Title: Life With the Dead
Author: random shoes
Disclaimer: Not mine not mine not mine!
Spoilers: Spike is a vampire! Angel and Buffy have a *gasp* romantic history! Booth and Brennan investigate crime!
Nah, nothing much, but if it wasn't clear before, all things BtVS and AtS are fair game.
Author's Note: I have introduced a new perspective that became necessary. No idea if it will stick around or not. I really suck at limiting the POVs...
Oh, and unlike many of the characters in this story, I am not in fact dead. Although there was a very slight thing with a hospital... Sorry it's been so long.
Curiosity Killed the Cats
Temperance Brennan had always had a problem with curiosity. Not that it was a problem as far as she was concerned—she almost always learned something useful—but throughout her life others had told her that it was a "problem," that it made her "rude," that "there are certain things you just don't ask," and, most puzzlingly, "curiosity killed the cat."
But not asking invariably lead to sitting on the couch, staring into space and posing hypothesis after hypothesis that she was completely unable to test. Temperance needed answers. She was nothing without answers.
She dialed. Perhaps Booth would approve; she was following her "gut" after all. Or she thought she was. Was following your gut the same as following your impulses, even if your impulses were intellectually driven?
It rang. She wondered what she was going to say.
"Yeah?" It was not Angel.
"Spike? Do you make a habit of answering Angel's phone?"
"Someone has ta. He never does."
"Is he there?"
"Nah. Prolly out stalking or staking or whatnot. 'aving fun. Killing things with her. Din' invite me."
"I don't know what you—are you intoxicated?"
"'Course I am. Can't possibly be expected to sit through the bloody Buffy and Angel show sober. Least not now it's forty-second verse, same as the first...Henry eight was a right prat...or m'I mixing my metaphors, Doc?"
Temperance understood very little of this speech; she therefore chose to continue her own line of thought. "Vampires are affected by alcohol?"
"Yeah, if we try real hard. Never lasts long, though. More's the pity."
"Fascinating. I—well, I was hoping to speak with Angel, but you could help me just as well." After all, Spike was the more talkative of the two vampires, and in her experience alcohol made most people—humans, at least—more open to questioning. "In—in all of the commotion I have been unable to learn everything I would like to about vampires. Maybe we could sit down sometime, and you could supply me with more information?"
She could hear him laughing on the other end. She didn't believe she'd said anything funny.
"You really are something, Doc." Temperance wondered why the feeling that he was mocking her didn't bother her more.
Spike had been silent a moment, considering. "Why not? Never been interviewed for Science before. Were you thinkin' tonight? I've run out of whisky and 'm not nearly drunk enough. Know any good pubs?"
Angel stepped out of the shadows.
"Hi," Buffy said.
He should not be allowed to look like that, all broody and handsome and...the same. That was the most unnatural thing about vampires: not the blood drinking or the crinkly foreheads or the sunlight allergy. That was just window dressing compared to their bizarre sameness. Not one hint of the past decade showed on Angel's face. No wrinkles, no thinning hair, no visible scars. After so long his appearance was startling, breathlessly bittersweet, like a familiar taste that carries the past with it in waves.
Her eyes skidded away from his face. It hurt to look at him, or maybe it felt good. It was hard to tell. Finally, she spoke up. "Just like old times, right?"
A small smile.
"You gonna tell me I'm in great danger and then disappear into the night?"
"No."
"Angel—"
"The opposite, actually. I'm worried you're overreacting. Don't assume this is another Sunnydale on the basis of a few words."
Huh. That impersonal tone hurt just as much as it had when she was sixteen.
She resumed walking. "Boils down to the same thing, though, doesn't it? Be careful. Thanks, but I thought of that already. I've been doing this for a bit."
It occurred to her to wonder what she looked like to him. Buffy had changed, of course—was still changing. She'd be thirty soon. Was he comparing her to High School Buffy? Could she possibly come out of that comparison looking like more than a tired shell of that glowing girl?
Angel had fallen into step with her, but neither looked at the other.
"Okay," he said.
They walked in silence. Buffy found herself scanning the quiet cemetery, wishing something demon-y would jump out and yell Boo. Anything as long as she didn't have to come up with more words.
"Buffy—"
"Um—"
Angel dipped his head towards her, ceding the floor. She really didn't want it.
"Uhh...you and Spike..."
That triggered amused-Angel voice. "Me and Spike?"
"Yeah, I mean, you still fight and everything, but it seems like you're...close." Buffy really wasn't sure why she was bringing this up. Just that the thought of the two of them, friends, was a little uncomfortable. Also, fascinating.
Angel didn't respond right away. At first she thought he was annoyed, but a glance at his face revealed something more interesting: he was actually considering the idea.
"Yes," he said, very quietly, "I suppose...when you fight alongside someone that long—"
"Yeah." Buffy knew.
"But it's not just that." He paused. Buffy got the feeling he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "It's also...he understands me. Usually better than I do."
Buffy smiled. "Yeah, he does that. Understand people. I really wish he'd stop."
That got a smile out of Angel, which felt good. Like a victory. Except now she'd exhausted that subject, and didn't have another one.
More walking. More silence. More gravestones.
Angel tried again. "So how have you...been?"
This was such a weirdly casual question to be coming from Angel that she actually laughed. "How have I been? Uh...great? Terrible? I guess a lot of things. There's the usual—impending apocalypse, save the world, do it all over again, you know—and, well, with the Council gone we're in charge now, but you knew that already, and anyway I mostly wander around and help out, train new slayers and stuff like that, and, um, Dawn's in school, and most of the time she doesn't hate me, and...and I—I got older, I guess. I didn't notice, before, but being with you...I feel it."
His hand brushed hers, connected, squeezed. "Yeah. I feel it too. I'm glad." And then he let go.
Buffy suddenly felt a little sick. "It's really dead out here. I...I should probably go."
Angel looked hurt. Of course he did; she was running away again. But she just felt overwhelmed by...him. By herself. By the past, and the present, and, well, by the future. Yep, that covered everything.
"Goodbye, Buffy."
Something in his voice made her feel deeply guilty, made her unable to walk away. Instead, she put her hand on his arm, raised onto her toes and kissed his cheek...
...or tried to, except he turned his head at the last minute, and her lips landed firmly on his.
Buffy jumped back like a frightened rabbit.
"Woah, uh. That..."
"S-sorry," said Angel's voice. She couldn't look at his face right now.
"It's not your—uh, I'm gonna go now," she said.
"Yes," said Angel's voice.
Buffy turned and left, slowly. She wasn't running away. Nope. No running at all.
Angela couldn't let it go. She'd tried books. She'd tried drawing. She'd tried blasting heavy metal, a bath, masturbation, a nap, and finally a pint of Ben and Jerry's and a random episode of True Blood. When that didn't work, she knew it was all over. She needed to know. Curiosity got her into this disgusting job; the least it could do was get her some answers.
She drove to Bren's.
It wasn't until she'd switched off her car and was staring up at the lights of her friend's apartment that Angela finally started to plan. She had a vague idea that it was easy to get secrets out of Bren, but when pressed her memory had nothing to back that up with. Actually, it occurred to her that her friend's habit of revealing uncomfortable information had less to do with an inability to keep secrets, and more to do with an inability to know which things were secrets in the first place. Really, Bren was quite good at keeping things to herself, pathological, even. Shit. Maybe she should try Booth first or—huh.
The lights in the apartment had gone out. Angela waited, a plan forming in her head. An evil, curiosity-fueled plan, a plan she fully intended to follow through on.
Sure enough, Bren came down the stairs a minute later, wearing an outfit that occupied the mysterious middle ground between professional and date night. Angela watched as she got into the car and pulled out of the parking space, then Angela restarted her own car, waited, and pulled out after her friend, keeping a careful two cars between them, like any good P.I.
Once, as she was nearly forced to run a red light, Angela did feel a little guilt, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that if there was ever a person who wouldn't feel betrayed by discovering her best friend tailing her, that person would be Temperance Brennan.
Temperance didn't ask Spike to meet her at the Founding Fathers. She didn't know why—maybe she wanted privacy, maybe it was her gut again, or perhaps she simply couldn't imagine Spike in that familiar setting, perched next to her, on Booth's stool...
So she gave him the name of a less popular bar, one they'd passed through on a case, not seedy, but not exactly upscale either.
Spike was already seated, sprawled across the red leather booth, a glass of something dangling from his fingers, his eyes fixed disinterestedly on the television behind the bar. It was the body language of someone experienced in taking power: treat an environment like your home, and you become alpha male, master of all around you. She hypothesized that this body language was habit for Spike, as she was aware of no immediate reason he would want power over the few scattered patrons.
He continued watching television as she approached the table, although she couldn't imagine he was unaware of her presence—not with his enhanced senses.
She was right. When she neared his seat he spoke, his focus still on the television. "Could never get the hang a sports. Even your American 'football.' Not that I don't appreciate the urge for a spot a' violence, but I always figure rules sorta ruin the experience, don't ya think?"
She sat down. "Sports provide an organized place for males to compete over alpha status—and over females, of course—and do so with a reduced risk of injury or death."
Spike laughed, finally taking his eyes from the game. "Suppose that's why. I don' need to mess around. M'already dead."
Temperance couldn't think of any useful response to this.
"So, Doc, you want something to drink? Or would that compromise the integrity of the experiment?" He gestured at the table, on which sat a bottle of Jack Daniel's and an empty glass.
She considered. On one hand, she did wish to keep a clear head, in order to ensure she got what she came for. On the other hand, judging from his manner, Spike was more likely to cooperate if she treated this as a social interaction.
She reached for the bottle.
As Bren's car lead her to an unfamiliar bit of town, Angela felt a thrill of excitement. Here we go, she thought, as her friend parked and entered the bar. Whatever Brennan was doing here, it had to be connected to the craziness at the lab.
She was forced to circle the block a few times before she found a parking space, all the while trying to decide what to do next. Walking into the bar would be dangerous; it didn't seem crowded, so there was every chance Bren would see her. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of anything else to do.
She ended up peering awkwardly into the front window, hoping the blue and red neon of the "Open" sign wasn't lighting up her face like a Christmas tree.
Brennan's back was to her, thank God. Angela recognized her perfectly coiffed brown hair. But the man Bren was sitting with...
Was looking right at her.
Angela jumped away from the window, her heart pounding. Shit shit shit! Had he seen her?
She stood against the dark window of the neighboring shop, breathing in and out, letting a minute pass, two, three, four, until she got up the courage to look again.
Brennan and the man were deep in conversation. The man was gorgeous. No, not gorgeous; Booth was gorgeous. This man was sexy. Sexy and dangerous. His clothes, his demeanor, everything screamed bad news. What was Dr. Temperance Brennan doing with a guy like that? Had to be case related. Except, where was Booth? And, if it wasn't case related, what would he do if he found out?
Probably get into a fist fight with the guy. She had a sudden memory of Booth's bruised jaw. Maybe he already had.
That was it. She had to get closer.
Angela ducked inside, trying for a casual air. Neither of them looked up. She took a seat at the end of the bar, as far from the couple (couple?) as she could get, and quietly ordered a drink. Feeling oddly pleased with herself, Angela began her surveillance.
"Nineteenth Century London? You are not joking?"
"Bit of a shock, huh? Wouldna had me pegged for a Victorian gentleman?"
"No, I must admit that I would not have guessed that as your origin."
Spike half-smiled at her. "I don' mean to be rude—well, s'pose I do—but why d'ya talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like a bloody robot."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Course ya don't."
Brennan poured herself another drink. This was going surprisingly well. "But your accent is—"
"Yeah. Went through a bit of a rebellion against that part of me self. Plus, it was how Dru talked, so—"
"Dru?"
"Drusilla. My sire. Total nutter but...sweet. Been a time since I saw her."
"So you developed this accent soon after you were...is 'turned' the correct expression?"
"It'll do. Yeah, wanted a clean break from my human self. Never thought much a him."
"And Angel did the same thing?"
"Wha?"
"Changed his accent after he was 'turned.'"
"Nah, that was later. After the soul. Ran off to America to brood, ditched the Mick accent along with any semblance of manhood 'e 'ad left." Spike took a swig directly from the bottle. "Reckon you're right though, s'really the same thing. Didn't want to be reminded of what he'd been. Wanker."
A perfect opening to ask...
"What's your relationship with Angel?"
Spike snorted. "What is my relationship with the deceased? Well, Doc, that's a complicated question, innit?"
Brennan felt she was being mocked, but chose not to react. "Complicated?"
"Well, Angelus was Dru's sire. Which makes him my grandsire. Not so sure what that means, but..."
"Angel's a father figure for you?"
Spike sat up. "Not bloody likely!" He stopped himself, took a breath, and eased back into his casual slouch. "Dru used to call 'im 'Daddy,' sure, but," He shrugged, "by that logic Dru'd be me mother, and, well, let's just say I've had plenty run-ins with Freud, 'nuff to last me a couple a lifetimes."
Brennan desperately wanted to know what he meant by this, but she could tell by the way he wasn't looking directly at her that this was a dangerous area. After a moment, Spike seemed to snap out of whatever thought process had been engaging him.
"Anyway, Angelus was my grandsire. Not Angel."
"You talk as if they're two different people."
"So does Angel."
"Yes, I noticed that. I also noticed that you don't."
"Don't what?"
"Talk about your, uh, pre-soul self as a separate entity."
Spike tried to smile. "No."
"But you did refer to your human self as 'him'?"
"Yea."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not in denial about who I am. I'm a vampire. The Ponce, well, he can't live with that pa'ticular fact. It eats 'im up inside."
This assessment seemed, judging from her own experience with Angel, to be fairly accurate.
"But you have killed people."
Spike put down the bottle and turned to look directly at her. His eyes were rather disconcerting.
"Yes."
"Many people."
"Yes."
It occurred to Temperance that it might be prudent to be careful around this man. "And that is all right with you?"
"No."
She relaxed a little.
"Point is, it's me who killed them. Not some pure evil demon alter-ego. Me." He picked up his glass again.
"But you were possessed by a demon."
The rest of Spike's drink disappeared down his throat. "Still am."
"But you don't kill anymore?"
He looked down at that. "Not unless I have to." A smile. "'m not a saint."
"You would never kill for sport."
Spike glanced at the television. "Not only for that, no."
"Then you're no different from most people."
He smiled at her. She smiled back, feeling oddly happy. She suspected she was somewhat intoxicated.
"You're all right, Doc. Not like most people."
"Thank you." She took another drink. "Booth is just the same."
"Eh?"
"He's like Angel. Extremely attached to his dichotomy of 'good' and 'evil.'"
"White hats."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm more of a grey hat, myself."
"I don't—"
Spike's eyes had fixed on something over her right shoulder.
"Spike? What is it?"
"Some bint is staring at us."
Temperance twisted around. In the corner of the bar was... "Angela?"
Buffy's day really needed to end. Now. Or, even better, an hour ago. Before she'd kissed Angel. Or he'd kissed her. Or their lips had accidentally—gah! Day over. Sleep now.
She moved swiftly up the motel's sparsely lit outdoor stairs and toward her own room, careful to trend softly in front of Andrew's window. She didn't think she could handle anyone at the moment, but if Andrew came anywhere near her she might just stake him.
She slid her keycard into the door. Red light. She tried again. Red. Okay, slower. Green! Yes—and she dropped her card.
"Motherfucker!" Just what she needed!
As she bent down to retrieve it, her door opened. In front of her nose stood a pair of men's shoes.
"Buffy?" That was not Andrew's voice.
She straightened, card in hand, momentarily searching for some way to use it as a weapon. Then the familiarity of the voice and the face it belonged to took hold. "Riley? What's going on?"
"We've got something on the senator."
"Yeah..." Buffy stepped into the room and tossed her coat onto the bed. "Thing is, my day was over."
Bren and the hottie were deep in conversation and deep into a bottle of booze. Despite constant straining on the part of Angela's ears, she had managed to catch only one sentence, and that one only because he'd nearly shouted it.
Apparently, the hottie was English.
In the meantime, she'd been hit on by two bar flies in a row. The first one backed off after a simple glare, but the second one didn't stop pestering her until she came out with "Look, dude, I like pussy." The half-truth shut him up, finally, but he'd wasted five minutes she could have spent investigating. This was not going well. Maybe she should have left the detecting to Booth and Bren.
She allowed her gaze to linger a bit on the English hottie, wondering what connection this man could possibly have to her formal, socially impaired best friend. Now that she had a good view of him, he looked a lot like...was he wearing a Halloween costume? In April?
Brennan was talking to Billy Idol. With sharper cheekbones. And softer eyes—that were looking right at her.
Before she could react to his—suddenly much harder—gaze, Bren turned around.
"Angela?"
Okay...there was no way out of this. She'd have to play it cool.
She walked up to the table with an attempt at casual surprise that inexplicably caused her hips to sway a ton. Man was she a terrible detective.
"Hey, Bren! What are you doing here?"
The mysterious blue-eyed hottie was staring at her. Without blinking. She tried to focus on her friend.
"Well, I am—" Brennan glanced at the man, "I am interviewing...that is..."
"What Doc here means to say is, appears like we should be the ones askin' that question, seeing as you were watching us an' all."
Playing cool was not working. But what was up with Bren?
New plan: honesty and aggression.
Angela smiled a big fake smile. "Okay, you got me," she said, looking for the first time directly into the man's eyes. "But see, my friend here," she gestured at Bren, "has been acting real weird lately, and I decided that it was my duty as her best friend and coworker to check up on her. She's been known to get herself into trouble."
"I do not get myself 'into trouble.' My position simply requires me to enter dangerous situations quite often."
The expression on mystery guy had started to take on a hint of amusement, whether directed at her or Bren she couldn't tell. She decided to push her luck.
"So anyway," she said, sliding her body as gracefully as she could into the booth beside Brennan. "What's your name?"
"Spike."
"Nice name."
He gave her a sort of friendly glare. "Angela, in'nit? How long've you know Doc, Angela?"
Doc? He had a pet name for her? Booth was so gonna kill this guy. "Six years or so. How long have you known her?"
He chuckled. "Twenty-four hours, give or take. Been a long twenty-four hours, though."
"Really? Do tell."
"Sorry, love. Even if I was inclined towards explanation—which 'm not—don't think you'd be real likely to understand much uv it."
Argh. This was totally maddening. She tried to stare him down. He stared right back. He had extremely nice eyes.
"Guess you'll just hav ta live in the dark." He smiled an evil smile and leaned back onto the booth.
"Perhaps we should all go home?" Bren ventured.
Angela had almost forgotten that she was here. Wait...she'd said something... "You said you were interviewing him? For a case?"
"Yes. That is it. For a case."
"Then why haven't you asked us to help? And what about today in the lab?"
"I can't tell you. It is, um, classified."
"Are you investigating the murders? Were those people today trying to stop you?" She was starting to sound like Jack. Shit.
"I—"
"And why isn't Booth with you?"
Spike looked up. "Where is the great oaf? Or didn't 'e want to see me again?"
"It is not necessary for Booth to be here. And, at any rate, he is with Parker tonight. His son," she clarified.
"His son, eh? Buffy know—"
Brennan's phone buzzed, and she reached for it.
"Hello?"
Okay, seriously: who was this Buffy person? Or was Buffy a person at all? Maybe Buffy was some sort of secret organization? Aaand I sound like Jack again.
Angela leaned in, trying to catch the voice at the other end, but the man—she was sure it was a man—had a very soft voice.
"Yes, I called you."
Spike was sitting up again.
"I merely had some questions, but Spike volunteered to—...yes, he's here. Would you like to speak with him?"
Bren handed the phone to Spike.
"Can't bloody let me be for a night, can ya mate?"
He listened for a moment.
"Things didn't go so well with the slayer?...No, I read you mind with my sodding magical powers! 'M not an idiot. You an' the slayer get within leagues of each other and 'fore you can say 'soap opera' you've gone full-on Romeo."
Slayer...?
"S'not quantum...whatever. Seen it enough times. I refuse to play Mercutio again. Already got dead twice thanks ta you—"
Wait, what? "Excuse me?"
"He is joking." Brennan was an absolutely terrible liar.
Spike smirked at Angela but continued with his conversation.
"Ah, but Peaches, you'd miss me terribly if I was a pile of ash."
An idea was forming in Angela's head. Things were starting to make sense.
"Wot? Don't go gettin' your panties in a knot, mate. She'll be fine."
Time to go for it. Angela looked Spike directly in the eye. "So you're a vampire, huh? Not as scary as I'd imagined."
Spike blinked. "Right, then. Seems as though I'd better...call you back." He snapped the phone shut, eyes locked on Angela.
She smiled. She had him.
The sound of pouring liquid pulled them out of their staring contest. Bren picked up her drink and smiled at Angela. "Good. I am not fond of lying to my friends." And she downed the drink in one gulp.
"Why didn't you take your phone? We've been trying to reach you."
Because I didn't want anyone to reach me. "Forgot it. What'cha got for me?" Buffy sat down heavily on the motel bed, causing it to bounce her up and down like she'd sat down on a very small trampoline. It was less dignified than she would have liked.
"Our Wiccas think they've located the senator. It took some doing—regular locator spells are being blocked by something. Still, we've got it."
Buffy looked down at the complex laces of her boots. Back up at Riley.
She made a displeased noise. "So what's the plan? Should I rally the troops?" Please say no.
"Uh-uh. It's better if we catch them at dawn."
Thank the Jesus. Buffy began the long process of removing her boots.
There was a moment of silence. Riley seemed to be waiting for something. "Don't you want to know where the senator is?"
Not really, no. "Um, sure? Where is he?"
"The Jefferson Memorial."
"Oka—wait, repeat that?"
Parker had been tough tonight. Loud, rowdy, and dead set against doing his homework. Rebecca had been harried and less than overjoyed at this surprise mid-week visit. She'd given him odd looks all evening, asking what are you doing here? with her eyes, concern and annoyance fighting for supremacy in the blue depths.
It had been an impulse—unexpected and overwhelming. He had needed his son.
He hadn't understood until a few hours after he'd arrived, when Parker, desperate to focus on anything but long division, had looked up at him and asked "Are you and Bones gonna catch another bad guy soon?" Booth hadn't known what to say. Because the thing was, they weren't gonna catch these bad guys. Against a vampire he was as powerless as Parker would be against a murder suspect. It was why he'd needed so badly to see his son, to touch him. The universe had suddenly and irrevocably flipped on its head, and when he'd finally got his bearings in this new upside-down world, Booth had realized something: he no longer felt safe.
He wasn't worried for himself—he was nothing if not a survivor—but Parker...
This was not the stable, right-side-up world he'd thought to bequeath to his son. This was a world he couldn't trust, a world that at any moment could shift again under his feet. And take his son with it.
He'd helped Rebecca with the dishes, watched football with Parker, and had an argument with him about the appropriate bedtime for a fifth-grader, all the while in a state of quiet terror.
Driving home through the well-lit suburban neighborhood he was still terrified—of tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and most of all of the day when an older Parker, confident in his strong young limbs, would wander out onto a dark street and bump into a cold stranger...
Booth had to chill out. He could—would—protect his son. He just needed to figure out how.
He parked at his apartment and stepped out of the standard-issue SUV, breathing deep, hoping to calm his heartbeat. He needed to sleep tonight. He felt as if he'd run a hundred miles while someone (Billy Idol?) ran behind him, chucking rocks at various body parts. Or maybe that was one of the many things he'd dreamed last night...
Something small and sharp slid along the side of his neck.
He spun, all his instincts kicking in in full force, his hand shooting to his gun...
It wasn't there. He was pathologically careful not to wear it with Parker. A moment of blind panic, and then he was pined against the wall of the building, blinking into yellow eyes. The sharp thing was resting casually below his adam's apple.
"Shhh," said a musical voice, "Only wanted to see." The yellow eyes blinked. A small smile appeared. "Would you like to be my daddy?"