until now, he had avoided holding the older vampire's gaze for any extended length of time. Windows to the soul, and all that. Spike cocked his head and for a moment the two men were motionless as sentient statues. The only sound filtering through the factory was the continuing nonsense of Drusilla's song.
". . . Daddy's gone a-hunting
For a beast he cannot bind.
Come, hear the lovelies weeping
For the bodies left behind . . ."
Spike took a step forward, walking slowly back toward Angelus. "Out," he said, finally and unequivocally, as though that, in itself, should have been answer enough. "Hunting down a spot of violence; feeling my legs under me again; grabbing a bit of nosh. Not to mention enjoying a bit of bloody liberation. And so, again, I ask . . ." He halted a few feet from the other vampire, accentuating his question with a raise of his chin. "What's it to you?"
"Spike, Spike, Spike." Angelus began to grin again and leaned against the doorjamb. He nonchalantly crossed his arms over his chest. "You've just got me concerned, is all. You're gone almost until dawn last night, and when you finally get back, well, let's face it," he said with a chuckle, "you looked like you'd been through the devil's wringer. Poor Dru had to practically drag you home." He shouldered himself off the metal frame of the door, taking slow prowling steps as he advanced toward Spike. "And then, tonight," he continued musingly, "again . . . gone to who-knows-where without a word. It's not that I'm worried about what happens to you, gimpy. I'm not . . . at all, actually. I just want us to understand each other." He stopped directly in front of Spike, his face emotionlessly calm and his voice dark and low. "The Slayer is mine. Got that? Willy? You stay the hell away."
Spike held Angelus' gaze for a moment, before snorting derisively and turning to trudge back into his room. "Oh, yeah," he said with a grin. "Bloody self-importance around here is just too damn funny. Now let me tell you something, Peaches." He turned back as the mordant smirk vanished from his face. "I've got as much claim to Buffy as you do."
Angelus' calm look turned to one of confusion as his eyes narrowed. "What did you say?" he asked softly, incredulously.
The sudden quiet suspiciousness of his grandsire left Spike abruptly and unexplainably tense. Not understanding what he might have said to spur such a reaction, he fought to cover his tracks. "Spent how long in that bleeding chair because of the bitch, didn't I?" Spike floundered. "So if you think you're the only one who has a right to—"
"No, I mean . . . ." Angelus snickered, his face filled once more with an amusement that caused his eyes to twinkle like moonlight on ice. "Did you just call her Buffy?"
Spike turned defensive. "It's the bint's name, innit?" he asked.
"Yeah," Angelus replied, as though speaking with a child. "But I don't remember you ever calling her that. Didn’t even know you knew it. For you it was always Slay-yahhh." He sighed out the last word in a bastardized British accent.
Spike's mind raced. He knew that Angelus was suspecting something. The Great Prat probably didn't even know what yet, but it didn't matter. If Spike wanted to derail those suspicions he knew he had to start covering his tracks. "Bollocks," he spat. "I may be in it for the rush, but I still put a little pride in my work. I can give you the name of any slayer I've ever faced."
"So do it." Angelus' voice dripped with incredulous challenge. "What was the name of the last slayer you fought?"
Spike's head tilted to the side. Any signs of defiance washed off his face and were replaced for a moment by an utter confidence that he wanted Angelus to see as he said the name. "Faith."
Angelus, however, didn't seem impressed. He chuckled sardonically. "Willy, Willy," he droned. "Even I know that's not true and I wasn't even there. But if you're going to assign your own names to the slayers you've killed, then that's your—"
"Didn't ask the name of the last slayer I killed," Spike returned bitingly. "You asked for the name of the last slayer I fought. And - assuming you're not referring to Goldilocks across town or the Caribbean Queen who showed up the day I landed in that bloody chair - her name was Faith." His eyes narrowed and the derisive smirk returned. "`Course if you're wanting the name of the last slayer I offed, mate, her name was Nikki. Nikki Wood."
Angelus didn't reply at first and that worried Spike. If there was one thing he knew about his grandsire it was that he was insightful. A regular ruddy Jung when it came to reading people. But Spike also knew that the best way to distract his focus was to keep him pissed off. That had certainly never been a problem. Spike's mocking grin widened. He took a step closer as he met Angelus' eyes. "What can I say?" he shrugged. "I'm a big believer in 'know thine enemy' and all that . . . Liam."
A shadow of fury flashed over Angelus’ face and the next thing Spike knew, he was being hauled upward by the lapels of his duster. He held his grandsire’s gaze from inches away for a timeless time, although some deep recess of his brain insisted pointedly as to how unwise that probably was. Something told Spike, however, that there was no real cause to worry. Angelus - of the Bipolar Disorder from Hell - despised the soul he had been cursed with. It wouldn’t be the first thing he’d look for in others. And there was something even more palpable in Spike’s aspect at that moment that Angelus would be far more likely to sense, something that radiated off him like heat from a summer-soaked pavement, regardless of how tempered the bleached vamp had become. It wouldn’t take much for Spike to mask the soul with hatred. Faced with Angelus, it was the easiest emotion in the world.
Spike held their gaze for a moment longer before wrenching himself harshly from his grandsire’s grip. He glared at the man before him, taking in all that he was, knowing what kind of disillusioned puppet he was going to become for Wolfram & Hart. Then he started to laugh -- rapid-fire tittering that would have done Drusilla proud.
Angelus sneered scorchingly back, no longer attempting to conceal his wrath with mirth. His eyes were licking flames of amber. “And just what is so funny, boy,” he hissed.
“Just how far the mighty can fall,” Spike returned facetiously, unable to reign in his previous desire to stay below Angelus’ radar. “Here I am, with my legs under me for all of a day, and already you think I'm gonna swoop down and deprive you of your fun with the Slayer. Well, isn't that just neat?" he mused with a smile. "You've been thinking you’re just the cock of the walk 'til now, but I know something that you just don't want to admit, old man.” He tilted his body toward the other vampire, continuing to smile softly as he nearly whispered, “That you're right. I can beat you when it matters. And I know it. Because I’ve got something you haven’t.”
“Really, Willy?” Angelus snarled. “Enlighten me.”
Across the room Dru’s lullaby filtered through the viscous electric air between the two vampires:
". . . Daddy's gone a-hunting
For the demons in the dark
To drain him of his hunter's heart,
And leave a killing spark."
Spike froze. His smile vanished; his momentum was suddenly gone. His eyes darted to where Drusilla was still sitting, rocking her doll motherly. She raised her gaze and smiled at him with a childlike innocence, then returned to Miss Edith and resumed her tuneless humming.
Spike's stomach clenched, even though he could tell she didn't know. He could see as much in her eyes and in her face. But her words, they were an eerie mirror of his own reflected back at him. Words from over a year ago.
They put the spark in me. And now all it does is burn.
Dru's insight had always been uncanny, even if she didn't always know exactly what it was she was grasping. This time, it had left him visibly thrown. His brain had reeled away from the conversation just long enough. Dru hadn't noticed, no; but Angelus certainly would have. Spike pushed his eyes back toward his grandsire and forced up another smirk, trying to regain his footing.
Angelus' expression was still hostile and impatient.
"I'm a motivated go-getter," Spike finally replied, his words flippant but his voice thick.
Angelus sniffed in annoyance, as though Spike's cavalier answer was undeserving of the time he had spent trying to extract it. After a moment, he closed in on Spike, leaning very near to his face. "Be careful, William," he hissed in a tone dense with the unspoken promise of violence. "As I said, wouldn't want you biting off more than you can chew." He seemed to push off the heavy air between them and stalk back into the belly of the factory, past Drusilla and into the shadows.
Spike exhaled and grabbed the door. He yanked it closed and then stood there for a moment without moving. "Royally pissing off Angelus," he finally mused aloud, staring into the dark corners of the room. "In terms of keeping a low profile, probably not your best plan."
He ran his hands through his hair and let them drop to his sides. Angelus was the least of his problems right now, he decided. No use worrying about it. Should probably try to avoid him, though, just to be sure. At the moment, Spike's main concern was whether or not Giles was going to come through with the research about the Shanshu Prophecy and the Cup of Perpetual Torment. And, of course, whether or not the Watcher would be willing to share the pertinent info.
Spike had never been a patient vampire. Even the soul hadn't changed that. And if there was one thing he knew about the Slayer's Scooby Gang, they were the same way when it came to investigating anything potentially risky. Drop a few words like "prophecy" and "torment" and "vampire who will save creation or destroy it" and there was no doubt in Spike's mind that they would make with the research as quickly as they could. And he wanted to be where he knew they'd find him if they managed to get their answers just as fast.
Sunrise wouldn't be for a while longer, but Spike was fairly certain that Dru and Angelus were convinced he was in for the day. He flipped the deadbolt on the door, walked over to the blackened window and pulled on the latch, easing it open with a gentle push. He slipped quietly through and closed it after him as he dropped down into the alley behind the factory.
* * *
The click of thin heels echoing through the hallway outside the room announced Buffy's arrival moments before she burst through the library doors. What Giles hadn't expected upon turning around to face her was Joyce's presence at her back. He stared for a moment, slightly startled, a book in one hand as he removed his glasses with the other. He took a breath to speak, but Buffy raised a halting finger.
"I know what you said over the phone, Giles," she announced. "I don't care if Spike is being Mr. Congeniality. Fact is, he can still get into my house. Mom is not staying there alone."
"Of course." Giles hurriedly put his glasses back on and pulled out a chair next to the one where Xander was sitting. "Please come in, Mrs. Summers." He gestured to the chair.
"Thank you," Joyce replied in a small voice as she stepped past Buffy and toward the table. She did not, however, move to take the seat Giles had offered. "And it's Joyce, please," she added. "I remember you, Mr. Giles."
"Rupert Giles, yes," he answered, extending a hand to her. "I'm—"
"Buffy's Watcher, I know," Joyce returned, her voice a bit stronger. She stood beside him with a stony expression, ignoring his outstretched hand. "She told me about what you and your – people – do, Mr. Giles."
Giles' eyes flickered briefly to Buffy. "Mrs. Summers – Joyce," he said, lowering his hand, "let me assure you that your daughter is a very strong and resourceful young woman. Her abilities are—"
"I don't have a problem with my daughter," Joyce interrupted. "I don't need you to tell me about her because I've seen her be brave and selfless and clear-headed in a crisis." Her eyes narrowed accusatorily. "What I do have a problem with is a group of, apparently, capable and knowledgeable adults thousands of miles away who tap a teenaged girl to do their dirty work. And I have a problem with being kept in the dark about it by a grown man who should know better."
"Mom," Buffy pleaded calmingly as Giles appeared to deflate on the spot.
Xander looked back and forth between the two adults, grasping desperately at something to say. He caught a glimpse of Willow out of the corner of his eye and saw that she seemed to have shrunk down into her chair uncomfortably, an oversized tome clutched in one arm and the puppy snoozing lazily in the other. He glowered at the animal. "Now here's where any real Scooby mascot worth his salt would do something wacky and madcap to break the tension," he grumbled.
Sunshine only yawned without opening its eyes.
"Joyce," Giles began soothingly, "I assure you, my only desire is to help your daughter in any way possible. It will always be my most important duty, and my life would be hers if the situation required it."
Buffy's mouth drew into a thin line at his words and she took a shaky breath. "Mom," she said gently and Joyce's attention turned to her. "Giles didn't force this on me. This Slayer gig? It would have happened with or without him being here. That's kind of what destinies do. Whatever power-that-be made me what I am, Giles has always been there to help me through it." Her eyes shifted to Giles and she managed a sober smile. "I wouldn't have made it this far without him."
Giles returned her smile, unable to control the warmth that flowed into it, and was rewarded with a comment from Xander about how if he "wasn't so British he'd be blushing right now." In the moment it had taken for him to collect himself, Joyce's attention was turned to him again. The woman still looked far from happy, but she nodded and belatedly held out her hand, which Giles accepted.
As Joyce moved to sit in the chair Giles had pulled out earlier, Buffy stepped around the table to take the seat beside Willow. "So," she announced as she eased down into it, "on the phone you said something about—" She broke off, her eyes falling on Willow and the dozy bundle nestled upon the girl's arm. Buffy's eyebrow stretched skyward. "'Splainy?"
"Oh!" Willow exclaimed brightly. "This is Sunshine."
"From your friends at the Evil Dead Doggy Rescue," Xander added.
"Huh?" Buffy's face scrunched quizzically.
"Spike," Giles clarified. "It seems he brought the animal as a kind of payment for some research he wished done."
"Is he serious?" Buffy said dryly.
"Thank you!" Xander cried, throwing his hands up into the air and arching back in his seat. "That was what I said, Buffster, but some people are too goo-goo with puppy-love to be outraged!"
Willow grimaced at Xander from across the table and hefted her book in front of her face, making a show of ignoring him.
"Giles, we're not seriously going to do Spike's . . . homework for him!" Buffy exclaimed. "Who knows what he plans on doing!"
"I quite agree," Giles said as he paced in front of the table. "However, given what Spike said about the prophecy in question, it seems we can't afford not to. He seemed to realize that the likelihood of us sharing our findings with him was slim, but it didn't stop him from asking."
"What prophecy?" asked Buffy.
"Spike called it the Shanshu."
"Gesundheit," interjected Xander and Giles rolled his eyes as though he had suffered through that particular joke one time two many.
"I've left a message with the Council," Giles continued. "They'll call me back when they have some information to send to us. In the meantime, we've been looking through the references we have on hand."
Buffy nodded and picked absently at her bottom lip. She noticed something on the table and reached out to slide it toward her. "What's this?" she glanced up at Giles.
Giles looked at the index card in her hand. "Spike left it," he said. "I'm not sure what it's supposed to mean."
"I am," Buffy replied. "Restfield . . . the big cemetery on the north side of town." She started to get up. "ALPERT. Obviously a tomb."
"Buffy," Joyce suddenly said pleadingly.
"Buffy," Giles echoed, realizing what she was doing. "I know what you're thinking, believe me, but it would be best for you to wait before rushing off to find Spike. You're right. We don't know what he's planning. And this tomb . . . if it is one . . . could be one of thousands. It may take you hours to—"
"It's the biggest crypt in a small cluster of mausoleums. Right near the middle of the cemetery."
Giles was taken slightly aback. "How do you know?"
Buffy's eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up, her face the very picture of 'duh!' "Do I even need to remind you where I go every night?"
Giles shook his head. "I still feel you should wait until we learn more about this prophecy. Spike also mentioned a Cup of—" he started, but was cut off by the ringing of the phone in the back office. He looked from it back to Buffy.
Buffy, however, was resolved. She turned to her mother, who was perched on the very edge of her chair. "Mom," she said, "stay here. You'll be safe with them."
"Buffy," Joyce murmured, but her daughter had already turned back to Giles as the phone continued to ring.
"It's okay," she said, nodding toward the insistent telephone. "You do your job. I'm going to go do mine." She turned and strode toward the library exit.
"Be careful," Willow called after her.
"Don't worry," Buffy replied, turning her head as she reached the doors. "And, trust me, if I don't like what Spike has to say for himself, then whether or not we decide to be all sharing with the prophecy info is going to be the least of his worries."
* * *
To be continued . . .
Note: Some lyrics of Drusilla's song were inspired by and adapted from Leonard Cohen's Hunter's Lullaby. The song was modified and changed to fit the story but, with the exception of a few altered lines, I did not write it.
I've left my Reversed Art-A-Thon fic alone for a few days as I powered through my inspiration for this one. Maybe now I can get back to that, too!
makd.) This is the bulk of the chapter. There's one more brief part to follow. The rest is here.
Enjoy!
(Chapter 8 – Part 2)
Spike had to remind himself to take some of the swagger out of his step as he entered the doors of the factory. He knew he should probably keep up appearances as far as Dru and his ponce of a grandsire were concerned, but he couldn't help it. Even with a soul, he still felt some self-satisfaction at being able to one-up the Watcher. The fact that he wasn't completely certain Giles would actually do as he asked didn't change his mood either. Oh, Spike was fairly confident that the man would research the Shanshu Prophecy and the Cup of Perpetual Torment -- the wanker was too pedantic not to. He just wasn't sure if Giles would be big with the sharing once everything was said and done.
Still, it was the only thing Spike could think of to figure out his present situation. Turning to the Watcher, a man who hated him in any time period, soul or no soul, was self-depreciating enough as it was. But Spike had gotten a few of his own licks in before the conversation with Rupert had finished; he felt some satisfaction at that.
He was also feeling a bit more physically rejuvenated now. Good thing, too. He wondered if Giles would have backed down at all had he known just how close to running on empty Spike had actually been during their confrontation. He had made a second stop at the only reliable all-night butcher in town; it certainly helped to clear his head. At least it offered a little spot of nourishment. Sure the shop proprietor didn't know him from Adam at this point in his rather screwy history, but eyebrows were bound to be raised at buying two quarts of pig's blood in one night. Luckily, just as he used to, the butcher didn't ask any unnecessary questions and Spike was able to get his second container of pig's blood quickly and leave. He managed to finish it and dispose of the Styrofoam cup before arriving back at the factory.
He felt a presence behind him as he shambled through the door, careful to inject just the right amount of drudgery into his steps. Spike did not, however, move to acknowledge his encroacher until he was addressed directly.
"Where you been?"
Spike turned and was greeted by a raised eyebrow and an almost too-innocent smile. He clenched his jaw until it throbbed and stared back at the bastard who had stepped out of the shadows.
Angelus.
And out of all the denigrating facial expressions in the ponce's repertoire, he was currently wearing Spike's least favorite. Back at Wolfram & Hart, Spike had constantly been subjected to that demeaning glare that said Angel couldn't give two sods. This one sent the same message, except Angelus said it with a smile.
Spike scowled at his grandsire like an angry dog. At least he didn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances as far as that was concerned. Chair-bound or not, he had never made any false pretenses to cover his hatred for the bastard. The exception being his playacting following the truce with Buffy, Spike had always worn his disdain outwardly and openly ever since Angelus had moved in on his life.
`Course right now – now that he was physically able – he wanted to do more than just glare daggers at him. Lots more. A violent amount of more. How often had Spike dreamed of a perfect moment like this while he’d been incapacitated? How often had he wished he could give the poof just what was coming to him for the torture he had endured while in that chair? At this point years ago, when Spike had first realized he was healing, he’d started to bide his time, waiting for just the perfect moment. But still . . . not a day went by that the nearly irresistible desire to lunge out of the chair and drill Angelus to the ground with a two-by-four didn’t flash through his head. The fact that he still couldn’t do it now was bloody ironic. But with Spike being the walking, talking anachronism that he was, he wasn’t sure how much it would effect the grand order of things should he decide to haul off and wail on the wanker the way Angelus deserved.
Even without the chair, Spike was biding his time, and hoping he could rely on the Watcher to come through with the information that he needed. Because if Spike found out that he’d been sent here for a reason by those sodding Powers That Be that Angel’s Soul Squad was constantly yammering about . . . . If drinking from that Cup of Perpetual Torment meant that he was supposed to square off against Angelus with his pins all strong and solid beneath him . . . . If saving creation and fulfilling that Shanshu Prophecy meant wiping that smarmy grin off the bastard’s face, Spike was going to do more than just surrender to his Champion-ly duty. He was going to bloody enjoy it.
Until he found out for sure, though, he had no choice but to try and play as close to actual history as he could – with a few minor, and unavoidable, alterations, of course. Spike glanced down at his legs beneath him, then looked back up, inhaling deeply. His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. He met Angelus’ eyes.
“What’s it to you?”
Angelus shrugged, sliding off the post upon which he had been leaning and taking a few steps closer. “Oh, come on, Spike,” he said with a sigh and an insincere smirk. “Can’t a guy show concern for his family?”
Spike snorted. “Oh, yeah,” he droned. “Bloody patriarch, you are. Funny how you couldn't give a toss about my comings and goings when I was still on wheels.”
It was Angelus’ turn to laugh, playful and nasty. "Really?" he said, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "It's funny to know you think that because your 'comings and goings,' Speed Racer? They looked an awful lot like ‘stayings’ to me." He grinned. "Didn't give me any reason to be concerned."
"You'd've loved that, wouldn't you?" Spike growled in response. "If it had stayed that way?" He turned and stalked deeper into the factory's main room, forgetting for a moment to infuse his gait with the appropriate amount of limp. He remembered after only a few steps and began lumbering heavily to pass the table at the center of the room.
Drusilla was sitting there like a rapt child, lacing threadbare strips of cloth through her fingers and humming tunelessly to one of her antique dolls, which was propped upon the table in front of her. Slowly she leaned forward and carefully adjusted the frayed ribbon of red material that had always hidden the doll's eyes. Then, she leisurely and methodically added one to its mouth, wrapping it around like a gag. "Shh, Miss Edith," she cooed. "No telling."
Spike halted his trudging steps, standing still beside the woman who had shared his existence for more than a century. The last time he'd seen her, it hadn't been her at all, but a shadow of The First. Knowing that, however, hadn't shielded him from the pangs of longing each time he had been presented with her incorporeal form. Even the soul, now, couldn't protect him from the bereft feelings that came with knowing he'd lost his dark rose forever. And his unwavering love for Buffy would never completely purge Drusilla from his heart. She would always be there, but it was different now. So different. He looked down upon her, no longer with the passion for an eternal love, but with pity for a cursed woman-child.
He still felt for her. Very strongly. But it was no longer the same.
She turned and smiled up at him, eyes twinkling between dark lashes. She had just finished binding her doll's wrists with yet another strip of fabric. "Look, Spike," she said, her voice as much a seductive growl as a maternal murmur. "Miss Edith's hands are tied."
Spike's jaw clenched as he stared down at her. He quickly averted his eyes from hers and shifted them hatefully to Angelus, who continued to stand there with that unholier-than-thou grin on his face. Without another word, Spike turned and continued on his way, toward the dilapidated office which had served as his room. He shouldered the door open and lumbered inside. Before he could pull it closed behind him, a hand reached out and caught its edge.
"Seriously, Spikey," Angelus muttered softly as he leaned toward Spike, buttressing his body against the door. His voice was a slide of silk through the air between them. "I'm worried about'cha. First time on your feet in how many months? Don't want to see you biting off more than you can chew. We almost didn't get you home last night." Another pleasantly insincere smile.
Spike had wanted to avoid any interaction with Angelus. Or at least any interaction that hadn't already been dictated by past events. But standing there, listening to the sanctimonious bastard and all his artificial concern was more than Spike could stomach. He'd had enough of Angel's self-righteousness back at Wolfram & Hart. He wasn't going to stand for it now from the Soulless Avenger. Spike squared his shoulders against his grandsire and tilted his head to regard him. His upper body angled in conjunction with his head as Spike took a step back in the other direction, coming to a stop a hand's span away from Angelus' face. "So, what? Is this you handing out the curfew, gramps? What's wrong? Worried?"
Spike's head tilted to the other side and he flashed a smile of his own. "Sure you are, but not about my well-being. Not feelin' so much like the alpha male now that Spike's got his pins all straight and solid again, are we?"
Across the room, Drusilla rocked her doll, and her tuneless song had begun to develop some lyrics:
". . . Daddy's gone a-hunting
Through the silver and the glass.
Where only night can enter,
And the spirit mustn't pass . . ."
Angelus' face darkened at Spike, the insane playboy façade melting away as quickly as if he'd shed his game face. "Watch yourself, William," he said, low and dangerous. Tiniest hints of his old Irish brogue seeped into his voice. "The wrong person might mistake that as a threat."
Spike recognized that voice. It was no longer the taunting and acerbic lilt that Angelus had donned in the months after losing his soul. No longer filled with playful derision and world-ending insanity. It was more calculated in that moment, more deliberate and harsh. It was the voice that Spike knew from the old Angelus, the one who was just as volatile, just as murderous . . . though not even half as crazy as the man before him had become.
Perhaps it's my advancing years that make me so forgetful, William. Remind me. Why don't we kill you?
Yeah. That was the one.
The sudden desire to show Angelus just how much of a threat he could be swelled up once again. Almost overwhelming him. So much of what his grandsire had done during this time – to Buffy, to the bloody Scoobies, certainly to himself, and even a fabricated flash here and there of Dawn – had Spike clenching and unclenching his fists to keep from doing anything rash. But holding back had never been Spike’s strong point.
In the end, however, he managed to reign in his temper. He merely snorted in disgust – Certainly no acting or pretending required there. – and turned away. "Sod off, pops."
Angelus’ voice was at his back. "You never answered my question."
Spike stopped walking after only a few paces. "And which one was that?"
"Where were you?" His grandsire's voice was again a slither of silk -- gentle, coaxing and cold.
Spike turned then and risked meeting Angelus' eyes full on. Until now, he had avoided holding the older vampire's gaze for any extended length of time. Windows to the soul, and all that. Spike cocked his head and for a moment the two men were motionless as sentient statues. The only sound filtering through the factory was the continuing nonsense of Drusilla's song.
". . . Daddy's gone a-hunting
For a beast he cannot bind.
Come, hear the lovelies weeping
For the bodies left behind . . ."
Spike took a step forward, walking slowly back toward Angelus. "Out," he said, finally and unequivocally, as though that, in itself, should have been answer enough. "Hunting down a spot of violence; feeling my legs under me again; grabbing a bit of nosh. Not to mention enjoying a bit of bloody liberation. And so, again, I ask . . ." He halted a few feet from the other vampire, accentuating his question with a raise of his chin. "What's it to you?"
"Spike, Spike, Spike." Angelus began to grin again and leaned against the doorjamb. He nonchalantly crossed his arms over his chest. "You've just got me concerned, is all. You're gone almost until dawn last night, and when you finally get back, well, let's face it," he said with a chuckle, "you looked like you'd been through the devil's wringer. Poor Dru had to practically drag you home." He shouldered himself off the metal frame of the door, taking slow prowling steps as he advanced toward Spike. "And then, tonight," he continued musingly, "again . . . gone to who-knows-where without a word. It's not that I'm worried about what happens to you, gimpy. I'm not . . . at all, actually. I just want us to understand each other." He stopped directly in front of Spike, his face emotionlessly calm and his voice dark and low. "The Slayer is mine. Got that? Willy? You stay the hell away."
Spike held Angelus' gaze for a moment, before snorting derisively and turning to trudge back into his room. "Oh, yeah," he said with a grin. "Bloody self-importance around here is just too damn funny. Now let me tell you something, Peaches." He turned back as the mordant smirk vanished from his face. "I've got as much claim to Buffy as you do."
Angelus' calm look turned to one of confusion as his eyes narrowed. "What did you say?" he asked softly, incredulously.
The sudden quiet suspiciousness of his grandsire left Spike abruptly and unexplainably tense. Not understanding what he might have said to spur such a reaction, he fought to cover his tracks. "Spent how long in that bleeding chair because of the bitch, didn't I?" Spike floundered. "So if you think you're the only one who has a right to—"
"No, I mean . . . ." Angelus snickered, his face filled once more with an amusement that caused his eyes to twinkle like moonlight on ice. "Did you just call her Buffy?"
Spike turned defensive. "It's the bint's name, innit?" he asked.
"Yeah," Angelus replied, as though speaking with a child. "But I don't remember you ever calling her that. Didn’t even know you knew it. For you it was always Slay-yahhh." He sighed out the last word in a bastardized British accent.
Spike's mind raced. He knew that Angelus was suspecting something. The Great Prat probably didn't even know what yet, but it didn't matter. If Spike wanted to derail those suspicions he knew he had to start covering his tracks. "Bollocks," he spat. "I may be in it for the rush, but I still put a little pride in my work. I can give you the name of any slayer I've ever faced."
"So do it." Angelus' voice dripped with incredulous challenge. "What was the name of the last slayer you fought?"
Spike's head tilted to the side. Any signs of defiance washed off his face and were replaced for a moment by an utter confidence that he wanted Angelus to see as he said the name. "Faith."
Angelus, however, didn't seem impressed. He chuckled sardonically. "Willy, Willy," he droned. "Even I know that's not true and I wasn't even there. But if you're going to assign your own names to the slayers you've killed, then that's your—"
"Didn't ask the name of the last slayer I killed," Spike returned bitingly. "You asked for the name of the last slayer I fought. And - assuming you're not referring to Goldilocks across town or the Caribbean Queen who showed up the day I landed in that bloody chair - her name was Faith." His eyes narrowed and the derisive smirk returned. "`Course if you're wanting the name of the last slayer I offed, mate, her name was Nikki. Nikki Wood."
Angelus didn't reply at first and that worried Spike. If there was one thing he knew about his grandsire it was that he was insightful. A regular ruddy Jung when it came to reading people. But Spike also knew that the best way to distract his focus was to keep him pissed off. That had certainly never been a problem. Spike's mocking grin widened. He took a step closer as he met Angelus' eyes. "What can I say?" he shrugged. "I'm a big believer in 'know thine enemy' and all that . . . Liam."
A shadow of fury flashed over Angelus’ face and the next thing Spike knew, he was being hauled upward by the lapels of his duster. He held his grandsire’s gaze from inches away for a timeless time, although some deep recess of his brain insisted pointedly as to how unwise that probably was. Something told Spike, however, that there was no real cause to worry. Angelus - of the Bipolar Disorder from Hell - despised the soul he had been cursed with. It wouldn’t be the first thing he’d look for in others. And there was something even more palpable in Spike’s aspect at that moment that Angelus would be far more likely to sense, something that radiated off him like heat from a summer-soaked pavement, regardless of how tempered the bleached vamp had become. It wouldn’t take much for Spike to mask the soul with hatred. Faced with Angelus, it was the easiest emotion in the world.
Spike held their gaze for a moment longer before wrenching himself harshly from his grandsire’s grip. He glared at the man before him, taking in all that he was, knowing what kind of disillusioned puppet he was going to become for Wolfram & Hart. Then he started to laugh -- rapid-fire tittering that would have done Drusilla proud.
Angelus sneered scorchingly back, no longer attempting to conceal his wrath with mirth. His eyes were licking flames of amber. “And just what is so funny, boy,” he hissed.
“Just how far the mighty can fall,” Spike returned facetiously, unable to reign in his previous desire to stay below Angelus’ radar. “Here I am, with my legs under me for all of a day, and already you think I'm gonna swoop down and deprive you of your fun with the Slayer. Well, isn't that just neat?" he mused with a smile. "You've been thinking you’re just the cock of the walk 'til now, but I know something that you just don't want to admit, old man.” He tilted his body toward the other vampire, continuing to smile softly as he nearly whispered, “That you're right. I can beat you when it matters. And I know it. Because I’ve got something you haven’t.”
“Really, Willy?” Angelus snarled. “Enlighten me.”
Across the room Dru’s lullaby filtered through the viscous electric air between the two vampires:
". . . Daddy's gone a-hunting
For the demons in the dark
To drain him of his hunter's heart,
And leave a killing spark."
Spike froze. His smile vanished; his momentum was suddenly gone. His eyes darted to where Drusilla was still sitting, rocking her doll motherly. She raised her gaze and smiled at him with a childlike innocence, then returned to Miss Edith and resumed her tuneless humming.
Spike's stomach clenched, even though he could tell she didn't know. He could see as much in her eyes and in her face. But her words, they were an eerie mirror of his own reflected back at him. Words from over a year ago.
They put the spark in me. And now all it does is burn.
Dru's insight had always been uncanny, even if she didn't always know exactly what it was she was grasping. This time, it had left him visibly thrown. His brain had reeled away from the conversation just long enough. Dru hadn't noticed, no; but Angelus certainly would have. Spike pushed his eyes back toward his grandsire and forced up another smirk, trying to regain his footing.
Angelus' expression was still hostile and impatient.
"I'm a motivated go-getter," Spike finally replied, his words flippant but his voice thick.
Angelus sniffed in annoyance, as though Spike's cavalier answer was undeserving of the time he had spent trying to extract it. After a moment, he closed in on Spike, leaning very near to his face. "Be careful, William," he hissed in a tone dense with the unspoken promise of violence. "As I said, wouldn't want you biting off more than you can chew." He seemed to push off the heavy air between them and stalk back into the belly of the factory, past Drusilla and into the shadows.
Spike exhaled and grabbed the door. He yanked it closed and then stood there for a moment without moving. "Royally pissing off Angelus," he finally mused aloud, staring into the dark corners of the room. "In terms of keeping a low profile, probably not your best plan."
He ran his hands through his hair and let them drop to his sides. Angelus was the least of his problems right now, he decided. No use worrying about it. Should probably try to avoid him, though, just to be sure. At the moment, Spike's main concern was whether or not Giles was going to come through with the research about the Shanshu Prophecy and the Cup of Perpetual Torment. And, of course, whether or not the Watcher would be willing to share the pertinent info.
Spike had never been a patient vampire. Even the soul hadn't changed that. And if there was one thing he knew about the Slayer's Scooby Gang, they were the same way when it came to investigating anything potentially risky. Drop a few words like "prophecy" and "torment" and "vampire who will save creation or destroy it" and there was no doubt in Spike's mind that they would make with the research as quickly as they could. And he wanted to be where he knew they'd find him if they managed to get their answers just as fast.
Sunrise wouldn't be for a while longer, but Spike was fairly certain that Dru and Angelus were convinced he was in for the day. He flipped the deadbolt on the door, walked over to the blackened window and pulled on the latch, easing it open with a gentle push. He slipped quietly through and closed it after him as he dropped down into the alley behind the factory.
The click of thin heels echoing through the hallway outside the room announced Buffy's arrival moments before she burst through the library doors. What Giles hadn't expected upon turning around to face her was Joyce's presence at her back. He stared for a moment, slightly startled, a book in one hand as he removed his glasses with the other. He took a breath to speak, but Buffy raised a halting finger.
"I know what you said over the phone, Giles," she announced. "I don't care if Spike is being Mr. Congeniality. Fact is, he can still get into my house. Mom is not staying there alone."
"Of course." Giles hurriedly put his glasses back on and pulled out a chair next to the one where Xander was sitting. "Please come in, Mrs. Summers." He gestured to the chair.
"Thank you," Joyce replied in a small voice as she stepped past Buffy and toward the table. She did not, however, move to take the seat Giles had offered. "And it's Joyce, please," she added. "I remember you, Mr. Giles."
"Rupert Giles, yes," he answered, extending a hand to her. "I'm—"
"Buffy's Watcher, I know," Joyce returned, her voice a bit stronger. She stood beside him with a stony expression, ignoring his outstretched hand. "She told me about what you and your – people – do, Mr. Giles."
Giles' eyes flickered briefly to Buffy. "Mrs. Summers – Joyce," he said, lowering his hand, "let me assure you that your daughter is a very strong and resourceful young woman. Her abilities are—"
"I don't have a problem with my daughter," Joyce interrupted. "I don't need you to tell me about her because I've seen her be brave and selfless and clear-headed in a crisis." Her eyes narrowed accusatorily. "What I do have a problem with is a group of, apparently, capable and knowledgeable adults thousands of miles away who tap a teenaged girl to do their dirty work. And I have a problem with being kept in the dark about it by a grown man who should know better."
"Mom," Buffy pleaded calmingly as Giles appeared to deflate on the spot.
Xander looked back and forth between the two adults, grasping desperately at something to say. He caught a glimpse of Willow out of the corner of his eye and saw that she seemed to have shrunk down into her chair uncomfortably, an oversized tome clutched in one arm and the puppy snoozing lazily in the other. He glowered at the animal. "Now here's where any real Scooby mascot worth his salt would do something wacky and madcap to break the tension," he grumbled.
Sunshine only yawned without opening its eyes.
"Joyce," Giles began soothingly, "I assure you, my only desire is to help your daughter in any way possible. It will always be my most important duty, and my life would be hers if the situation required it."
Buffy's mouth drew into a thin line at his words and she took a shaky breath. "Mom," she said gently and Joyce's attention turned to her. "Giles didn't force this on me. This Slayer gig? It would have happened with or without him being here. That's kind of what destinies do. Whatever power-that-be made me what I am, Giles has always been there to help me through it." Her eyes shifted to Giles and she managed a sober smile. "I wouldn't have made it this far without him."
Giles returned her smile, unable to control the warmth that flowed into it, and was rewarded with a comment from Xander about how if he "wasn't so British he'd be blushing right now." In the moment it had taken for him to collect himself, Joyce's attention was turned to him again. The woman still looked far from happy, but she nodded and belatedly held out her hand, which Giles accepted.
As Joyce moved to sit in the chair Giles had pulled out earlier, Buffy stepped around the table to take the seat beside Willow. "So," she announced as she eased down into it, "on the phone you said something about—" She broke off, her eyes falling on Willow and the dozy bundle nestled upon the girl's arm. Buffy's eyebrow stretched skyward. "'Splainy?"
"Oh!" Willow exclaimed brightly. "This is Sunshine."
"From your friends at the Evil Dead Doggy Rescue," Xander added.
"Huh?" Buffy's face scrunched quizzically.
"Spike," Giles clarified. "It seems he brought the animal as a kind of payment for some research he wished done."
"Is he serious?" Buffy said dryly.
"Thank you!" Xander cried, throwing his hands up into the air and arching back in his seat. "That was what I said, Buffster, but some people are too goo-goo with puppy-love to be outraged!"
Willow grimaced at Xander from across the table and hefted her book in front of her face, making a show of ignoring him.
"Giles, we're not seriously going to do Spike's . . . homework for him!" Buffy exclaimed. "Who knows what he plans on doing!"
"I quite agree," Giles said as he paced in front of the table. "However, given what Spike said about the prophecy in question, it seems we can't afford not to. He seemed to realize that the likelihood of us sharing our findings with him was slim, but it didn't stop him from asking."
"What prophecy?" asked Buffy.
"Spike called it the Shanshu."
"Gesundheit," interjected Xander and Giles rolled his eyes as though he had suffered through that particular joke one time two many.
"I've left a message with the Council," Giles continued. "They'll call me back when they have some information to send to us. In the meantime, we've been looking through the references we have on hand."
Buffy nodded and picked absently at her bottom lip. She noticed something on the table and reached out to slide it toward her. "What's this?" she glanced up at Giles.
Giles looked at the index card in her hand. "Spike left it," he said. "I'm not sure what it's supposed to mean."
"I am," Buffy replied. "Restfield . . . the big cemetery on the north side of town." She started to get up. "ALPERT. Obviously a tomb."
"Buffy," Joyce suddenly said pleadingly.
"Buffy," Giles echoed, realizing what she was doing. "I know what you're thinking, believe me, but it would be best for you to wait before rushing off to find Spike. You're right. We don't know what he's planning. And this tomb . . . if it is one . . . could be one of thousands. It may take you hours to—"
"It's the biggest crypt in a small cluster of mausoleums. Right near the middle of the cemetery."
Giles was taken slightly aback. "How do you know?"
Buffy's eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up, her face the very picture of 'duh!' "Do I even need to remind you where I go every night?"
Giles shook his head. "I still feel you should wait until we learn more about this prophecy. Spike also mentioned a Cup of—" he started, but was cut off by the ringing of the phone in the back office. He looked from it back to Buffy.
Buffy, however, was resolved. She turned to her mother, who was perched on the very edge of her chair. "Mom," she said, "stay here. You'll be safe with them."
"Buffy," Joyce murmured, but her daughter had already turned back to Giles as the phone continued to ring.
"It's okay," she said, nodding toward the insistent telephone. "You do your job. I'm going to go do mine." She turned and strode toward the library exit.
"Be careful," Willow called after her.
"Don't worry," Buffy replied, turning her head as she reached the doors. "And, trust me, if I don't like what Spike has to say for himself, then whether or not we decide to be all sharing with the prophecy info is going to be the least of his worries."
To be continued . . .
Note: Some lyrics of Drusilla's song were inspired by and adapted from Leonard Cohen's Hunter's Lullaby. The song was modified and changed to fit the story but, with the exception of a few altered lines, I did not write it.
I've left my Reversed Art-A-Thon fic alone for a few days as I powered through my inspiration for this one. Maybe now I can get back to that, too!
