What the L Happened?

Author: Keswindhover ([email protected])

Summary: Am-Chau has come up with the delightful idea of an B-space where all basements meet, enlarging on Terry Pratchett's notion of an L-space where all libraries meet.  This is what happens one day when Spike and Angel find their basements are connected.

Rating: G
 

Fandom: Buffy/Angel
 

Warnings: n/a
 

Spoilers: Set after 'Never Leave Me' in season 7 of 'Buffy' and 'Habeas Corpus' in season 4 of 'Angel'.

Title, Author and URL of original story:  Am-Chau Yarkona's 'Boys in the Basement' (Set during part 2)

http://am-chau.popullus.net/Stories/boysinthebasement.htm

“Is this real?”

Angel looked about him.  He’d become a bit of a connoisseur of crappy basements over the years, and this was a classic.  Dirty yellowish walls, and a low ceiling crisscrossed with pipes large and small, wrapped in dirty rags and ancient masking tape, which dripped rusty water onto piles of packing cases and collapsing boxes.

Everything was grey and heavy with dust and cobwebs, and there was a stink of damp, and a fainter scent of dry rot - somewhere in here the timber and plaster were falling to a relentless march of fungi.  And there were rats; he smelled their urine, and the sharp musk of their little warm-blooded bodies.  His eyes narrowed.

“Not up to your standards, Liam old son?”

Angel’s head whipped round.  Spike was standing next to him, smelling of fresh blood. 

He hadn’t been there a second ago.

Spike gestured broadly.  “Looks like just your sort of place to me.  Dim, depressing ambience, total absence of creature comforts.”  He pointed.  “And all the necessary facilities.”

Angel’s eyes followed his gesture.  Set into the brickwork at the nearest side of the room there were manacles and neck chains, with a dark stain on the wall beneath them.

“Cuffs and collars for those special occasions. Just your sort of place,” said Spike, again.

“Yeah.  Too good to be true,” Angel spoke loudly, not looking at Spike, but staring challengingly into the dark. His voice boomed outwards into the gloom, and bounced back at them, “... true, true.”

Spike tilted his head, listening to the echo.  His lip quirked.  “Think we’ve got an audience, do you?”

Angel frowned.  “This isn't my basement.  I came down here to think." He gestured vaguely.  "There's fire falling from the sky in Los Angeles right now, you know, and some other apocalyptic stuff - I wanted to think about it, in my basement.  But this isn't it."

"Often think about stuff in your basement, do you?" said Spike.  He shifted restlessly. "But I take your point.  (I just like those better as separate sentences.) This isn't my basement either."  He stamped on the concrete floor.  "Mine's a bit more down to earth, and roomy.  And cold." He shivered for a moment, and touched his chest.  Hidden beneath his coat there were ugly lacerations.

He blinked and looked around him, at the looming, shrouded piles of boxes. "Something tells me we're not in Kansas anymore."

“No," said Angel thoughtfully, inhaling deeply. "Know what this smells like?"

"Rat's piss and dry rot," said Spike helpfully, "Unmistakable."

"Apart from that."

Spike frowned, and then drew a deep inhalation of his own.  "Blimey," he said, after a long moment.  He stepped up to a tottering pile of cardboard boxes, grabbed the nearest, smoothed the dust away, and read the side of the box.  TESCO BAKED BEANS IN TOMATO SAUCE - NO ADDED SUGAR. 

"Well, well," muttered Spike, "if we aren't in dear old England."  He looked up, "Or it could be Wales, to be fair.  Hard to tell them apart by smell, contrary to rumour."

"I wonder where that door leads," said Angel, pointing.  "I came in by it." 

"So did I," said Spike.  They looked at each other.

"Interesting door," said Spike lightly. 

They moved to the door together, and stood one on either side.  Angel put his hand on the doorknob, and Spike tensed himself to jump.  "Whoa, boy!" said Angel, "There could be some huge black hole or maw of hell or something behind here.  Look before you leap, okay, dummy?"  He paused for a moment, and then threw open the door.  Spike peered cautiously around the doorjamb.

"Steps," he said, "As in standard concrete steps leading down into a basement sort of steps.  Not my basement steps, though." 

Angel looked over his shoulder. "Or mine," he said grimly. "And I so do not have time for this.  Los Angeles is on fire, and my girlfriend's screwing my son!  Checking out Limey basements full of baked beans is not what I should be doing."

"Didn't know you had a son - or a girlfriend," said Spike, only mildly interested.  He set off up the stairs.

Angel gritted his teeth. "It's a long story," he began.  But he was speaking to Spike's retreating back.  He stopped, offended, and then after a final annoyed glance at the basement, he started up the steps after Spike.

..........

"Nice!" said Spike. 

The basement steps had lead out into a deserted, dusty warehouse, and it had been a moment's quick work for them to force the barred and padlocked door, and step outside into a cold starlit night.  "This is proper darkness, this is," said Spike approvingly, taking a deep breath of cold night air.  And indeed, there was not a single white spot of a security light, or a fuzzy orange nimbus of neon in sight.  The entire road full of warehouses where they stood was in total darkness.

"There's something wrong," said Angel, after a minute.

"Course there's something's bloody wrong," said Spike impatiently.  "We wouldn't be here otherwise, would we?"

"Oh good, you're here."

Angel and Spike whirled, each falling into a defensive crouch.  Standing behind them was a small grey haired lady wearing a 1940s twin set and a tailored tweed jacket. Pinned to her lapel was a frankly rather unfortunate brooch in the form of a small Scottie with a bow round its neck.  Her feet were clad in bright white trainers with a fluorescent stripe down the sides, and she was carrying a scimitar that she had rested gently on her right shoulder, sharp edge upward.  Starlight glittered off the cutting edge.

"Demon!" said Angel and Spike together.

"Oh dear, is it obvious?" the lady said ruefully.  She looked down at herself and pointed an embarrassed trainer clad toe.  "I did wonder if I wasn't a bit out of period."  She held out her left, unencumbered hand, "Elinora Climpson, inter-dimensional traveller, at your service."

"Why have you brought us here?” demanded Angel angrily, ignoring the hand. “I was real busy in Los Angeles.”

"And me in Sunnydale," said Spike, less convincingly.

"Oh, I know, said the Miss Climpson sympathetically.  "You're both frightfully busy, and frightfully important, and you're both about to undergo a whole series of really terrible trials in the forthcoming battle between Good and Evil.  It's ever so exciting meeting you really."

"Hang on," said Spike indignantly, "I've only just undergone a series of terrible trials." He pointed to his bruised and battered face, and to the bloodstains beginning to spot his ugly blue shirt.

"No rest for the wicked, eh?" said Miss Climpson, flashing him a professional smile. She turned in a split second, and drew the scimitar through the air with a faint whisper.  Angel, who had been advancing on her stealthily, fell back, clutching his nose, blood leaking between his fingers.

 "Tsk," said Miss Climpson reprovingly. She gestured again, and her scimitar transformed itself into a capacious tapestry handbag.  She pulled out a handkerchief, which she offered to Angel, and a Polaroid photograph, which she handed to Spike.  "I need you boys to go and get this piece of jewellery for me - from there."  She pointed, and the row of warehouses mysteriously faded from view, to reveal a large, very familiar building.

"Oh no," said Spike, shaking his head vigorously.

"No way," said Angel, looking up through watering eyes.

"Yes way," said Miss Climpson.  She giggled.  "Isn't that what the kids are saying these days? It's rather fun."  She reached into her handbag again and tossed a complicated net of knotted string on the ground.  Spike leapt backward with a yell.  "Too late," she said, not smiling anymore.  "The spells were woven hours ago."  She drew herself up to her full height, and intoned.  "I call geas upon you both, that you find this item and restore it to me, within the next ..." she looked at her watch, "the next 20 minutes."

"That's a very short geas," said Angel, suspiciously.

"Time is short, said Miss Climpson absently, looking at her watch again.  "And 19 minutes.  Go, go!  I'll dampen all their magic shields for the next 240 seconds." She pointed imperiously, and Angel and Spike felt their feet dragging them inexorably forward, as the warehouses rushed past them on either side in a rapid blur.

"I am not going in that place," said Angel between gritted teeth, even as his feet flew forward.  "It's like asking a turkey to make a daring raid on a poultry factory."

"Gobble, gobble," said Spike, and he finally stopped fighting the irresistible force moving his feet, and began to crouch stealthily as he glided rapidly up the road.  His lips drew back from his teeth in a sort of feral grin, "This is sort of fun in an utterly crazy and suicidal way," he said cheerfully, "and once we've got the necklace thingie," he tapped his pocket where the picture resided, "and got back to the warehouse, we have a miniscule chance of ripping Miss Elinora Climpson's head off and drinking her green demon blood - assuming it's not made of carbolic acid or anything." 

Angel said nothing, but he ducked his head, the better to lurk along with Spike, as the building rushed out at them in the darkness.  They came to an abrupt halt, and looked up at the portico, which was inscribed Dominus illuminatio mea.

"Welcome to the Watcher's Council," said Angel grimly.

..........

"Run!" shouted Angel, himself running full tilt out of the back door of the Watcher's Council building.

"I am bloody running!" yelled Spike.

As they crossed the courtyard, there was a whoomp! and a bang! and the building behind them erupted in a huge explosion of yellow and orange flame. Angel and Spike flew through the air, and landed, battered and deafened, 30 feet away.  Angel got shakily to his feet, twisted around, and beat out a small flame on the back of his jacket.

"What the frigging hell happened?" yelled Spike.  He looked back. "We didn't do that, did we?"  

"Nope," said Angel grimly.  "All we did was steal this."  He rustled in his pocket, and drew out a mysterious heavy golden medallion.

"Oh, well done," said Miss Climpson, materialising beside him.  This time she was wearing a lilac shell suit, and diamante glasses.  She snagged the medallion from Angel's hand, and ducked his punch in one impossibly sinuous movement, then disappeared, and re-materialised several yards away, wagging a reproving finger.

"Very responsive to Champions, this little bauble," she said, holding it up and admiring it, "and you are definitely Championship material, both of you."  She smiled encouragingly at them both.  "You'll be seeing this again."  She looked across at the smoking ruin of the Watcher's Council and her smile disappeared.  "And so the wheel turns," she said, with an air of finality.  "But still, not everything Someone thought would be lost, has been." She dropped the medallion into her handbag and closed it with a snap. "You can find your own way back," she said, "down the basement stairs, turn left in the L space - or right, it doesn't really matter.  All the same, in one sense.  It's hard to explain, except ..."  She paused, "Do either of you read Terry Pratchett?" she said hopefully. 

Her only answer was a low rumbling growl from Spike. 

"Never mind."  Miss Elinora Climpson looked down at them as they sprawled, smoke stained, deafened and exhausted in front of her.  "I expect you're kept  too busy to have much chance to read modern literature," she said kindly, "and all you really need to know is that you go back down into the basement and the dimensions will unfold themselves." And then she gave them a little wave, and disappeared.

"Patronising cow," said Spike, trying to lever himself up from the ground.

"I read the Los Angeles Times Literature Review," said Angel defensively.  "Sometimes." He dragged Spike to his feet. "But I have the feeling there may not be an edition this week.  I need to get back to LA now!"   And he set off grimly for the warehouse basement, followed by a limping Spike.

They descended the basement stairs in a strained silence, painful step by step.

"You think the Watcher's Council really did explode?" said Spike suddenly, "In our dimension I mean? Or did we get dragged into someone else's fight?"

"What?" said Angel absently, "Watcher's what?"

"Council," said Spike.  He stood on the last step of the stairs and looked around him uncertainly. "Miss Clim ... thingie."

But Angel wasn't paying attention. "I can't remember what I came down here for now," he said. "I need to find Wesley, and the guys."

Spike looked around him. "This basement looks odd," he said.  He looked at the chains on the wall, "Well, those aren't even the right chains," he said, disapproval in his voice. 

"And where's the cage gone?" said Angel.

They looked at each other, "And what are you doing in my basement?" they said, simultaneously.

Angel turned and stalked away to the left, as Spike turned and stalked away to the right.  The dust in the cellar shifted and sighed, as each of them faded into the darkness, around the L. 

The End

Note: In Am Chau's story, Spike and Angel find this basement a number of times, and it's my contention that each time they do, Miss Climpson sends them on an errand and then ensures they forget all about it.

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