Poetry in Motion: Poetry in Motion
by Heroes Team
Heroes, Episode 1.07: Poetry in Motion
by SoulVamp
The humans were all occupied with the petty concerns of their lives and the lives of their allies. Alexander had resisted her attempts to converse that afternoon, saying that he wished to locate an appropriate domicile without her assistance. She was not aware of the present location of Spike, who would have provided some measure of amusement or helped her with combat strategies. The last thing she wanted to do was resort to engaging any of the females in communication - not only did she believe they would resist, but she found them all to be insipid and grating.
The witch was ill, that much Illyria had gathered. Something had befallen her that was of a dire nature. The strident, fair-haired one had been by her side for many hours, giving her nutrients whenever the witch emerged from sleep. It seemed strange to Illyria that one who was purported to be strong, what they called a "slayer," should fail to understand the nature of the witch's malady. To Illyria, it seemed obvious that no amount of food and liquid would help alleviate the symptoms, but the slayer seemed determined to approach the problem from a physical standpoint. Illyria had given up attempting to reason with the lesser beings. If they wanted a logical answer to a question, they would seek her out and ask her. That's what she did with Alexander, after all - she had a question, and she voiced it. He didn't go rushing to her to offer responses to inquiries she hadn't made, so it was not her responsibility to do the same to the slayer or the witch.
Presently, Illyria wanted nothing more than to remove herself from the dwelling. The confines of walls and floors and tiny rooms had seemed perfectly adequate for several weeks, but now it was as if the individual chambers had shrunk. Wood and glass and plaster almost breathed, swelling inward in dizzying, convex curves that pressed against each other in the corners, making the rooms smaller until she felt the walls would slam into her body and press her flat.
In the days before words or man, there had been creatures without dimension, flattened and thin like slices of meat. Illyria never found them very interesting, and she did not want the shell's bones and tendons molded into that format. Thus, she had to get out of this place, this apartment. She had to suck fresh oxygen into the lungs of this body, and she had to be able to lift her eyes upward and see sky.
Her form had residual memories of this sensation, and there were words associated with it: "boredom," "claustrophobia," "ennui," "melancholy." She understood that the walls were not actually pressing in upon her, that it was an illusion brought on by these half-light sorts of feelings she so loathed. It did not change the fact that Illyria had to get outside and do something purposeful, something that would remind her who and what she really was. It tired her to be viewed as nothing but a curiosity or, worse, a nuisance.
She was a god-king. She was not like them, and she must remain separate.
Illyria walked through the tree-lined streets slowly but kept her senses engaged. Even as she paused near a copse of shrubbery to watch as the sun set, she remained alert. Every muscle was tensed, every inch of her at the ready. With less than a second's notice, she could spring into action, fighting off enemies of any kind.
The only thing she failed to do was look behind her, because the vampires came from the rear.
She spun around, brown and blue strands of hair streaming out like a fan around her face, her fists connecting with jaws and fangs. Their numbers were many, however, and before she could commence tearing heads from necks, a sharp, heavy blow struck her.
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The sun had disappeared, and now it was deathly quiet and almost completely dark. Spike sat in a corner of the empty apartment with his legs folded beneath him on the dusty hardwood floor. A half-consumed bottle of Jagermeister sat on the windowsill. He took a drag from his cigarette and pitched the butt out the open window, watching the flame of the cherry spiral out into the late-summer night.
Just as Spike was reaching for the bottle of Jager, he heard a noise in the hallway. The sound barely qualified as a footstep -- it was so soft that it was clear the person on the other side of the apartment door was trying desperately not to be heard.
Spike drew his hand back from the windowsill and promptly rose to his feet. He waited, listening, for a few seconds until at last his ears caught the unmistakable, rhythmic pulse of a human heartbeat.
For a moment, Spike considered whether to bother to see who was in the hallway. His eyes darted about the apartment quickly, taking in the barren state of the living room. Well, he thought, at the very least, this might give me a spot of entertainment.
He was across the room and pulling open the door an instant later. A very startled Dawn stood before him.
Spike cringed. "Sorry, didn't mean to give you a fright."
"A fright?" Dawn asked. "More like a coronary." She placed a hand on her chest and exhaled slowly.
"What're you doin' skulkin' about this late?"
"I wasn't skulking," Dawn replied. "Where does that word come from anyway? Skulking? It sounds like somebody's digging up skulls or something. What does digging up skulls have to do with sneaking around?" She let out a small, musical giggle. "Actually, I guess if you're digging up skulls, you'd better be sneaking around."
"Find any good skulls, then?" The vaguest hint of a smile played across Spike's mouth.
Dawn rolled her eyes. "I was just gonna say good night to Gunn before I took off, but he was already asleep so..." She shrugged. "So yeah, skulking, sneaking, whatever. But no skulls."
"It's late. You'd do well to get some sleep." Spike turned from the doorway slightly, but stopped when Dawn took a step forward.
"You, uh... you okay in there?" she asked hesitantly. "I mean, I don't wanna pry or anything, but... dark empty room? Not exactly super fun times. You're not just sitting around in there being all broody, are you?"
"Not a bit of it," Spike said. "I've been... doing things."
Dawn's eyes narrowed. "Like what?"
Spike sighed wearily and studied Dawn for a long moment before replying. "Reading," he finally said. "Reading and playing with that bloody video game whatsit. And doin' lots of --"
"Drinking?" Dawn interrupted.
"No," Spike protested quietly.
"I can smell it on you," she countered.
Spike didn't answer. He moved further into the apartment, away from the door, willing himself to melt into the shadows. Times like this, wish I could summon up a trap door and just drop out of any situation what gets too uncomfortable, he thought bitterly.
Behind him, Spike heard Dawn exhale slowly, her heartbeat slowing. There was a barely perceptible shifting sound, something like cloth and muscles and the gentle brushing of skin against wood. He turned his head and saw that Dawn was now leaning against the door frame. She was in silhouette, backlit by the low-watt bulbs in the hallway ceiling, leaving her features dark and unreadable. Her long, dark hair reflected and shone eerily in the dim, golden light.
"Look like an angel, you do," Spike said. His voice came out slightly hoarse, and he felt a lump forming in his throat.
"What's wrong?" Dawn asked. "I know, I probably have no right to push you, but... well, you tried to, you know, reach out and stuff a few weeks ago, so maybe if we..." She cleared her throat. "I mean, if you want to, like, be friends again, even after everything that's happened or whatever, friends sort of tell each other stuff. Even the bad stuff."
"Dawn --"
"Don't tell me I'm too young to hear the worst of it." Dawn's tone was edgy and defiant. "How old was Buffy when you first met her?"
"Younger than you are."
"Everyone goes around trying to protect me from everything, but you know what? I've seen enough to be more than a little jaded by now," Dawn said. "So if you're in a hugely bad place, I... I just mean, sometimes it helps to talk about it. And right now, I'm here. I'm good with the listening."
Spike turned away from her again, his eyes stinging. "You wanna know `bout it? Long horrible story that it is?"
"You've been acting even weirder than you did when you came back from getting your soul," Dawn pointed out. "Like you're here, but you're not. Like you're..."
"A ghost," Spike supplied.
Dawn didn't say anything, but it seemed the air in the room suddenly grew heavier.
"I was one, you know?" Spike went on. "For months, was just walkin' through walls all bloody day. Great existence, that."
Spike heard Dawn move further into the room and stop just a few feet from him.
"Tell me about it," she said softly. "Tell me about it, all the bad stuff. I want to know what happened in L.A."
Spike chuckled. "Oh, little one, the bad stuff started long before I found m'self in L.A.," he said. "Bad stuff started with why I went to get my soul in the first place and didn't let up `til..." He paused for a moment, blinking hard. Spike turned around abruptly and looked at Dawn, his expression desperate and weary. "Thing is, it never did let up," he finished. "I can put on a show of it for a while and what have you, make people think nothin' matters to me, but the things I've seen... the things I've lost..."
"You saved our lives," Dawn said. "And you helped with the whole taking-out-the-evil-law-firm thing. If it weren't for you, there's a bunch of people who might be dead right now."
"So I'm a champion? No, that's Angel." His gaze shifted to a vague point across the room. "Only been a couple of folks ever called me that anyway. One seems to want to avoid me like the sodding plague, and the other's rather a bit dead."
"Who..."
Spike gave Dawn a warning look, and she quieted. "Fine, you want to hear everything that happened? I'll tell you," he said. "Ought to sit down for this; it'll take a goodly long while."
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Angel didn't immediately register what was happening, but instead thought to himself - somewhat ridiculously - that the sound of a doorknob hitting a filing cabinet was really freaking loud. It was especially loud if the person who'd made the door burst open with that much force was incredibly pissed off. That was definitely the state of mind of the figure standing in his office. Sure, her expression was the same as it always was, which... the more he thought about it, it really was a look of being perennially annoyed. But more than that, Illyria looked like somebody had messed with her, and she wasn't happy.
"I encountered a number of your kind this evening," she told him in her usual curt manner. "I wish to remove them from existence."
"You found some vampires?"
"They used a foreign object to connect with my skull, which accelerated my brain and induced unconsciousness."
Angel raised his eyebrows. "Uh... what?"
She quirked her head to one side. "You are not familiar with the methodology by which a body loses animation? A similar effect is achieved by strangulation, though that more often results in death. The shell is already dead, therefore I am still ambulatory."
Angel stood up and approached Illyria. Once he was closer, he could see a bruise along the side of her jaw. "Okay, so you got jumped by a vampire gang. Did you see where they went? How many of them were there?"
"They were not in my proximity any longer once I had awoken," Illyria replied. "I believe there were six of them, all males."
Angel plucked his jacket off the back of his chair. "Show me where you were when they attacked you."
Illyria regarded Angel oddly. "It is a warm evening. I don't believe you require that garment."
Angel looked mildly wounded. "I know, but I... I get cold even when..."
Huge, ice blue eyes blinked at him.
"Okay, fine, it just looks imposing," Angel admitted. "There. Are you happy now?"
Angel could've sworn that for the tiniest fraction of a second, Illyria actually smiled.
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Matruska tightened the belt on her robe. It was chilly for late August, but that was the English countryside for you, especially this early in the morning. Shivering, she put the kettle on the stove and busied herself with readying a simple breakfast of toast and jam.
There was a tinny sound from the other room. Instantly, Matruska looked up from the counter, her eyes fixed on the darkened hallway. She heard a muffled voice speaking low and somewhat anxiously. That doesn't sound good, she thought worriedly. When the teakettle started to whistle, her hands shook as she lifted it from the burner.
After a few minutes, the voice in the other room took on the distinctive cadence of one saying his goodbyes. Sure enough, he emerged from the shadows into the kitchen almost immediately.
"What is it?" Matruska asked. "Kristy have another vision, did she?"
"No," he replied. "No, it's my charge, that young fellow Andrew."
"Everything all right? Do you lot need the coven to do anything for you? One call, and I can have the whole group of us convening within the hour, you know."
He smiled at her. "That's all right. I believe I just need to do a spot of research at the Council library."
As he swept past her toward the front door, Matruska felt a slight pang that he hadn't kissed her. "Research into what?"
"Andrew seems to believe Willow may be ill, that it might be mystical," he said.
"That's precisely the sort of thing the coven should be helping with."
He looked pained. "I'd rather try to take this on myself for now," he said quietly. "Willow's rather dear to me."
Matruska nodded to him. "Rupert, don't you even want a cup of tea before you go?"
Giles cast his eyes downward. "Save me a bit, won't you?"
As soon as he'd shut the front door, Matruska hit the countertop with her fist. I knew what I was getting into here, she told herself, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt when he just goes off like that.
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The newspaper was spread out on the kitchen table. Xander had a yellow highlighter in his mouth, sticking out at a jaunty angle like a fat, plastic cigar. He scanned the classifieds carefully, and as another apartment listing caught his eye, he pulled the marker from between his lips, leaving the cap in his mouth, and smudged a messy circle around the ad.
"I wonder what they mean by `quaint, rustic kitchen'?" he wondered aloud.
"Maybe it means you need to put wood in the stove. Oo, that might be cool, it'd be just like The Village."
Xander looked up, cringing inwardly as he saw that it was Andrew who'd spoken. "What're you doing here?" he asked. "Some kinda Council business thing?"
Andrew turned from Xander for a moment, looking slightly upset all of a sudden.
"Andrew?" Xander snapped his fingers. "Hey, what's wrong? Did you hear me? You on a Watcher-y sort of deal here tonight?"
The younger man forced a quick smile, then narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly at Xander. "A Watcher watches," he said somewhat ominously. "I am exercising my training by --"
"Watching?"
Andrew's face fell. "Sorta. Plus, um... the... the girls have lots of those blueberry and cinnamon bagels," he said quickly. "The good kind, you know, not the frozen ones. `Cause the frozen ones get all shriveled up and never taste right, even if you put them in the toaster and stuff."
"You're raiding their fridge?" Xander asked. "You snuck in here for that?"
"Technically, I'm not raiding their fridge. They keep the bagels in the cabinet with the peanut butter. Although, I think if they kept them in the fridge, the bagels would stay fresh longer."
"Andrew!"
Andrew took a step backwards, colliding with the island counter in the center of the kitchen.
"Andrew, you can't just mooch off people," Xander began, measuring his words carefully.
"You are."
Xander squeezed his eye shut and took a deep breath. "I am staying with friends while looking for an apartment," he said. "If you were really being big Watcher guy, you would've `watched' while I sat here looking at the rental listings."
Andrew tentatively approached the table. "You have some good ones not even marked," he pointed out. "Like this one. It has a fireplace and central air. Which, I guess, you don't really need at the same time, but it's good to have options."
"Yeah, and did you notice the price range on that puppy?" Xander asked. "I'm not exactly Trump-ing it these days. No way can I afford that."
Andrew peered at the newspaper. "You can't afford that?" He looked back at Xander. "I could afford that when the only money I made was from my, uh..." Andrew blushed slightly. "My sort of ill-gotten gains from my days as a doer of evil," he mumbled.
Xander glared at Andrew.
"I'm all redeemed and good now," Andrew said hastily with a nervous laugh. "I am a representative of the Watcher's Council, and as such, I must comport myself with utmost dignity and propriety."
Xander turned his attention back to the classifieds. "This trailer park thing sounds like it might not totally suck," he said, more to himself than the other inhabitant in the room. "I mean, the septic tank there alone has to be kind of an impressive feat of both plumbing and engineering."
"Xander, you can't live in a trailer park. It's all primitive and gross, and what if you get sucked off to Oz by a twister?"
"First of all, this isn't the Midwest," Xander said. "We have earthquakes in California, not tornadoes. And second of all, I spent the last year living in Africa. Even cold showers are now a luxury to me."
"Still, you could get something better if you got a roommate," Andrew suggested.
Xander's head shot up, and his mouth gaped open. "Andrew, if you think you're moving in with me..."
"I have a tidy monthly stipend from the Council..."
"A thousand times no," Xander said. "I would rather live on a shrimp boat with Illyria."
Andrew frowned. "Why?" he asked. "I'm really not that bad of a roommate, and I can cook. You saw how I was at Buffy's when I stayed there."
"Yeah," Xander replied. "And why do you think I'm saying no?"
"I just got a Velocity Micro Raptor Extreme Edition," Andrew said suggestively. "It has a GeForce graphics processor. You should see how it handles Doom 3."
"You have Doom 3 already?"
Andrew nodded eagerly.
"Is it true the middle levels are kind of boring?" Suddenly Xander shook his head hard. "No, no, what I am saying? I don't care if you have twenty copies of first-edition Spider-Man, the answer is still no."
Andrew shrugged. "It was worth a shot." He started to exit the kitchen, then called back over his shoulder, "You'd still be able to get a better place if you had a roommate."
Xander stared down at the classifieds again and thought about his savings account. It wasn't too shabby for now, but it would dwindle, maybe even rapidly, if he wasn't didn't watch it. At this point, he couldn't afford to be anything but careful where his finances were concerned. Getting a roommate... well, it was something to consider, but the last thing he wanted to do was admit that Andrew had made a perfectly valid and rational point.
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She was whirling around so fast Angel was half afraid she'd hurt herself. "Vermin," she muttered. "Atrocities. Abominations." Illyria knelt down in the grass and swept her hands through the bushes. "How dare they touch me? How dare they exist?" Somewhere along the way, her tone had changed from abject hatred into something else.
She wasn't just angry. She was hurt. Even... scared?
"Illyria, they're gone. Come on. It's okay." Angel reached out a hand to her, but she pushed it aside.
"Do not condescend to me," she said. "You believe I am wounded, but I am only experiencing..." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "No, you are right. I am feeling pain that is not merely physical. The wounds to this body will heal, and I do not have a great deal of discomfort. It is only echoes of what she... of what a human would feel in the same circumstance."
"You feel violated," Angel said gently.
Her head shot up, and her eyes bored into his. "What would you know of that?" she spat out. "You inflicted such violence upon others before, you tasted the nectar of blood, and you feasted on it."
Angel's brow furrowed deeply. "That's how I know what you feel like now," he said. "I used to live on fear."
"A god does not fear anything."
"No, but a person does."
If Angel didn't know better, he'd think Illyria was capable of setting him of fire with the intensity of her gaze. "Dare you equate me to a bag of flesh?"
Treating her kindly was clearly not working, so Angel decided to take a different approach. "Yeah," he said brusquely. "Yeah, I dare. Now, come on. You wanna find these guys? If you shut up and let me try to pick up a scent, maybe you can kill yourself some `half-breeds' tonight."
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Walter Tolman had eyes like a rabbit. Small, pale, and nervous, they flitted at impossibly high speeds from the screen of the desktop PC in front of him to the sleek BlackBerry 7230 resting on the desk next to his mouse. Data scrolled across the full-size monitor as he input quick, abbreviated text messages into the handheld. Squinting at the BlackBerry's tiny display, he said a silent prayer that the encryption software was running properly server-side. If someone was able to intercept his communication with the Lord Prefect, there would be hell to pay.
Satisfied that he had conveyed the necessary information, Walt leaned back in his desk chair and grinned smugly to himself. Months of listening to the insipid Brad and prattle on, brainstorming only the vaguest of ideas, and yet in the end, Walt had still managed to implement the mission of the Brotherhood flawlessly. Not only had he gathered the necessary technological and medical components of the plan, but he'd set the mystical elements in motion, too.
Magick and science, together in perfect harmony... it was a thing of beauty. Walt reached for the PC's keyboard and exited out of the DOS module.
On the Windows desktop wallpaper floated a grainy surveillance photo. It was black and white, but Walt knew the subject had brilliant red hair. Her face was pale and washed out in the image, but her smile was broad. The camera had caught her mid-laughter, and her merry eyes were creased pleasingly around the edges.
It was almost a shame that she was the target, really. Walt had spent weeks studying the witch's every move. Every time she cast a spell, every time she hacked into a complex remote network... each action was amazing to Walt. Though he knew his own skills were impressive, he watched her from afar with a kind of protg-like awe.
Magick and science, harmony... Walt felt a pang at taking down Willow Rosenberg, but he knew it was all for the sake of something greater.
It was for the sake of The Reborn One.
Walt glanced at the clock display in the corner of the computer's screen. It was time for service. He stood from his desk and went to retrieve his robe.
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October 23, 2003
Los Angeles, California
"You don't happen to know what your body temperature is, do you?" She looked up from her clipboard, an eager expression on her face.
"Beg pardon?" How could he have a body temperature?
"Your body... oh. Well, you, uh... Never mind. I'm sorry."
"'S all right. What d'you mean, then, eh?" He knew now, of course, but some small, twisted part of him needed her to be more specific.
"When you... your body temperature. Before." She seemed to be having trouble looking him in the eye suddenly.
"You can say it, pet."
"When you had a body. Before you died."
That's a good girl, spit it out in all its harsh reality. "Not quite sure, really," he said. "Room temperature, I'd wager. If the heart don't so much pump and whatall, and if the blood's not circulatin' about to course through the veins, there isn't any heat generated, is there?"
"How did you know that?"
He rolled his eyes at her. "Despite what Angel says to the contrary, I'm not a complete idiot, luv."
"I never thought you were."
This admission of hers touched him, but he didn't want to let on. "As I was sayin', though," he said, pulling his eyes from her direction, "must not've been too terribly cold, not corpse-like, even though I was one. Had no complaints, so to speak. Electrical impulses from the brain might've had somethin' to do with that, or... hell, even magick. A vampire's a demon, after all... bit weird to ponder a dead body walking about all life-like, innit? Not exactly natural."
"So you weren't cold." She made a note on her clipboard.
He arched an eyebrow at her. "Haven't you ever touched a vampire?"
"Of course, but not... well, not..."
"Not intimately." His mouth spread into a slow grin, and he caught her eye. She looked flustered and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You're terrible."
"And you're beautiful when you blush, Fred."
She turned back to her clipboard, her face still crimson. "So if we operate under the assumption that your natural body heat was approximately sixty degrees Fahrenheit, it's a puzzle why you're radiating energy right now, given that you --"
"We got to be all business all the bloody time?" he interrupted.
"You may not still be getting sucked into Hell right now, but I still have work to do on you."
"And I wish I..." He let his voice trail off. Part of him knew what he wanted to say, but it wasn't the sort of thing that would do any good to admit aloud.
"You wish you what?"
"Nothin'." He cleared his throat. "Let's get back to it. Body temperature, heat energy radiation..."
"Are you okay, Spike?"
"'Course, pet," Spike said, offering Fred a small, sad smile. "I'm always okay, aren't I?"
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Buffy looked up from her magazine as the figure on the bed stirred slightly. "You okay, there, Wil?"
"Baby tadpoles..." Willow mumbled sleepily.
Buffy smiled. "The most powerful witch on the planet, and you still have frog fear."
Willow's eyes began to flutter open. "My dune loghead gondolier."
Buffy blinked at her friend. "Huh?"
Willow shifted on the bed, moving her mouth away from the pillow. "I said I do not have frog fear," she repeated more clearly.
"Then what's this about the baby tadpoles?"
Willow raised an eyebrow at her friend. "I know a certain someone who still flinches when she sees a roach."
"Roaches can get to be huge!" Buffy insisted. "You're talking to a girl who worked fast food. Trust me, they thrive on grease, and the result is really not pretty."
"Buffy, you're a slayer. You've cut the heads off giant, rampaging monsters."
"Yeah, but big black roaches crawling all over you?" Buffy gave a shudder and squeezed her eyes shut. "They're all full of the creepyness!"
"And frogs aren't creepy?"
Buffy opened one eye and peered at Willow. "All right, all right, we're both allowed our little bits of the weird, how's that?"
"Sounds good to me," Willow said with a grin. "Speaking of creepy things, have you been back to the creepy spider tunnel yet?"
"Yeah, I have, but somebody got their first. It's gone. Somebody poured concrete down it and there's just a slab now where the door used to be. Another dead end."
"Concrete? So fast? That's not good. It's just like the shack, super-cleaned up. I like this less than I did before I got sickified."
"But, up side? No more spiders in there."
"Good point." Willow started to sit up, but after a moment, she began to press a hand to her chest.
Buffy frowned at her. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just like... like indigestion, only more ow-y." Willow started to cough feebly, which turned into a hacking sputter.
Buffy darted to her feet and rushed to the bathroom, filling a glass with water. "You'll be okay, just try to breathe," she called out to Willow.
"I'm all right," Willow answered, her voice thin and reedy. "I'm fine."
Buffy returned with the water and handed the glass to Willow. "You're not fine, not totally," she said. "Drink it all. You need to be all fluid-ified."
Willow took a sip and sat back against the headboard. "I feel better. I bet I just have some, like, phlegm-y grossness going on."
"This has been the flu of the super yech variety."
Willow frowned. "I hope that's all it is."
Buffy took one of Willow's hands in both of hers and squeezed tightly. "That's all it is," she assured her. "Not everything in the world has to be something strange. Most things? Big with the normalcy. Boring, even."
Willow sighed. "Yeah, but..."
"But nothing," Buffy said. "Look, first we thought it was the spider bite, but the doctors said it was just good old-fashioned being sick. You felt better, but then you still fainted later." She shrugged. "It's like you just sorta pushed yourself too quick, and you need some time to be Totally Well Willow again. Which you will be soon."
"Buffy..." Willow looked up at her with sad, tired eyes. "I passed out trying to do a spell."
"So?"
"So I think..."
Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Wil, you're not mystically sick. You're just sick sick."
Willow nodded. "You're probably right."
"I know I'm right," she said gently. "Otherwise, you're just gonna make yourself totally nuts worrying about it, and that's no way to feel better." She rose from the bed. "Drink the rest of your water and try to sleep some more, okay?"
"Okay." Willow took another sip from the glass. "Thanks for being all super nurse girl."
"Anything for you, you know that," Buffy said with a smile. "I'll be back to check on you later."
She left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. As soon as Buffy was in the hallway, she sighed heavily and leaned against the wall. A million thoughts coursed through her head, but the one that was the most disturbing was that she couldn't handle this by herself. What if Willow's right? she wondered. What if this isn't just being sick all normal-like?
Buffy finally managed to compose herself long enough to make her way to the living room. She picked up the phone and stared at it for a moment before realizing she had no idea who would be of any help whatsoever.
Her shoulders sagging, Buffy put the receiver back and began to sob.
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January 29, 2004
Los Angeles, California
"You talk in your sleep, you know."
He opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, but he saw a fuzzy outline of brown hair floating above him. "Fred?"
"You were mumbling something that sounded like Shakespeare." Now she was coming into focus, and he could see that she was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. Her eyes moved quickly, never lingering too long on the bandages that swathed both his hands in white gauze, from fingertips to elbows.
"You been sittin' here all night watchin' over me?" It touched him, thinking that she'd done that. She didn't need to.
She evaded the question. "Something about beauty and birds and birds being beautiful or... Oh, golly, I don't know much about Shakespeare," she murmured. "Ask me about quantum physics or nerve regeneration, and I'm your girl."
"You watched over me all night," he repeated.
She looked at him shyly. "Uh huh."
"Am I gonna be tip top, then?"
"You'll take some time for your muscles to get all happily working together again, but yeah, your hands will be fine. You'll heal. Pretty fast, too, if all my research about vampires --"
"You been researching vampires?"
She giggled. The sound was like gentle music, wind chimes and crickets on a heady summer night. "I've been researching you for the past four months, dummy," she said affably.
"You're going well beyond the call of duty here, pet, stayin' in hospital like this with me."
"It's not a big deal," she told him.
"It is to me."
"So was it Shakespeare?" she asked. "What you were saying in your sleep? `The lark spake her name from betwixt...' something or other. I didn't catch it all."
A small pit of dread gnawed at him. "No, that's not Shakespeare, Fred."
"Oh, what was it, then?"
He turned his face toward the wall. "Doesn't matter."
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"You can smell your own kind."
"Yeah. Comes in handy." Angel turned to Illyria as they reached the outskirts of the park. "You mean you and your fellow god-kings didn't used to sit around the campfire sniffing each other?"
"I do not find you amusing."
Angel spun on her. "What do you find amusing? Anything?"
Illyria stopped walking and looked contemplative. "Cats," she replied. "I have seen them on television, and they are small and fall off high places easily."
Angel blinked at her. "Cats."
"They are creatures of innocence, neutrality. They will just as easily slice a rodent's throat to ribbons as curl against a human to sleep," she explained.
He shook his head in disbelief. "Cats amuse you."
"I used to find Spike amusing," Illyria went on, "but his spirits have descended, and I do not believe him capable of sparring any longer."
Angel would have liked to have pressed her about Spike, but abruptly Illyria opened her mouth wide and let out a keening shriek. He jerked his head around just in time to see a pair of boots hurtling through the air straight for his head.
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"We are entering a new stage of life," Nivel said. He carefully scanned the faces of all the young people in the room, pausing now and then to study one or another of them more intently. "Several of the obstacles have been removed."
Scan, study, pause, stare... bore into each and every soul coldly, deliberately, and without remorse. This was a ritual he began as soon as Julia Kellogg had betrayed him. It was a ritual full of grave necessity.
Nivel had to be certain they were all loyal, none of them wanting to leave, and none of them sent from a rival sect to disrupt his work here. If there was a traitor in his midst, Nivel would be able to tell. An enemy could lie with words but seldom keep from slipping. No matter how subtle a gesture it might be, Nivel would see it.
"I must be certain of your commitment to the cause," Nivel went on. "There have been several unfortunate incidents over the past few months. This year has been a difficult one. Some of you have been lost."
No one in the collective seemed to move or even breathe. He could tell they were frightened. This was good, this was very good. It was better that they be frightened of him than contemptuous of him. Nivel would be a figure to be respected, nothing less. He was the Lord Prefect of the Brotherhood, and he did not attain this level by being unobservant or coddling those beneath him.
Nivel began to pace again. "Now, it's important that I point out that not all of these tragedies were unavoidable," he said. "We all remember the pain of losing our..." Nivel stopped pacing briefly, the image of a young man's face all too clear in his mind. "Our most dignified and... and honorable brother," he finished at last, a distinct note of sadness in his voice. He turned back to face the group once more. "What I'm trying to impress upon all of you is that sometimes, we lose one of our own through no real fault, no act of treason, after a fashion. This is something each of you will have to consider - you may very well die for this cause."
He leaned forward slightly, staring at them all even harder and more intently. When Nivel spoke again, his voice was pitched low and full of gravity. "We are ushering in the way for the one we worship," he said. "If you fear death, remember who you serve." He moved across the room quickly and pointed to Walter. "Who do you serve?" Nivel asked him.
"I serve your purposes, sir," Walt said immediately. "And your purposes are to worship The Reborn One."
"Are you willing to die?" Nivel asked.
"I am willing to give everything I have to the cause of glory."
Nivel frowned slightly. The answer was not precise enough to his liking. The man was too young, too caught up in his own abilities, interests... all the trappings of the modern world were too appealing to him.
"You have done well, Mr. Tolman," Nivel said gravely. "You have stopped some of our most stubborn roadblocks in the quest for access to our goal."
Walt grinned unabashedly. "Thank you, sir. It's an honor to work under you."
Nivel withdrew the dagger from his robe so quickly that Walt had no time to see it before it was plunged into his abdomen. Walt blinked his pale, rabbit eyes at the hilt sticking out of his gut, blood pulsing around it, seeping through his robe.
"Let this be a lesson to you all," Nivel said, looking away from the fallen man to the rest of the group. "We are not individuals here. We are as one being, serving one cause, and we should be willing to die for that purpose. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Lord Prefect," the group said in unison.
Nivel looked back down at Walt, who was slowly sliding to the floor. His eyes were rapidly clouding over. Nivel knelt beside him and mercilessly pushed the dagger further into the wound, twisting it. "That's very good, my brothers and sisters," he said. "That's very, very good."
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Illyria whirled on the attacking vampire. "Traitorous creature! This is your ilk, and you dispatch him without hesitation!"
Before the vampire had a chance to say anything, Angel was on his feet beside her, thrusting an object into her hand. She looked down at her palm.
"Stake! Now!" Angel barked at her. He grabbed her by the arm and plunged the sharpened end of the wood into the vampire's chest. Illyria felt a jolt as the vampire turned to dust, raining grey silt down over her.
She stared at Angel's hands still clamped around her arm. "That was satisfying," she said, sounding somewhat stunned.
"Yeah, well." Angel seemed to suddenly realize what he was doing and dropped her arm, taking a step back from her. "Was that one of the guys who attacked you?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Where there's one, I'm sure his buddies can't be far away."
This time, when Illyria smiled, there was no mistaking it. It had a slightly chilling effect, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Perhaps you do amuse me on occasion," she said.
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Xander returned to studying the ad Andrew had pointed out. Two bedrooms, one and a half baths, fireplace, central air-conditioning... the square footage alone was enough to make him fantasize briefly about how the building had been built. How many windows might it have? It sounded like a new complex, and he recognized the name of the property management company. Xander smiled to himself, wondering if it was possible to be a construction geek. I bet it's got Moen faucets, he thought, somewhat dreamily. Maybe even one of those huge stainless-steel refrigerators, too.
A roommate would certainly help out with making the rent actually affordable, at least while the money he'd socked away lasted. It was true Andrew wasn't nearly as annoying as he used to be; maybe sharing a place with him would actually be a good idea. It was true that in some ways, he and Andrew were a lot more alike than Xander generally let on. If neither one of them had grown up on the Hellmouth, who knows... they could've been pals. The only thing that still concerned Xander sometimes was pondering the 180 Andrew seemed to have done since he'd killed Jonathan. Was it genuine? Could it last? Was Andrew really so deeply into the whole side-of-the-good thing as he appeared?
Some people deserved second chances after a foray into the dark side. Others... not so much. Or was that really true? Was it unfair of Xander to question the motives of people like Andrew or Faith or even Angel and Spike when he'd always been so quick to think of Anya as an acceptable commodity after centuries of vengeance demon status?
Xander sighed and slumped against the back of the chair. Anya was different, he reasoned. Special. Someone who proved herself worthy of love and - wait. Am I rationalizing her worth because I loved her? That can't be the only reason, Xander told himself. I can't be not totally on board giving Andrew the benefit of the doubt just because he's not a hugely attractive woman. How completely unfair is that?
Andrew was a Watcher-in-training. Not just that, but one under the wing of Giles, who was definitely on the short list of people Xander trusted with his own life. If Giles had faith in Andrew, who was he to argue with that? Besides, the issue was whether Andrew would be an okay person to share an apartment with. This wasn't a question of necessarily bestowing heaps of unconditional trust on him just yet. This was a question of whether or not he would pay his share of the cable bill and not leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. Plus, Xander wouldn't have to dial down the fanboy mode around Andrew the way he did with the girls sometimes.
He let out a rueful laugh. Damn, but it wasn't that bad of an idea when you got right down to it. Xander picked up the highlighter and, with a deliberate stroke, circled the ad. He stood up and left the kitchen, hoping Andrew hadn't left the apartment yet so they could talk.
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May 19, 2004
South Pasadena, California
The bar was far enough from the glare of Wolfram & Hart's high-rise complex that he was reasonably certain nobody would recognize him. The glare of the stage lights and the three double shots of whiskey he'd had also helped to bolster his confidence.
When the slam's host called his number, it wasn't Cecily on his mind as he made his way to the microphone. It was a different girl, also dead, but far kinder to him than the poem's subject ever had been.
It was Fred's eyes, deeply brown and full of both innocence and terrible knowledge, that he imagined.
He was intoning his words almost without realizing it, lines he'd written over a century ago. He made no effort to project his voice, just murmured into the microphone as if speaking directly into someone's ear.
She had been the one of the only people he'd ever been able to count as a friend, and in that moment, it was hitting him harder than it had in at any point in the scant few months... the reality that she was gone. Not only that, but it was a grief that he couldn't forget, because someone else wore her face, her body, and he'd had to see that person every day.
He wished no particular ill will toward Illyria. He even liked her in a strange way, but in the end, she wasn't Fred. She wasn't even remotely Fred, and she never would be.
As he neared the end of the poem, he thought for an instant of everyone and everything he'd ever lost, and he thought of the battle yet to come. This time, Spike truly wished that he could go out in a final blaze of glory, never to find himself unintentionally revived. The existence of a man who wasn't a man, a demon who wasn't a demon, someone who'd risked himself for the love of those who'd never love him back... it wasn't something he could bear any longer.
And so Spike decided, in the silence that followed the final words of the pathos-laden William the Bloody Awful Poet, he would strive mightily in the fight, but that would be his last one. He'd turn to dust once again, and it would all be done.
The crowd erupted into applause and cheers. He grinned proudly, content in his decision more so than in the reaction his bit of tripe had garnered. Springing to his feet, he called out a hearty "Thank you."
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He took his eyes off the spot on the floor they had been pinned to ever since launching into this conversation with Dawn. He glanced at the girl and immediately saw she was studying him through a veil of tears.
"Oh, now, c'mon, niblet." Spike started to reach out a hand to her, then drew it back quickly. "Dawn, rather. I..." He looked back down at the floor.
Dawn sniffled loudly. "It's okay," she said. "You... I don't care if you call me that."
He didn't respond, just kept his eyes fixed downward.
"You seriously wanted to die that night?" Dawn asked.
Spike nodded silently.
"Does anybody know that?" she pressed. "Angel? Gunn? Illyria?"
"God, no," he replied. "And don't go tellin' `em, either. Didn't tell a soul, and I don't intend to, `cept for you."
"Why'd you tell me?"
Spike raised his head. "You're the only one what's bothered to ask a bloody thing about how I am since I got here." He smiled sadly at her.
"Did you..." Dawn paused, wiping tears away from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Did you love her?"
"Yeah... not sure how, really. Sometimes felt like a sister, sometimes felt like someone I could fancy if the circumstances were different," Spike said. "Not the same way I love Buffy, even now, but it was... more than anythin', loved the bird like a friend. Rather a bit like I love you, only I didn't have the inclination to protect her like I do you. She was a dear, sweet girl, but she was also tough. Hard as nails underneath it all."
"Your opposite," Dawn said softly.
"Beg pardon?"
"You're all tough on the outside, but underneath that, you have a soft, mushy center."
Spike chuckled. "Another one of those things you'd do well not to go repeating."
"Seriously, though... you can't be all right if you wanted to die then. That was only a few months ago, Spike."
He stood up and swept the bottle off the windowsill. "Well, then, got me pegged, you do." Spike took a long swallow from the bottle, emptying it.
Dawn gulped audibly. "You're not all right, are you?" she asked, a quaver in her voice.
"Not by half."
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Xander struck something light but very solid as soon as he rounded the corner from the kitchen to the living room. When he realized what that something was, he cringed and looked down at the fallen shape sprawled out on the carpet.
"Gah! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"See, this is why they make you take your driving test every year now," Buffy chided him. "What if I'd been a car?"
"Ha ha." Xander held out his hand and helped her up. "I'm just glad you didn't have a stake in your hand, or I'd be showing off the nice new gash in my stomach." As she stood, Xander noticed Buffy's weary expression. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, totally fine," she assured him. "Where were you going in such a hurry anyway?"
"Looking for Andrew."
"I just passed him in the hall," she said. "His cell was ringing. I think he went outside to take the call."
"Cool, thanks." He gave her shoulder a little squeeze as he started to brush past her.
"Hey, Xand?" Buffy called after him.
"Yeah?"
Buffy started to open her mouth, then closed it and smiled at him. "Never mind. Everything's all good."
Xander frowned. "Are you sure?" he asked. "'Cause if you need to talk, I --"
Buffy shook her head hard. "No, no, it's cool."
Xander wasn't convinced, but before he could press her, Buffy walked further into the kitchen and headed for the coffee maker. She'll talk when she wants to, he told himself. He crossed the living room and made his way to the front porch.
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"Seriously? Because I was just thinking how much he needed a roommate, and that might --" Andrew stopped his phone conversation as soon as Xander stepped out onto the porch. "I gotta go," he said hastily. "I'll talk to him and let you know how it goes." He flipped his cell shut and shoved it in his pocket.
"You'll tell who what?" Xander asked.
"Nothing. I, um... Giles," Andrew said. "Giles wants me to keep on keeping tabs on Angel. Same old make-sure-he's-not-evil thing."
"Ah." Xander looked off across the parking lot in front of the apartment building. "You know what we were talking about before? How I could use a roommate? Maybe you were right. You... maybe you want to come check out a few places with me tomorrow?"
"Xander, you were right," Andrew replied. "It wouldn't work. I kind of like it at my place, at least for now, and anyway, you snore."
"I don't... really? Do I snore?"
"I could come with you to check out apartments tomorrow, though. That'd be fun, even if I'm not going to live with you."
Xander frowned. "Well, the places I had in mind, I really would need somebody to share the expenses."
"You'll figure something out," Andrew said. "In fact, I'm sure everything will work out the way it's supposed to."
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"He needs to be around people right now. Like in a really bad way." Dawn was whispering into the phone, praying that Angel wouldn't choose that instant to suddenly come back to the office. "Xander? You think that'd work? Wow, okay, yeah... I'm thinking two birds, one stone here. That would make total sense." She listened for a moment, then made a note on the legal pad on her desk. "No, don't even worry about that," she said. "The money won't be a big at all."
After hanging up the phone, Dawn looked down at the note: "Ask Angel about an advance. Tell him my financial aid fell through for next quarter."
She ripped the page off the pad and stuffed it into her pocket, wondering all the while how she could manage to trick Spike into accepting what was basically a hand-out.
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As soon as Andrew was back inside the apartment, he could hear crying. It wasn't very loud, but he could tell it was Buffy.
He'd let the news go too long undelivered.
Andrew found her in the hallway of all places, sitting against the wall, her face buried in her hands. "Hey, um, Buffy?" He crouched down beside her. "I'm sorry, you probably want to be alone, but..."
She looked up at him, her face red and puffy. "What is it?"
"Giles," he began. "Giles is working on it, so you don't have to worry, okay?"
Buffy started to look panicky. "Giles is working on what, Andrew? What's wrong?"
Did she really not get it? "He's researching what's wrong with Willow." Andrew looked embarrassed. "I think he might have, like, a new connection inside that coven, you know? Like one of the elders. Although, they're not actually all `elder' elders. I think he said something about one of the witches being... what did he call her..."
"Andrew, please," Buffy cut in. "I'm tired. I've been up all night with her."
"Oh, yeah, he called her `quite fetching,'" Andrew said with a grin. "Yeah, but anyway, he's pretty sure this isn't a regular flu kind of a flu."
Her eyes widened. "Pretty sure? How sure is pretty sure?"
"Sure enough that he's worried." Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. Andrew needed to be making Buffy feel better, not worse. "Yeah, but see, he's worried, but he's going to figure it out. Help us all figure it out. And she'll be all better."
"Did he say what he thinks it is?" Buffy asked.
"He needs to make sure, but he said something like this happened to Angel once, an illness only vampires can get? From poison?"
Buffy nodded slowly. "Willow's not a vampire," she pointed out.
"No, but there's something like that stuff that can infect a magickal practioner."
"Something that would make a witch die," Buffy murmured.
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Spike didn't know how long he'd slept, but it appeared to be dark behind the curtains. He pulled on his boots and headed for the door, intent on nicking blood from the fridge in Angel's office.
He'd gotten himself halfway down the stairs when he heard someone calling his name.
"Oh, bollocks, what is it?"
Gunn's wheelchair was parked next to Dawn's desk. "Yo, what side of the wrong did you wake up on, huh? You look like all kinds of crap."
"And hello to you, too." Spike proceeded to the refrigerator. "You lookin' for me, Charlie?"
"Yeah, you got a phone call," he said. "That Andrew kid wants you to meet him someplace." Gunn tore a sheet off Dawn's notepad and held it out. "This is the address."
Spike took the paper. "What for?" he asked.
"Dunno," Gunn replied. "Guess maybe somethin' nasty needs to get pounded on."
Shoving the paper into the pocket of his jeans, Spike leaned over and pulled a thermos from the fridge. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed the contents. "Hell, is this possum?" he muttered to himself. He shrugged and took a swig, then looked back at Gunn. "Why's he want me? Why didn't he just call Angel?"
"Look, I got no clue what goes on anymore," Gunn said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "He asked for you, that's all I know."
"Where is the great ponce this fine evening, anyway?"
"He's still asleep," Gunn told him. "Actually, it was kinda funny. Guess he and Illyria got up to some wild stuff last night."
Spike spat a mouthful of blood back into the thermos. "What the devil?! Don't tell me they were having it off or --"
"Oh, hell no!" Gunn said. "Nah, they took out a vamp nest, and Illyria was all kinds of jazzed. Like almost perky. It freaked me out. Angel was wasted. Think the dudes gave him a run for his money." Gunn held up his left hand. "One of `em turned Angel's stake on him and stabbed him right here." He pointed to his palm. "Clean through. There's this big hole."
Spike couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "That's priceless, that is."
"Yeah, he didn't think so. I was all, `that's gonna be all healed up before you know it' and whatever, but the big guy was still way not happy."
Spike took another sip of blood before shoving the thermos back into the fridge. "Guess I'd best go see what the lad wants."
"Hey, Spike?" Gunn's voice was hesitant. "When you're done with whatever's goin' down, you wanna grab a beer? Been all cooped up in this place way too long."
"It gets rough, the pity, don't it?"
Gunn looked away.
"Dru used to pretend I wasn't even in the room sometimes," Spike said wistfully. "When I was laid up, legs all mangled and useless. She'd start signing and dancing to herself, then turn `round and suddenly notice I was there. Then she'd look at me and cry. Tried to tell `er I'd get better, but she couldn't see anything beyond my injuries. Wasn't perfect anymore."
Spike didn't wait for Gunn to speak, he simply went to the other man and clapped him amiably on the back. "If you're buyin', I'm drinkin', Charlie. See you in a bit."
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It's not hard to sit up. See? Sitting up! Oh, darn it, Buffy's not in here to see that I'm sitting up. That's no fun. She's gonna demand proof of my getting better-ness.
Okay, sitting up? Check. Now what? Should I try to actually get out of bed?
Whoa, dizzy. Yes, dizzy isn't fun, but it's nothing I can't handle. I'll pretend I'm on a roller coaster. Although it's not like I'd actually be trying to stand up on a roller coaster. Or even go on one at all, because, hello, scary! How can people go on those things without being afraid the lap bar's just gonna snap right off?
Focus, Willow. You're doing this, you are gong to work on standing up right now! One foot on the floor, then the other. That's good. Whee! You're almost there. Pull the cover back... ugh, feeling dizzy... dizzy... No, you're okay. Just push yourself up, put your weight on your feet, and -
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Xander looked from the newspaper to the number on the wall outside the door and back again. Yes, this was the place. He scanned the parking lot, but Andrew wasn't in sight yet. Xander reached for the door handle, then drew his hand back and balled it into a fist. Wait, do I knock? he wondered. No, it's an open house kinda thingy, isn't it? Yeah, it's fine. He moved his hand back to the handle and pushed the door open.
The apartment was beautiful. Spacious and airy with freshly-painted walls and new carpeting. The only thing that detracted from its attractiveness was the size of the windows; they seemed small and few, but the ceilings seemed outfitted with a lot of overhead lighting to compensate.
"'S one helluva flat, eh?"
Xander's whole body turned into a raw nerve, and he jumped back several feet. "Spike!"
Spike stepped out of the shadows of the living room and nodded at him evenly. "Harris."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Spike was smiling at him weirdly, like he had a secret.
"Answer me!" Xander demanded.
"Didn't much know m'self what I was doin' here, not `til I found this." He crossed the room and handed Xander an envelope.
Xander frowned. "I don't get it."
"It's from Andrew," Spike said. "Was propped up there on the mantelpiece."
Xander turned the envelope over. Both his and Spike's names were on the outside of it. "Okay, is this some kind of trap?" he asked. "I bet I was right. Andrew's not really working for the Watcher's Council. He's spying on them from within. He's up to weird evil stuff again, and he's got Giles fooled so that he can be a double agent and --"
"You watch too much TV, you git."
"Hey, I seem to remember coming home one day not so very many years ago and finding you on my couch watching a Sliders marathon," Xander retorted.
"Terribly underrated program," Spike said.
Xander started ripping open the envelope. "Whatever. It sucked after Jerry O'Connell left."
Spike cocked his head to the side. "I'll grant you that, yeah."
"Oh, no." Xander had the letter out of the envelope and was staring at it with rapidly growing terror.
"What is it, mate?" Spike asked. "Danger? Trouble? Great hordes of dragons swoopin' out of the sky come to feast on your remaining eyeball?"
"Worse," Xander said. He thrust the paper into Spike's hands and resisted the urge to weep.
Spike scanned the letter quickly. "Oh, sod this!" he roared. "They can't be bloody serious!"
"They're nuts!" Xander exclaimed. "Andrew and Dawn, they cooked this up, and they're absolutely out of their minds."
"`We care about you both and are worried about your welfare,'" Spike read aloud. "`We feel it would be in your best interests if you both took this apartment. Together.'"
"No," Xander said, gesturing wildly. "Absolutely no way."
"Precisely," Spike agreed. "I mean, what, do they think we're totally daft? Why the devil would we agree to that?"
"One thing we're not is stupid," Xander said. He gave Spike a sidelong glance. "Well, I'm not, anyway."
"Stick it."
"Go to hell."
"Been to hell. It's a lot like a basement."
"You know, did I ever thank you for destroying my hometown?"
"Oh, yeah? Well, did I ever thank you for..." Suddenly, Spike's voice came to a halt, and he shut his eyes.
Xander peered at him. "Thank me for what?"
Spike pressed his lips together into a tight, bitter half-smile. "You got a few years?"
Xander stepped back. "What do you mean?"
"I been sittin' `round a set of empty rooms at Angel's feelin' all manner of sorry to be alive," Spike said. "Then I get into a pissing match with you for two minutes, and already I feel better." He chuckled softly. "Not great, mind you. I've shot my life to hell, really, but... yeah. I feel a trifle better."
"I... Spike, this is..." Xander so didn't want this to be weird, mushy confessional time. He and Spike were not friends, and they would never be friends.
Andrew's changed. Other people can change, came a nagging voice inside his head.
Spike ran a shaky hand through his hair. "You tell anyone I told you all that rubbish, you're gettin' your throat ripped out, right?"
"Right." Other people can change. "So... this is a totally crazy idea those two have."
"They're skittles to the wind's what they are," Spike said.
They looked at each other for a moment. Both men's faces were half in shadow, but Xander could tell Spike's eyes were bloodshot. How many days had he spent drunk or crying... or both? Sure, yeah, Spike had been through a lot in the past few years: going crazy, dying, being not-quite-as-dead, watching other people die... but this was Spike. Spike didn't give a crap usually. He was like that term from high school government class, "laissez-faire." Besides, the mopey thing? That was Angel's gig, the original broody vampire with a soul who was paying penance for all his crimes against -
Oh.
Wait. That was it, wasn't it? That was all it. All the mounds of suckitude Spike had dealt with since getting his soul, not to mention all the sudden "Oh, my God, what have I done?!" sorts of feelings he'd probably been hiding from everybody.
That was it. And it had taken Xander this long to figure that out because... well, Spike was a jerk. Spike would probably always be kind of a jerk no matter what, but good grief, that didn't mean he had to be an enemy on the whole level of mortal enemy-dom.
Besides, the whole "put on an okay face when you're nowhere near okay" thing? Xander got that. He'd had plenty of practice lately doing that himself.
"I'll have my stuff moved in by Thursday afternoon," Xander said. "You can get your key from under the mat Friday night."
Spike started to say something, but Xander waved a hand at him. "Don't. Just... yeah."
"Right," Spike whispered. "Cheers, mate."
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It was only a few hours before the next round of ceremonies were to begin, but he had to be alone right now. Nivel had already turned Brad away when the young man had come knocking on his office door. Nivel was in no mood to talk to anyone right now, least of all one of his followers.
Killing Walter had been difficult, but he told himself it was necessary. A display of that nature was required to ensure the cohesion of the Brotherhood. That did not, however, make it fun.
Nivel sank heavily into his desk chair. Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the top right drawer. He fingered the tarnished gold of the drawer handle, then pulled his hand back. No, he wouldn't look inside. He knew what was there, and there was no use reminding himself.
He closed his eyes, pushing away images that haunted him, trying desperately to think of how glorious the day would come when the object of his life's worship would be within reach. It was so close now. At that very moment, The Reborn One was in San Diego, right there, practically undefended.
Nivel's hands shook. This was all so wonderful, yet also all so painful. He hung his head in shame as he thought of the first one to fall. That someone so well-suited to the cause should be cut down in his prime, right after the deity had first seen the light of day... it was a travesty.
He looked at the drawer again. Now was not the time to ignore the past. The future was nigh, but the past must be dealt with. Slowly, Nivel opened the drawer and withdrew the framed photograph inside.
It had been taken on a beautiful autumn day, back before they'd relocated to California. Nivel had his arm around the young man's shoulders, and they were both smiling - broad, genuine smiles of contentment and hope.
Smiles of love. Of family.
The young man in the photograph had no idea that only a few years later, he would be shot mercilessly through the heart.
"It's coming," Nivel said, trailing a fingertip along the edge of the picture frame, "I wish you could be here to celebrate with me when it comes together, son."
Nivel clutched the photograph to his chest as he wept.
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