Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over the characters created by other more crazily inventive people, I just play around with them.
Summary: Once again Spike had headed into an Apocolyptical battle and once again his adventures aren't over. They're only begining and this time he realises that his century and more of life so far has all been a manipulated chain of events, a chain of events that will lead him to the here and now...
Chapter One: Beginings:
Spike's eyes were blinded by a white light.
One second he was facing the army of the Senior Partners and the next he wasn't. He had been fighting with his back to Gunn, trying desperately to survive as well as protect the man he had become friends with. They were facing little, vicious goblins, vamps, turok-han, a Valkyrie, a couple zombies and a slimy, cat-like demon. Angel had taken the Dragon on and Illyria was facing off with what looked like ninjas. With each creature that fell, ten more took its place. It was a fight they couldn't win, it was pointless, but Spike couldn't and wouldn't give up. The thrill of the fight pounded through his body and a maniacal grin tore up his face. Fear for his friends settled a dull ache that was ever present in his stomach and he glanced regularly in their directions.
Guttural, ferocious and feral roars resounded in the air. Screams of agony pierced even through the loud roars. Many different types of blood stained the ground, the fighters, and the alley walls. Scents of death and pain and fear and rage hung heavy in the warm L.A. air.
When he lifted his hands from his head, where he had been protecting himself from a bat wielded by a goblin, he was not in that grimy alley anymore.
Spike was standing in an elaborate and ornate Drawing room. It was decorated in a style like his house from his human days had been. Rich simple furnishings that were tasteful decorated the spacious room. A roaring, white, marble fireplace was against one wall and two more walls were lined with bookshelves. The fourth wall was covered in paintings. He glanced at that wall offhand, until he spotted something strange. In a pale-white wood frame was his picture. He rushed to it and read the inscription:
Our beloved champion, William Pratt/ William the Bloody/ Spike. Changed to the side of good for the love of his natural enemy, the Slayer. Beautiful, strong, passionate; he is a most dear son of the light.
Spike stood gaping at it. 'Where the bloody hell am I?!' he thought, with an utterly baffled frown. He looked along the wall at the other paintings. There was one of Peaches, (with a less flattering inscription) Peaches' kid, Illyria, Gunn, Fred, Cordeilia, Wesley, Buffy, Joyce, Dawn, the Scoobies, past Slayers, his mum.
Mum?
That threw him out of the loop even further. His mother was a champion? When, what, how, why...huh? He was one confused vamp. With his head spinning Spike made his way over to a Chaise lounge and flung himself down. The room was giving him a headache. It was different shades of gleaming, clean, unblemished white.
He sat alone and in silence. The smells gave nothing away as to where he was; it smelled sterile and neutral. No sound could be heard except for his own aggravated panting; the slash in his side was starting to smart like a bitch. There were no windows, or doors, no way to leave this place and Spike had a feeling that the Powers that Feck with Our Heads were up to this. He had obviously been teleported here, but why? And how? No residual odour of magicks lingered in the air. Not magic then, something more powerful.
He tried not to panic but it was hard. He didn't know how his friends were doing; hell, at this stage he was even worried about Peaches, as much as he despised the self-righteous asshole. The wall of paintings had him baffled and slightly creeped out. And he didn't know where, or when, he was.
Spike leaped to his feet and began to pace in tight, fast circles.
He needed to find a way out.
He needed painkillers for the steadily-becoming-more-irritating, proverbial thorn in his side. Although in his wacky world? There could well be a real thorn in his side. But no, it wouldn't sting and sizzle even if it were a slightly deadly thorn.
He choked up in a slight bout of hysteria at that. Laughter exploded in his twisting stomach and tumbled past his grimacing lips. He couldn't control it and fell to the floor in a fit of insane giggles. Thorn...Order of the Black Thorn. Geddit? Okay, so it wasn't really all that funny, but at the state he was in he'd find Angel's attempts at humour uproarious.
It occurred to Spike that there must be poison in the wound if the bleeding hadn't even slowed at this point.
Again, he needed out of there, needed some blood to help him heal, needed to help his L.A. family and needed some frigging answers!
As he scrambled up from the floor and back onto the sofa, he began to list possibilities, formulate plans, grasp at any possible way to leave this Godforsaken place. Which inspired another question. Was he dead?
But, no, that couldn't be possible. He had seen were he was due after his unlife ended. And it was not elegantly decorated to be comfortable and restful. And no doubt this place would be restful, if he didn't have other places to be and was trapped.
No, not dead then.
Spike put his head in hands resting on his knees. He felt hopeless, powerless, out of control and he hated each feeling more than he hated Darla. He wondered how the others were holding up. Had they lost anyone else? His mind flicked to Fred and his heart clenched painfully. Tears of grief and frustration trickled down his face and he allowed them free reign.
Sobs wreaked his body and he sat in the white room and wallowed.
He was alone.
It felt like he was William the Bloody Awful Poet all over again and that made the loneliness and fear all the more horrible to endure.
Spike felt like he had spent an eternity here but he knew it had only been around twenty minutes. Still, this room made every second drag into a thousand.
His head jerked upwards as the room flooded with light once more and he turned his head down to protect his eyes an instant later. When he looked up again he saw nothing. But behind him he could smell someone. A female someone, with the most delicious smelling blood humming through her veins. There was Slayer and demon and power he had never felt before in her. And as a person she smelled equally delightful. Her body smelled of lavender and jasmine and her hair of passionflower. She also smelled of youth, innocence, and wisdom beyond earthly years. She smelled of leather, oil paints and guitar polish.
He turned his head and saw perfection embodied.
She was around nineteen years old and ethereally beautiful. Her limbs were wiry and her frame lithe. Her body was delicately deadly, agile, graceful and powerful. Her movements were sprightly and predatory yet flowing and elegant like a dancer. Her hair cascaded down her back in wavy streams; it was pale pink, almost white, and was lush. Her skin was creamy and unblemished. Her face was stunning; wide grey-blue eyes, thick lashes, plump pink lips that were perfectly curved, high intellectual forehead without being abnormal like the Poof, arched brows, faultless nose, and gentle jaw. She was dressed in a baggy The Clash t-shirt that just covered her ass and slippers in the shape of ladybirds.
She was divine and extremely adorable. She couldn't be cuter.
"Where the bleeming feck am I?" she demanded incredulously, stalking towards Spike.
Okay, he was wrong, cuter. And the preying swagger? Hot.
He raised his hands in surrender. "Don' know myself!" he said with a sigh.
She sighed and slumped down beside him. She extended a hand to him as she rubbed the other wearily across her brow. "I'm Broderique St. James." she announced.
"Spike." he replied simply.
She raised a brow. "Interesting name."
"'S actually a funny story...Although you being a Slayer probably wouldn't find it very ha ha." Spike explained.
"Well, seeing as how we're stuck here, I assume?" at his nod she continued "Tell me. I'm not as stake-happy as other Slayers. And I predate the newbies, so I actually know the right end of an axe from my arse."
"Predate? You mean you were around before the Slayer-spell?" Spike blustered after he chuckled at her first words and the last few registered.
"Yep!" she said perkily, popping her 'p'. "I was called when I was three but the Slayer line continued 'cause I'm half demon and it confused the rather racist magic."
"Thought I smelled demon in you." Spike noted "So what kind are you?"
"You smelt me?" she asked with a scrunch of her nose that was really charming.
"Needed to know if you were a nasty about to jump me." he countered. She blushed and looked away at the imagery conjured by the words 'jump me' and Spike smirked at her. "Din't mean it quite like that, pet. But if you prefer..."
"We'll see. Maybe if you eat all your greens and brush your fangs like a good boy..." she trailed off with a grin.
'Ohhhh! Feisty! I like this girl, doesn' take my crap.' he thought.
"I'm nothing like a good boy." he said, still grinning cheekily.
"Goodness gracious! How audacious!" she feigned faintness dramatically as she uttered the words in an upper-class London accent.
"That was scary, luv. You sounded just like the sodding women from when I was a lad."
"And when was that? Come on! Regale me, we don't know how long we'll be here." she pouted and Spike's manly bits responded accordingly.
"Tha's a lethal expression, pet."
"So I've been told." she remarked proudly. Spike sniggered at her again, she was very endearing.
"Okay, well I was born one William Pratt to Anne Pratt and a dad who buggered off on us when I was ten. This was in 1853. My dad left with his mistress, but was kind enough (I'm being sarcastic here, pet) to leave his wealth and title. Never even officially divorced me mum. Meant he could live the high life with his fancy woman all he wanted but under Victorian customs mum had to spend her life alone. I was right doting of me mum. She was the kindest woman I've ever met besides my kind of surrogate mum, Joyce."
"And? Continue the story!" she hopped up and down excitedly and clapped her hands, nodding encouragingly.
"It's slightly embarrassing, pet. I was awkward and a bit of a weed."
"Oh, crapology. Everyone goes through an awkward phase, 'sides you can't tell me that someone with your bone structure and a title to boot, wasn't chased by all the ladies in the land."
Spike really liked this girl; she had fine taste in men.
"You think I'm a handsome devil, ey?"
"Oh yeah" she muttered sarcastically "Sex on legs."
He laughed again and considered. He'd tell her about his human life but would leave out some of the more mortifying stuff. For some reason her presence was soothing, why was that...
"Hey, you never answered my question." he groused.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, what kind of demon are you?" he questioned.
"Siren."
"Oh." Well that didn't explain the soothing presence stuff. Sirens had always put him on edge. They were seductive and beautiful but their temptations never lead to anything good.
"We've got a bad rep. And then some of us give into the stereotype and act all whore-y." she defended "I'm not like that."
He had been around long enough to detect sincerity and decided to trust her.
"More story then?" he asked and continued his tale of woe at her vigorous nodding. "I was an aspiring poet and devoted entirely to a woman named Cecily Addams. Me mum was dying and she wished to see me finally married before she went. I heartily agreed because once mum went I would have been all alone in the world. I tried to tell her not to give up, although. I din't want to accept that she was going to not be there anymore. I wanted us to travel the world in search for a way, any was to save her. But she said it was pointless, that she was a goner and wanted to live the last of her days in peace and in her own home. I begrudgingly gave into her demands; I could never deny her anything."
"That's awful" Broderique said, taking his hand in hers "I lost my mum when I was born."
"Sorry to hear that, pet." And God, he was! The thought of this girl, whom he'd only known for minutes, in any pain whatsoever made his demon scratch to get out. The demon won. Spike found that scary, his demon only won when he was passionate about something. Was he falling for the little chit that quickly?
She reached out and rubbed his ridged brow until his game face disappeared. She smiled beatifically but failed to remove her hand. Spike was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He said nothing but leaned happily into her touch and purred happily. She giggled delightedly at the sound as it resounded through her.
"Hey there, it's okay. I've had years to deal and 'sides I never knew her so it's not so bad. Just a lot of 'what if's' and 'what would she have said' and 'what would be different', you know? But my dad's been really supportive and my family and friends are awesome… So, what happened with this Cecily girl?" Broderique spat the name with contempt; she was baffled as to why this vampire made her so territorial.
Spike smiled slightly at the disdain in her voice as she said Cecily's name.
"Turned out to be not so nice. I was at a party one night and was writing poetry for her as usual when some of my peers grabbed the page. They read it out to the whole room and mocked me. Cecily left the room in a hurry and I followed thinking that she was like minded as me and found those gits to be shallow assholes. But it seems my affections were embarrassing to her and she couldn't bear it. I didn't know so at the time and proclaimed my intentions. She was horrified and said that I was 'beneath her'."
"I know a lot of gals that'd love to be beneath you. That silly cow!" she interjected with a growl. She looked into Spike's eyes and he saw so much in hers. There was sympathy, grief, dislike, scorn and friendship.
Spike chuckled. "Well thanks for the flattery, Broderique."
She shuddered at the sound of her name rolling off his sinful tongue. "Call me Brody, please. It's what my friends call me. Only Granny St. James calls me Broderique. Or dad when he found out I'd bought a Harley." she laughed at the memory.
Harley! Perfection was becoming even more ideal.
"Well, I think I'll call you Dee if that's alright?"
"Yep. Not one for convention? Even when it comes to nicknames?" Brody inquired with a grin.
"I guess so."
"Okay, back to the story now. Please and thank you. With sugar on top?" she said, batting her eyelashes, leaning into him and looking up at him through said lashes.
He shivered and turned so that he could hide his very prominent reaction.
"'Kay, pet. So, I'd just my heart stomped on…"
"By the little, prissy tart!" she interposed gleefully.
"…and" he continued without missing a beat "I stormed out into the night in a right state. Tore up all the stupid poems…"
"Oh no! Not your poems!" she said looking genuinely distraught.
"Wha'?" he gawked at her in confusion.
"That's terrible. Poetry for someone you love, well that's sacred. It's a pity, is all. I'd love to have seen it."
Spike ducked a head that surely would be flaming were he alive and felt the first rushes of love take him over. God, he was turning into such a ponce.