William Fic, Part 13
Feb. 16th, 2005 02:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookPlotty, plot, plot in the form of a conversation over pints. End won't be much longer now. (Edited on 2/20 to smooth out some snags.) Previous parts here.
The Center, Part 13
"The council," Buffy repeats. "My council. What are you saying?"
Her face is stubborn. Closed off, anger sparking. He's seen that face before, oh sure, plenty of times. When she's gearing up for a good, hard fight, just about ready to get stuck in. There are variations to it, of course--the light in her eyes she gets when she's excited, when she knows she's going to win, the look of flat misery he remembers seeing more than once after she'd been dead and come back. The anger, pure, like gasoline keeping her upright and running. The Slayer deathwish in full bloom.
Not this time, though. There's hope in her face, just enough of it to look like hurt, a silent plea of tell me it isn't true. He can't. Wishes he could, but he can't.
He keeps his voice low. Tries to make it gentle, soften the blow. "It's a government building, love."
"So? That doesn't prove anything."
"It proves someone with high-level pull got those pictures in. Not like just anything gets to hang in those halls." She couldn't be so far into denial not to realize that. "You think it was demons, working for the National Trust?"
"Why not? You said that there were demons everywhere in the government, in big positions of power--wasn't that the whole point about you and Angel a-and... Wolfy Heart?"
"Yeah, sure. If it was just me and Angel, I'd say maybe. But it doesn't hold up as a reason for Dru. No reason for a demon to go after her. There's only one group that would bother keeping tabs on her, and that's yours."
Her jaw could have been carved in granite, locked tight. "Then it was a mistake. Somebody really thought that she was a princess or something."
"Darla too?"
"Sure, why not? They were old paintings. Maybe they really look like those sisters. And it said they don't have Darla's picture. So maybe--"
"Bollocks, Buffy." He takes a swig of his drink, then another. Sets down the glass with a bang. "The hell they don't have it. Darla's portrait just isn't hanging because she's dead. Dead gets you off the Most Wanted list. Private collector, my arse." He took another drink. He needed it. "Then if she ever comes back to life again, they can hang it back up and say they bought the twin painting, hallelujah."
"That's a pretty big theory just from looking at a couple of paintings."
"My photograph was there too. So was Angel's. That's a few too many mistakes for coincidence." He blew out a snort of annoyance. "Oh, c'mon, didn't you notice the note on my picture? 'Only known surviving photograph of Lord Explorer Whathisname after his return from the jungles of Africa'? 'Thought lost in the Arctic'? It's a code, Buffy."
She stared at him. "Since when are you so paranoid?"
He slammed back the last of the ale in his glass. Tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. Since when? Since waking up from what he thought would be his second last battle and realizing he'd survived yet again. Since hearing from Angel that the show certainly wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. Since he found out, thanks again to Angel, that he was the Golden Boy of prophecy now. Since thanks to said prophecy and Angel's stupid spell he'd gained a large target painted on his back and every damn demon in the dimension and then some wanting a piece of him. Probably since then.
"Listen to me, Buffy," he says patiently, keeping his voice even with some effort. "What we saw today, that wasn't the work of demons. I know demons. Lived with them, worked with them. That--" He pointed. "--was something a human would think up, so either it's Slayers, or whatever you've got that passes for Watchers right now. And what it says to me is that I've got a price on my head. And so does Angel, and so does Dru."
There was more to it than that, of course. None of it anything he could really explain, not to her. Something a human would think up. It was only the venue that made him think that--a public space, a place set aside for human traffic. The method, the code--that was familiar. He recognized it from the old days, when photographs weren't to be had by just anyone with a Brownie camera. No, back then you had to work the grapevine for information, and what certain people looked like was worth quite a lot in trade. Like faces of Slayers.
He'd paid good money to the right demons to find the Chinese Slayer he'd eventually killed. Her name, her image, where she lived. But in the end, it had turned out that all he'd really needed was the town. He would have been able to pick her out of any crowd, just on his senses alone. Her energy, sparking. Undeniable.
The greatest challenge a vampire could ever face. Or at least that's what he'd thought then.
"That doesn't make any sense," she insisted. "Spike, the council's not after you."
"How do you know? You don't exactly keep up with them anymore, do you?" She was shaking her head. He knew instinctively that she wasn't answering his question. "You call Angel and ask him--he'll tell you the same."
And okay, now that he was thinking about it, he had a new priority--he had to warn Angel. This could be a major problem. Every Slayer in the world with the two of them in their crosshairs. Like demons making power plays between them wasn't bad enough.
And that decided him, suddenly. He really, really needed to get back to his own world and stop dithering around in Buffy's. Just stop dicking around in general. What good did it do? It didn't make her happy, or him. What had he been thinking?
Stupid. One thing to know your crimes, learn from them. Another to just hang about and wallow. Isn't that what he'd just been doing? He'd ragged out Angel for doing that, getting caught up in the past. Even his stupid naive human self knew better.
What mattered was the future. What mattered was the now.
"I called Angel already," she says. "Yesterday. Back at the hotel."
It's all he can do not to bolt to his feet. Oh, shit. Shit! "You what?"
"I called him to let him know everything was okay. And he said you should rest up, take a little break, that everything was fine." She glared at him then, as if it was his fault somehow that everything had suddenly gone straight to hell.
His mind skipped over the information about Angel giving him permission to hang out with Buffy. No time now for that. "You didn't call him from the hotel phone, did you?" Traceable call. Worse than bad.
"My cell phone." She lifts her chin, challenging. "You're seriously suggesting that those galleries are full of secret messages about vampires?"
"Why not?" And the real seriousness of the situation strikes him even as he says it. Slayers organized, an army of Slayers, all turned against him, all with easy access to his picture, a name, a kill order. And for the first time it occurs to him that this is how she must have felt back then, when she was the world's only Slayer. All alone. The world filled with nothing but victims to protect or assassins out to kill you. His mouth is suddenly dry.
"Gotta hand it to old Rupert," he says huskily. "Hang our faces in a public place anyone can walk into--pretty smart. No worries their archive'll get blown up by some psychopath. British government guards it for 'em. They could do it in museums all over the world..." He swallows.
He'd only understood that before from the other side. A hunter's understanding of its prey.
"Online would make more sense in paranoia-land, Spike. Why wouldn't they just email your picture around?"
And oh great, now here she was bringing him back down to Earth in the twenty-first century, where technology made things even worse. "How do you know they didn't?"
She's still shaking her head, not sold. "No. I don't believe it. Giles wouldn't--" Then she stops, and their eyes meet. She looks down at the table quickly, and her hands are suddenly busy, tightly grasping her glass.
And he feels it then, a surge of sympathy for her. A flash of self-hatred for bringing that kind of pain back into her life. Making her choose.
And then, just as quickly, he lets it go. Fuck it. He hasn't got time for hating himself, not anymore, not against something like this. Let them come and try to take him down. Not like he hasn't spent years tempting fate, throwing himself at battles he had no business winning. Let old Rupes come and try.
He has work to do now, real responsibilities, and there's only one person he'll accept as his judge. And none of these new Slayers are her.
Buffy picks up her glass then and begins to drink. Chugs back almost half the pint, and he watches her in some surprise, brows drawn in.
"If it's true," she gasps, pulling the glass away from her lips, setting it down. "Then something must have gone wrong. This isn't how it was supposed to be. I'll go to the council, okay? I'll find out."
"You're probably right." No point debating it anymore. "I'm sure they'll listen to you."
He believes nothing of the sort. Buffy's not in the field anymore, not a player. In his mind, he's already making his escape plan, readying for battle.
She meets this statement with a vicious glare. If her eyes could shoot arrows, he'd be riddled. "Don't do that to me," she says through closed teeth. "Don't talk to me like that. Like this isn't my fight too."
"It's not." He narrows his eyes at her. Not in the mood to play games. "Not your worry anymore, pet. It's mine."
"It is my worry. Because I care about you, you... stupid vampire, and if anyone's messing with you, then they're messing with me. No matter who they are." She blows out a little puff of air through her nose, like a petite arena bull, and gets to her feet. Stalks to the bar and gets them both some more to drink--another round for him, a big cup of coffee for her.
And he just watches her, recognizing the steam of determination rising from her small shoulders, her narrow little frame held so straight she could well be wearing a suit of armor.
Battlefield Buffy. His beautiful little Bodicea.
And for the first time in he doesn't know when, he feels a little glimmer of hope.
Because that's his girl.
The Center, Part 13
"The council," Buffy repeats. "My council. What are you saying?"
Her face is stubborn. Closed off, anger sparking. He's seen that face before, oh sure, plenty of times. When she's gearing up for a good, hard fight, just about ready to get stuck in. There are variations to it, of course--the light in her eyes she gets when she's excited, when she knows she's going to win, the look of flat misery he remembers seeing more than once after she'd been dead and come back. The anger, pure, like gasoline keeping her upright and running. The Slayer deathwish in full bloom.
Not this time, though. There's hope in her face, just enough of it to look like hurt, a silent plea of tell me it isn't true. He can't. Wishes he could, but he can't.
He keeps his voice low. Tries to make it gentle, soften the blow. "It's a government building, love."
"So? That doesn't prove anything."
"It proves someone with high-level pull got those pictures in. Not like just anything gets to hang in those halls." She couldn't be so far into denial not to realize that. "You think it was demons, working for the National Trust?"
"Why not? You said that there were demons everywhere in the government, in big positions of power--wasn't that the whole point about you and Angel a-and... Wolfy Heart?"
"Yeah, sure. If it was just me and Angel, I'd say maybe. But it doesn't hold up as a reason for Dru. No reason for a demon to go after her. There's only one group that would bother keeping tabs on her, and that's yours."
Her jaw could have been carved in granite, locked tight. "Then it was a mistake. Somebody really thought that she was a princess or something."
"Darla too?"
"Sure, why not? They were old paintings. Maybe they really look like those sisters. And it said they don't have Darla's picture. So maybe--"
"Bollocks, Buffy." He takes a swig of his drink, then another. Sets down the glass with a bang. "The hell they don't have it. Darla's portrait just isn't hanging because she's dead. Dead gets you off the Most Wanted list. Private collector, my arse." He took another drink. He needed it. "Then if she ever comes back to life again, they can hang it back up and say they bought the twin painting, hallelujah."
"That's a pretty big theory just from looking at a couple of paintings."
"My photograph was there too. So was Angel's. That's a few too many mistakes for coincidence." He blew out a snort of annoyance. "Oh, c'mon, didn't you notice the note on my picture? 'Only known surviving photograph of Lord Explorer Whathisname after his return from the jungles of Africa'? 'Thought lost in the Arctic'? It's a code, Buffy."
She stared at him. "Since when are you so paranoid?"
He slammed back the last of the ale in his glass. Tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. Since when? Since waking up from what he thought would be his second last battle and realizing he'd survived yet again. Since hearing from Angel that the show certainly wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. Since he found out, thanks again to Angel, that he was the Golden Boy of prophecy now. Since thanks to said prophecy and Angel's stupid spell he'd gained a large target painted on his back and every damn demon in the dimension and then some wanting a piece of him. Probably since then.
"Listen to me, Buffy," he says patiently, keeping his voice even with some effort. "What we saw today, that wasn't the work of demons. I know demons. Lived with them, worked with them. That--" He pointed. "--was something a human would think up, so either it's Slayers, or whatever you've got that passes for Watchers right now. And what it says to me is that I've got a price on my head. And so does Angel, and so does Dru."
There was more to it than that, of course. None of it anything he could really explain, not to her. Something a human would think up. It was only the venue that made him think that--a public space, a place set aside for human traffic. The method, the code--that was familiar. He recognized it from the old days, when photographs weren't to be had by just anyone with a Brownie camera. No, back then you had to work the grapevine for information, and what certain people looked like was worth quite a lot in trade. Like faces of Slayers.
He'd paid good money to the right demons to find the Chinese Slayer he'd eventually killed. Her name, her image, where she lived. But in the end, it had turned out that all he'd really needed was the town. He would have been able to pick her out of any crowd, just on his senses alone. Her energy, sparking. Undeniable.
The greatest challenge a vampire could ever face. Or at least that's what he'd thought then.
"That doesn't make any sense," she insisted. "Spike, the council's not after you."
"How do you know? You don't exactly keep up with them anymore, do you?" She was shaking her head. He knew instinctively that she wasn't answering his question. "You call Angel and ask him--he'll tell you the same."
And okay, now that he was thinking about it, he had a new priority--he had to warn Angel. This could be a major problem. Every Slayer in the world with the two of them in their crosshairs. Like demons making power plays between them wasn't bad enough.
And that decided him, suddenly. He really, really needed to get back to his own world and stop dithering around in Buffy's. Just stop dicking around in general. What good did it do? It didn't make her happy, or him. What had he been thinking?
Stupid. One thing to know your crimes, learn from them. Another to just hang about and wallow. Isn't that what he'd just been doing? He'd ragged out Angel for doing that, getting caught up in the past. Even his stupid naive human self knew better.
What mattered was the future. What mattered was the now.
"I called Angel already," she says. "Yesterday. Back at the hotel."
It's all he can do not to bolt to his feet. Oh, shit. Shit! "You what?"
"I called him to let him know everything was okay. And he said you should rest up, take a little break, that everything was fine." She glared at him then, as if it was his fault somehow that everything had suddenly gone straight to hell.
His mind skipped over the information about Angel giving him permission to hang out with Buffy. No time now for that. "You didn't call him from the hotel phone, did you?" Traceable call. Worse than bad.
"My cell phone." She lifts her chin, challenging. "You're seriously suggesting that those galleries are full of secret messages about vampires?"
"Why not?" And the real seriousness of the situation strikes him even as he says it. Slayers organized, an army of Slayers, all turned against him, all with easy access to his picture, a name, a kill order. And for the first time it occurs to him that this is how she must have felt back then, when she was the world's only Slayer. All alone. The world filled with nothing but victims to protect or assassins out to kill you. His mouth is suddenly dry.
"Gotta hand it to old Rupert," he says huskily. "Hang our faces in a public place anyone can walk into--pretty smart. No worries their archive'll get blown up by some psychopath. British government guards it for 'em. They could do it in museums all over the world..." He swallows.
He'd only understood that before from the other side. A hunter's understanding of its prey.
"Online would make more sense in paranoia-land, Spike. Why wouldn't they just email your picture around?"
And oh great, now here she was bringing him back down to Earth in the twenty-first century, where technology made things even worse. "How do you know they didn't?"
She's still shaking her head, not sold. "No. I don't believe it. Giles wouldn't--" Then she stops, and their eyes meet. She looks down at the table quickly, and her hands are suddenly busy, tightly grasping her glass.
And he feels it then, a surge of sympathy for her. A flash of self-hatred for bringing that kind of pain back into her life. Making her choose.
And then, just as quickly, he lets it go. Fuck it. He hasn't got time for hating himself, not anymore, not against something like this. Let them come and try to take him down. Not like he hasn't spent years tempting fate, throwing himself at battles he had no business winning. Let old Rupes come and try.
He has work to do now, real responsibilities, and there's only one person he'll accept as his judge. And none of these new Slayers are her.
Buffy picks up her glass then and begins to drink. Chugs back almost half the pint, and he watches her in some surprise, brows drawn in.
"If it's true," she gasps, pulling the glass away from her lips, setting it down. "Then something must have gone wrong. This isn't how it was supposed to be. I'll go to the council, okay? I'll find out."
"You're probably right." No point debating it anymore. "I'm sure they'll listen to you."
He believes nothing of the sort. Buffy's not in the field anymore, not a player. In his mind, he's already making his escape plan, readying for battle.
She meets this statement with a vicious glare. If her eyes could shoot arrows, he'd be riddled. "Don't do that to me," she says through closed teeth. "Don't talk to me like that. Like this isn't my fight too."
"It's not." He narrows his eyes at her. Not in the mood to play games. "Not your worry anymore, pet. It's mine."
"It is my worry. Because I care about you, you... stupid vampire, and if anyone's messing with you, then they're messing with me. No matter who they are." She blows out a little puff of air through her nose, like a petite arena bull, and gets to her feet. Stalks to the bar and gets them both some more to drink--another round for him, a big cup of coffee for her.
And he just watches her, recognizing the steam of determination rising from her small shoulders, her narrow little frame held so straight she could well be wearing a suit of armor.
Battlefield Buffy. His beautiful little Bodicea.
And for the first time in he doesn't know when, he feels a little glimmer of hope.
Because that's his girl.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-16 03:19 pm (UTC)I really loved this line. This is turning out really well, and I have enjoyed reading it.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-16 03:58 pm (UTC)