thedeadlyhook | William Fic, Part 1

I'm doing this in pieces, because I know that at least that way, I'll get it done.

This is a horrifically late entry to

eurydice72's William Ficathon. It's for

herself_nyc, who requested "anything, with Buffy if possible, not fluffy," only to avoid "Victorian details you're not sure of." I struggled some time with my original plot bunny which was a sort of Victorian-era snapshot of William's life, combined with a little germ of an idea that I've always had about Spike, and therefore William - that he just might have had a little bit of Drusilla's talent himself, that ability to "see" things - that hopefully would have added up to a very weird and dreamlike like piece, with Buffy appearing as a sort of phantom, or Ghost of Christmas Future, if you will. It was all very much The Others... that is, until I realized it was also sort of a variant on The Grudge, and that just seemed too meta for words. Plus the amount of research needed got rather daunting. but my period William story ended up turning into more of a modern Spike story with a twist... and then it just snowballed on its own, as my stories are wont to do. I'm somewhat cheating to start with Spike and not William, but weirdly enough, this is actually my first story ever written in Spike's POV.

So anyway, off and running with a short intro for now, more to come later. Set rather loosely somewhere later in my own unfinished WIP, Does It Have to Mean Something?, a sort of minor AU from the events there, post-"Not Fade Away." There's pretty much nothing you need to know from that story, though, other than Spike needs help with getting a spell removed. (And please, forgive the boring title.)

__________

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
William Blake, The Tyger

The Center

London. It's been some time since he's seen it. His old stomping ground.

Not that he's avoided the place, over the years. Just the opposite. London was a good city for vampires, with its miles of tunnels in the Underground and club scenes filled with thrill-seekers. A demon could live almost openly here, riding the Tube during the day, lurking in corners, watching for drunken patrons staggering home just after pub closing, that perfect hour when the whole city seemed ready to fall into a vampire's arms.

But that was back in the days when Drusilla had been his one bright and shining star, the black center of his universe. Funny to think of it now, that he'd torn apart vengeful demon hunters and civilians alike to save her from the Prague mobs, but in trying to put her back together, like Humpty Dumpty, he'd lost himself instead. And then found himself again, sort of, but that's another story.

In general, he hasn't proven to be very good at putting things back together.

He's here because of the spell. Angel's bloody spell. There's a coven he needs to talk to, here in England, about removing it. Odds are good they won't help him--they're human for starters, and Wicca-preaching, moon-worshipping Earth magic Gaia types on top of it. He'd seen plenty of that sort before he and Dru left England for the last time, went to parties filled with New Age crystal-wearers boasting about Chalice Well viewings and moonlit climbs to the top of Glastonbury Tor. Dru loved those folk, with their incense and Hindu idols and vegan brownies, thanks to some sense of humor only she really understood. Goes without saying, though, that they tended to see vampires as something of a bit against the natural order.

Still, it's worth doing. Talking to the coven. He'll give it go, to keep everyone confused if nothing else. Broadcast a note of desperation.

He rides the Tube to get there. The meeting spot, in Bloomsbury. No idea why the coven chose that place unless it's to try to get to him, psychologically. If that's it, obviously they're wasting their time. Sure, it's a corner of the city that hasn't seen his shadow in better than a hundred years, but he's come to terms with that since, his need to leave his human life behind. He'd been confused and heartsick, that last fateful night he'd torn out of the front door of his family house. Left his own mother behind as ashes in the fire grate, and for years and years after that his one goal was to erase that feeling, that despair. Drown it under, choke it to death, find something in all his experience that would prove things different, reclaim himself from what his mother the demon had said him to be. Something that proved that he was more.

Well, he's found it since, hasn't he? Took the long way around, maybe, but things worked out in the end, sort of.

Walking past the old familiar Georgian circle isn't really something he wants to do, but he does it anyway, just to send the old ghosts packing. Just to prove he can, and that it doesn't mean anything to him, not anymore. Surprise, surprise--the old house is still there. Converted to a tourist hotel, like most of the other houses in the circle, with a glowing sign over its door. It had been a stylish townhouse once, the strolling park across the way a popular promenade for older ladies and servants with perambulators.

He stands on the sidewalk and stares. Doesn't really want to, but can't help it. He was human in this place. A child who ran sticks along fences, pulled flowers and got his hands slapped for it. A young man who tipped his hat to the ladies. And no, he most certainly does not have an impulse to go inside and see his childhood room, wonder at the endless stream of backpackers that must have marched through it, German couples and Japanese teenagers and nubile Swedish lesbians. No effin' thank you.

He pushes on. To the British Museum, the plaza out front where he and the witch are supposed to meet. Lots of people still thronging the area, even after dark, thanks to the short winter nights. It occurs to him that's probably why she chose the place, the comfort of crowds. So much for trust.

The witch is not at all hard to find in the crowd. She's a Mexican wedding cake of lace and crepe, a concert-goer on her way to see Stevie Nicks. Be sure to wear flowers in your hair, like the song says--white hippie magic pours off her in waves. To her credit, she doesn't seem to have any problem with spotting him either, watches him cross the flagstones with a face contorted in distaste. No doubt setting off her "unnatural" warning bells like a carillon. Well, too bad for her.

They exchange some words. None of them very polite. She makes him go over in detail exactly what he wants, although it's obvious that she already knows--he explained all that to the coven's leader back in Paris. She's putting him through his paces for fun, because he's a demon and nothing she likes, and it's possible that in response he says something rude.

But he doesn't realize how far he's pushed it, her already snotty short temper, until she extends a finger, and then there's a shock to his head that's way too familiar, his whole mind exploding into gray-black light. And he stumbles away, reeling, the witch's voice ringing in his ears... or maybe it's just in his mind, because he's blocks away, feet slamming the pavement and still he can hear her.

"You chase the impossible," she cackles, and the sound rings and rings and rings.

"You ask to be free. You never will be."

TBC

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From:

jenjojen.livejournal.com

Hmmm...very interesting. I'm liking it. I'm really eager to see where this goes.

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