Special Disclaimer: Most of the second segment is taken directly from the scene in Spike's crypt in the episode "Seeing Red." I would like to reiterate that I own nothing at all, especially not the stolen script which was written by Steven DeKnight, however I needed to include it for purposes of clarity.
Forty Three
2 March, 2002, Los Angeles
Loki stretched out under the large tree. It was a beautiful spring day. And he was taking the day off. No scheming, no planning. Not even any hating. But more importantly; no meditation. A squirrel scampered past his feet. He smiled fondly.
Normal people got by just fine without meditation. And normal people, he was told, often had more stress in their lives than he did. After all, they had tedious jobs to do, financial problems to deal with, relationships to endure, death to fear —constantly— and every minute of every day: the anxiety of having a soul, worrying about what was in store for them in the end.
As the conjurer thought about it, his life was fairly straightforward: Kill things he didn’t like, find the Key when it was ready for him, take the Key and get his soul. He’d worry about the anxiety part after it started to matter.
But the Key wouldn’t be ready yet for another couple of weeks —dealing with abandonment issues as it was— and as for things he didn’t like... well, he’d be damned before he’d let Spike... be damned. The irony of this was never lost on him. His quest was to get to the afterlife first, be it heaven or hell.
“Excuse me, sir,” came a young man’s voice. Loki looked up and found he was looking directly into the midmorning sun. The conjurer squinted as the silhouetted figure stepped out of the light. “I couldn’t help but notice the... extravagance of your attire.”
Loki looked down at his shirt, blinking away the green, blotchy afterimage of the sun. The white silk rippled innocently in the spring breeze. Of course, he thought, he had meant to cover it today, or wear a different shirt entirely. Be someone other than Loki today. Now as he thought about it, however, he realized he didn’t own any other shirts. He looked back to the voice standing above him. Oh, crap.
The man looking down at him, while looking to be only in his early twenties, was most likely centuries older. He wore a white pinstripe suit over a white vest, with matching white shoes. Around his neck was a bright red bow tie and on his head was a white sun hat with a red ribbon circling it. He carried a decorative cane in one hand and a long, narrow, antiquated cigarette holder in the other, the cigarette in its end glowing dully.
“You noticed my attire?” Loki asked the demon, deciding his day off was over.
“Perhaps I should rephrase,” the young man frowned. “It is impossible to miss the uniqueness of your attire.” He gracefully brought the end of the cigarette holder to his mouth and took a small drag.
“Likewise,” Loki nodded. “I expect you were looking for me. Well, you found me,” he leaned back against the three, getting comfortable on the grass. “Congratulations, now go away.” He closed his eyes and made all appearances of taking a nap, the man wouldn’t take a hint.
“I’m not here to harm you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” The demon took a cavalier step towards the tree and leaned an elbow against it. Though he looked comically like he had wandered off from some barbershop quartet sing-off, his every motion radiated confidence and grace.
“I wouldn’t say I’m worried,” Loki said easily, his eyes still closed. “I’ve killed bigger demons than you with a coffee cup.”
The young man was silent for a moment. “I know. That’s why I’m here to tell you not to worry.” Loki frowned at this and opened his eyes a crack. “The Powers don’t take revenge. Unlike you.” Loki was now no longer pretending to nap. He sat upright and studied the demon anew.
“What do you want?” Loki asked, almost positive now that something or someone was watching over him. Directly or indirectly —he didn’t care which— it had been able to keep the Powers at bay.
The man lifted his cane and spun it in an intricate circle, accompanied by a varying pitch of whoosh. When he was finished, all the while appearing casually bored, he took one long drag from his cigarette. “My name is Tory,” he said at last, exhaling a long column of smoke. “I am Whistler’s temporary replacement.” He walked casually around the tree and came back to look down at Loki from the other side. “But I’m nothing like him.” His face was pure serenity, but his eyes betrayed his true severity.
“How so?” Loki asked, keeping his cool and even finding he slightly admired this demon’s composure.
Tory looked down at the conjurer with fierceness hidden behind a placid exterior. “I don’t make suggestions,” he said, his meaning all too clear. “However I do make deals. Before I was assigned this job, I was a corporate corruption demon. Black Monday? The Crash of twenty nine? That was my masterpiece.” He took a long, nostalgic pull from the cigarette. “I was just about to bring down the oil industry when I was given this assignment, and,” he glanced down at the conjurer, “one does not say ‘no’ to the Powers.”
Loki was nodding thoughtfully, then he stopped and cocked his head. “And... What, exactly do you want?”
Tory was not impressed by Loki’s attitude. “To finish what Whistler has begun,” he said bluntly.
Loki used the silence. Non magically, it was often his greatest ally. He let the demon’s words hand unelaborated in the air. Finally the conjurer raised condescending eyebrows. “And that would be...”
His plan had worked —so much for not scheming today— and Tory’s calm exterior cracked. “To keep you on a short leash,” the demon snapped, then immediately regained his composure. “To ensure,” he began again, “that you do what is necessary before your time is through.”
Loki ground his jaw. He couldn’t stand the inference that he was being manipulated, especially by this pansy contralto. “And when will my time be through?”
Tory raised a patronizing eyebrow. “Shortly after you have done what is necessary, I expect.”
“Which would be what?” the conjurer demanded, impatiently. “I’m getting tired of you — it’s my day off.”
“Then I’ll leave you to your sitting,” Tory bowed slightly. “But do not forget; I’m here now, as Whistler was often not. I’m watching you, as Whistler found he was unable to do... And I’m only temporary, so I don’t feel compelled to befriend you.” He turned and took several paces from the conjurer before turning back. “And lastly, and might I say, most importantly—”
Loki felt he was suddenly unable to breathe. A terrible crushing in his lungs gave way to a fit of coughing as he spat and vomited black ooze onto the grass beside the tree.
“—I’m immune to coffee cups,” Tory finished, turning away and walking gracefully out of the park.
Loki caught the tree trunk to support himself as he gasped for breath, occasionally spitting the black tar from his mouth. His eyes were filled with the tears of physical strain as he filled his aching lungs with air. He should have seen that coming. Not that he didn’t deserve it, perhaps, but it was puzzling that he had been caught so at ease — so defenseless.
Loki wiped the last of the tar from the corners of his mouth. Maybe that was this demon’s real power, the conjurer thought; catching people at their most vulnerable — or perhaps forcing them into that state. What better tool to bring down corporate empires?
The conjurer spat again, just to get the taste from his mouth. Drowning in oil, how quaint, he mused. He would definitely have to kill this Tory. He could afford no one so powerful at odds with him. But not now. And not before certain other things took place. He absently waved his hand before his face, clearing the ancient smelling fumes from the other’s tobacco. I hate cigarettes, he thought.
3 May, 2002, Sunnydale
“Everything used to be so clear,” Spike said despairingly. “Slayer. Vampire. Vampire kills slayer. Sucks her dry. Picks his teeth with her bones. It’s always been that way.” In the dim light of Spike’s crypt, Clem gripped his chicken wings bucket uncertainly. Spike went on. “I’ve tasted the life of two slayers,” he thought about this. Yeah, two. “But with Buffy...” he grimaced. The terrible thing he had done – the worse thing he had nearly done... but wait: he was a terrible thing. Since when was a vampire not a terrible thing? “It isn’t supposed to be this way!” He finished angrily, grabbing the table and hurling it halfway across the room.
The vampire turned on the loose skinned demon, his hands going to his head. “It’s the chip! Steel and wires and silicon!” He took a breath to calm himself but found no comfort. “It won’t let me be a monster,” his voice dropped regretfully, “and I can’t be a man.” He swallowed. “I’m nothing.”
Clem frowned slightly. “Hey, come on now, Mr. Negative, you never know what’s just around the corner: Things change!”
“Yeah, they do,” the vampire scoffed, bloody words of wisdom! Then he paused. All of a sudden, Spike felt the words. Like a spark in his brain, more powerful than anything the chip could dole out, the words seemed to register. “If you make them.” With an evil grin on his face, the vampire strode past the chicken toting Clem and headed up the stairs.
“You’re— going out?” Clem asked, uncertainly.
“Yeah, got one or two things to take care of outta town. May not be back for a while.” Spike answered, his back turned to the demon.
“But... Nightrider?” Clem pointed to the television, but Spike was already gone. Clem shrugged. “Oh well, one born every minute.” He sat himself down in a decidedly comfy looking chair and then realized there was no remote for the television. Troglodyte, the demon thought, getting up to turn on the old set. When he turned around again, he found an odd looking man standing near his chicken. “Er... hello.”
“Good evening,” the man answered, tipping his white sun hat. “Might I partake of the chicken?”
Clem blinked. “Right, sure. Invitation’s open to anybody.” The loose skinned demon sat himself back down and unsealed the lid to the bucket, letting the pungent aroma rise to his nose. “Mmm.... fried.”
Tory looked down unenthusiastically into the paper bucket, then stuck a hand in. “I heard you two earlier,” he began, still standing as Clem’s attention began to narrow on the small television. “You are quite the wise chap.”
Clem looked up and nodded, his ears flopping. “Oh, thank you, thank you. I have many pearls of wisdom. ‘A closed mouth gathers no foot.’” He stuffed a piece of chicken into his own mouth. “Though, sadly, it also gathers no chicken.”
“Yes, I imagine so,” Tory nodded. “I was looking for a particular piece of wisdom I thought you might be able to help me with.”
Clem nodded, distractedly as the marathon was beginning. “Sure. I’ve got ears for anything.”
“Well, you see, I’m still rather new at this. I was wondering,” the suited man asked, “where Spike was going, and why.”
Clem looked up in surprise. “Uh... well....”
Spike’s fingers gripped the brake of his motorcycle. The engine purred for a moment, then was silent. All else was quiet. Even the crickets had given up their song.
The vampire pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it, his lighter clinking as he shut it again. He didn’t need a map to know this was the much-talked-about Janice’s house. He’d followed a familiar scent here.
After a few moments, and nearly two cigarettes, Dawn appeared at the door. She wore a spaghetti strap shirt and shorts, which she had most likely thrown on over her sleep-wear. She was barefoot and so carefully made her way from the front door, down across the lawn to the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, finding no such courtesy in the vampire’s voice.
He took a long drag before he spoke, as if looking for comfort in the familiar taste. “I came to say sorry, nibblet,” he said, looking into the darkness ahead of his bike. “I’ve got some things I need to do,” he said, feigning calmness, “and I won’t be the same ol’ Spike when I'm through.” He took another drag. “I just wanted you to know - I'd never hurt you.”
Dawn crossed her arms, partly from the chilly night air. “Does Buffy know?”
Spike’s gaze immediately dropped. “She’s why,” he replied. He looked up into her eyes for the first time. “I’ve done something terrible, bit—” the image of Buffy struggling under him in her torn bathrobe invaded his mind. The sound of her pleas. “Something terrible.” He finished, ashamed.
“Worse than sleeping with Anya?" Dawn made a surprised sound. "So apologize,” she suggested, “that’s what words are for.”
The vampire shook his head sadly. “Not this time. She won’t forgive me for this. It changes...” he looked into the darkness again, “it changes everything.”
Dawn swallowed. The words were hard to stomach. “Does it change how you feel about her?” When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Do you still love her?” Through her pained expression, Spike could see many things, not the least of which was jealousy.
Spike decided to answer the first question. “It changes the way I feel about myself... changes the way she’d feel about me – if she felt anything.” He looked away from her face. “Whatever we might have had... it’s bloody gone now.”
“So you’re just leaving, then?” the girl asked, bitterly, spitefully. It was all she could summon to cover the other feelings. “So Buffy was the only reason you stayed in Sunnydale?”
“Well, yeah,” he defended quickly, “originally, I came here to kill her.”
“You know what I mean,” Dawn said angrily, no longer caring that their voices were raised. One way or another, her mind reinforced, everyone leaves.
Spike’s gaze dropped again. He knew, she could tell, but he wouldn’t say it. “Nibblet,” he said gently.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
“Dawn,” he corrected, “you remember a while back, you told me you were afraid – afraid that you couldn’t be good, what with so much bad goin’ on around you?” He took her sullen silence as an affirmation. “Do you remember what I told you?”
Dawn’s voice was as cold and indignant as she could make it. “You told me that you weren’t good either... but you were okay.”
Spike nodded. “But I realize now — that’s not good enough. It’s not natural.” He paused for a moment, tossing his cigarette butt out into the night. “I kill slayers. It’s what I do, it’s who I am.” His voice was almost pleading, but Dawn was having none of it.
She shrugged. “I open portals to hell dimensions. That’s what I do.” She swallowed. “Is that who I am?” Her eyes stung now, all the old scars stinging just as badly. “Is that what I am to you?”
“Nibblet,” he said gently, but she held up a hand to silence him.
“If you came here—” the words were like a knife in her throat, “wanting me to convince you to stay... You’ve wasted your time.” She turned and nearly ran back over the lawn, regardless of her bare feet.
Spike blinked for a moment as she went back inside without a backward glance. “Goodbye,” he said at last, less than a whisper.
The engine roared to life and the vampire sped away into the darkness.
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