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| Loose Ends |
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| Rating: NC-17 Award-Winner: Setting/Spoilers: AtS Season 5, generally -- and, Spike's "semi-canon" past (London, mid-1970s) Summary: An unexpected epilogue to an incident in Spike's past, inspired by a throwaway line from Buffy 7.8 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ever since his improbable return from the sinkhole-inducing, great fiery beyond, Spike had been contemplating loose ends. Not just that he was most definitely at them, but, that there were so many of which he was aware. Many had to do with Buffy, but not all of them. Dawn...he'd felt like perhaps her steely attitude towards him had softened towards the end, but they'd never really talked about any of it. Not that he had any idea what he'd say -- not that he even felt that he deserved her forgiveness or the return of her affection towards him. But that didn't stop him wanting those things. Joyce and Tara...he wished he'd gone once more to their gravesites, now unreachable, to say his final final good-byes to them. He still couldn't imagine the world without these two kind, empathetic, strong-willed, no-nonsense women in it. Women who, despite the illogic of it, gave a damn about him.... It wasn't all as maudlin as that. He'd participated in training those potentials at Ft. Summers...it would be nice to be able to check in on them to see what they'd done with it, now that they had the full Slayer cred going on. He'd heard about the backup that Andrew had called in on Operation Psycho Slayer, and would have liked to see and feel all that Slayer power concentrated in one place. Too bad he'd had his own troubles at that point and had missed out. But, honestly, plenty of those loose ends did revolve around Buffy. Still love's bitch..., he'd think to himself, and shake his head. Things reminded him of her -- the shampoo that one of the secretaries used, a new pair of shoes that Harmony had prattled on about the first day she'd worn them, a turn of phrase that he'd overhear that would catapult him back into her presence. And then, there were the unfinished stories. Over those last couple-three years, when they'd let their guards down just a bit, and talked like they weren't mortal enemies, they'd traded anecdotes from the past. True, he had a deeper pool of them, and a greater willingness to share, especially when they'd been seeing -- okay...doing -- each other, and he'd been more than a little desperate to pretend that they were a real couple. And then again, after his return from Africa and the school basement. But, too often, those stories were interrupted. He'd piss her off and she'd storm out of his crypt. Or, one of the Slayerettes would come out on the back porch and they'd clap up guiltily, having been caught in clandestine chumminess. Or their quiet, conversational night of patrol would be invaded by some baddy in need of killing and the threads just wouldn't be picked up again. Now, since memory was all he really had, he'd recall not having gotten to make his point, or give the punch line, or brag about his victory (or escape, depending). And then, there was the story that he'd thought was finished. Until it acquired an unexpected epilogue. And he'd wanted nothing more than to share it with her. It had happened when he'd been allowing this Doyle-Lindsey person to lead him about, playing the Dark Alley Crusader. He'd been canny enough to know there was something fishy about the setup, and figured he'd better do a little more to take care of himself. There was an old converted warehouse in one of the dive-y-er parts of LA that operated as a legitimate, but still on-the-edge, pseudo-rave dance club. Occasionally, they managed to book real acts onto their stage, and when they did, Spike would act as extra security. It was a strictly back-door, cash-and-carry arrangement with the management. But, it provided him with a bit of independent dosh, no questions asked. He'd been sent by D-L's "visions" into this particular neighborhood twice, and so had started patrolling through it on his own impetus. Just as the alleyway behind the Bronze had been a favorite place for vamps and other nightcrawlers to troll for a tasty morsel, this club had a dark lane that attracted the undead and unhuman. Not especially surprising, really. Anywhere that people gathered in large numbers, at night, especially if there was a chance their judgment might be impaired by booze or drugs, made for a good feeding ground. Spike ought to know. He used to prowl the same sort of venue himself. Enjoy the excitement, create a little of his own, and enjoy a meal on the way out. A scenario that dovetailed, ironically, with the crux of this particular belatedly finished tale. ~ / ~ The violent notes ricocheted off the dark, damp walls, reverberating back at the stage where four young men vomited their rage into the heavy, dank air of the club. As musicians, they were simplistic and unpracticed. But the dissonance of the notes, the grating, sneering vocals, were for both the audience and the band the equivalent of mainlining riot and revolution. It was a big enraged communal anarchy trip. It was electric; his teeth quivered and itched, and the demon inside growled low in anticipation. Spike slunk along the edges of the dirty room, breathing in the must of decades and the tang of sweaty, disaffected, pheromone-laden fury that was continually intensified by the music that assaulted the sense, and which, in turn, spurred the band to new heights of cacophony. It was a thing of beauty. And at the same time, he laughed at them. They imagined they knew animal rage -- pure, uninhibited violence. They were children too bored and privileged to realize how good they had it; how little they truly had to rage against; how ill-equipped they were to utterly give themselves over to it, to become its instrument and its creator, to incite it as easily and as thoughtlessly as they breathed or spoke. He looked them over with the superiority of knowing that he was the king of the beasts in this room. Those who imagined themselves to be the agents of chaos were still bounded by their tiny little experiences. One of them would encounter the real thing before the night was over. But it was early yet, so he hung back, reveling in the charged atmosphere, his senses humming. His eyes fell briefly on a young woman at the pinnacle of exhibitionism, wearing torn leggings with braces over a brassiere whose cups had been cut away, leaving her tits hanging out. Neh, too obvious ~ tryin' too hard...a real go-er don't flaunt it quite so.... Besides, she seemed attached at the hip to a cadre of chums, ranging from a fairly average-looking pale boy in a black leather jacket to a young man in fishnet stockings and heeled shoes being led around by a leash. It might be tough to separate her from the herd. He moved on, visually sifting the crowd until he spied a blond girl, 20-ish. She appeared to be by herself, and had given herself over to the energy seething around her. Her eyes were closed, and she moved with the beat of the music, not dancing -- "dancing " implied a coherence to which the music didn't even bother to aspire. But, she channeled the driving chords and ragged notes through her body in an ecstasy of interpretive movement. Yes, she was the one. He could already feel the curve of her hips under his hands, and the yielding skin of her neck. ~ / ~ He'd heard of the band by chance, on a regular visit to a curious clothing shop in King's Road. It had been not long before he had brought Dru to the U.S.ofA. for the second time -- he recalled it as either '75 or '76. Not like he owned a calendar. But by his reckoning, it was somewhere in there. They'd been back in London. Wherever they roamed, they always seemed to end up back there -- where they'd each been born, both times, in fact -- as humans and as vampires. She'd spent much of this particular sojourn caught up in "reliving" her last months as a human. She seemed drawn to churches and the very few Church of England convent houses, including the one that had been her own, all those years ago. Spike had accompanied her as often as his patience allowed, but he would just never draw the same satisfaction as she did from the symbolism she assigned the games that she played with her food before she ate. he loved her, but he'd never understand how that beautiful, broken, depraved mind of hers worked. Besides, all those middle-aged holy women were so bland. Generally, they hadn't a lot of fight in them, just a devout acceptance that this had been foreordained by the almighty, and it was their duty to accept it. Not that they weren't properly terrified -- they were. But the fact that they didn't get that he was an independent operator in the universe, rather than the pawn in some divine predestination, was insulting. What'd they think? He'd wondered, that they'd done something so evil themselves that He'd decided they deserved this as punishment? Else, if they held to this 'loving God' as they claimed, how to explain an end so vile, from their perspective, anyway? Those meals were sustaining, but not especially enjoyable. So, more and more, they'd hunted separately. And while Dru was visiting the past, and dining on the meek and the good, Spike was exploring in a whole other direction. He'd taken a fancy to bleach his hair not long before they'd come home to England, having eaten an albino in Italy, and appreciated the way the fellow stood out in the crowd. All the better to see you...as the fairy story said. |
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