Chapter 18:
The sky turned blood orange at sunset, an aesthetically pleasing byproduct of dense pollution. Standing on the hotel balcony, one boot propped against the wall behind him, Spike surveyed his old stomping-grounds-turned-killing-field. Cor, did he miss this place. California had been too bright, the people artificial. Give him the grit and grime of these streets, the cynical detachment of its citizens. He'd arrived here a nihilistic 18-year-old poet, leaving London behind in a cloud of dust and disillusionment, drawn to what remained of the NYC punk scene—haunting CBGB's, witnessing the last gasps of Max's Kansas City.
The borough wasn't the same now, and hadn't been for several years before his arrest, but it was the closest thing he had to a hometown. And here, now, he was so fucking close to home.
As he watched the nonstop movement that was Manhattan, Spike absently touched his chest and arms, testing the severity of Buffy's latest contributions to his wounded skin. Gotten all het up from the feel of his fangs, she had, the sweet-sordid bint. He took a drag on the cigarette dangling between his lips, squinted against the smoke.
A woman stepped into his periphery, sporting dark curls, bright red lipstick and an ivory complexion. "When will you give up that disgusting habit?"
Spike didn't turn his head. "Been expectin' you," he said, cigarette bobbing with each word. "Knew you'd need to get your licks in. Let's have it."
The woman pouted in a way he'd once found endearing. "I'm not here to inflict more pain than necessary. Unlike you."
"Ever the sensationalist," Spike said, looking heavenward in exasperation. "Say what you came to say, Cecily."
"It should be done by now."
"Yeah, well, got the government on my tail. Not exactly travelin' light," he replied peevishly.
"No." Cecily stepped in front of him, blocking his view. "You're stalling."
"How d'you reckon?" Not so much a denial as an evasion.
"You wouldn't have indulged this little detour otherwise."
Spike smirked. "Had its benefits."
"You don't have time to waste rutting like farm animals."
"Jealous, dear?"
"Whatever doubts you're having won't change what needs to be done."
"Don't fucking tell me what needs to be done," Spike snarled. "You started this, you insufferable twat."
His ex-ex-wife showed no anger at the remark. She reached out, a hand almost touching his cheek. Almost. "And the Slayer has to finish it," she said.
"Either end brings death," he muttered, but of course Cecily would hear him. "Not sure I want her shouldering that burden. Not anymore."
"This girl has the strength. You recognized it in her the moment you met." She moved closer to him, her mouth at his ear, near enough to feel her breath, had she any. "I know what she is to you," Cecily continued with unexpected empathy, "but is sparing her worth your freedom, William?"
This atypical lack of derision blunted his edge. Miserable cow though she was, there was a time when he'd loved her. Bloody women.
" 'S my suffering," he replied, "I can choose to prolong it."
Her brow knitted; her lips pursed. "And my suffering? The others'? We want emancipation as much as you do. We deserve it."
Unlike you.
Huh. Wasn't spoken by Cecily. Probably the one-eyed glorified bricklayer. Sounded like him.
"That you do." Spike pushed away from the wall, tossed his cigarette butt over the balcony railing. He could sense her inspecting his body, stripped above the waist, black jeans unbuttoned and riding low on his pelvis.
"Still a dish," she said, meeting his eyes. Then, "You've taken to wearing my coat."
"Aye," Spike replied simply.
"Ah, well," she said, "looks better on you."
He didn't respond, just went inside. Rejecting the past, no longer able to postpone the future.
Buffy lay sleeping— peacefully? —on her side, showcasing the fresh bite overlapping her old scar. Twin punctures had stopped bleeding. He hadn't drained much; the act alone had been satisfying enough. He took pride in this new mark, not just the sight of it, but how badly she'd desired it.
Perching on the edge of the bed, Spike used a hand to sweep mussed hair from her face. "Buffy," he whispered. Her eyelids parted, those long lashes he could still feel fluttering against his skin. "Wake up, lamb." He watched her vision focus, felt the warmth of her recognition. "We have to go," he said, determined and despondent in equal measure. "It's time."
Buffy's heart rode in her throat during the short drive, just a few miles northwest of Chelsea. They parked in back of an old, seemingly vacant warehouse; she peered confusedly at the loading dock, its open rolling gate rusted from disuse.
"Spike?" she asked, "What is this? I thought we were going to your…" she trailed off, not certain what to label it. 'Home' seemed far too wholesome; 'lair' too histrionic.
"Would that I could, luv, but by now the cavalry has arrived. Circled the wagons, an' that. Even I'm not so bold."
"Oh." In her preoccupation with sex&violence, she'd forgotten. Feds. Cops. Peaches. "Right."
Spike exited the DeSoto, retrieving his duffel bag from the trunk before coming around to open her door. "This'll lack the same poetry, true. But flexibility is an important aspect of any plan. I'll adjust; we're still in my neighborhood."
"And where's that?"
"Hell's Kitchen," Spike said, then raised one hand. "Before you give me shit, no, it was not intentional."
"This is it, then?" she asked, stepping out of the car. "Final destination?"
"Could call it that, yeah."
Spike took her hand in a way that made her nervous. Deliberately tender. They began walking toward the building. Buffy's steps were slow, weighted with apprehension, but surprisingly he didn't rush her. She wondered if there might be a different Buffy, in some alternate universe, strolling alongside a different Spike, handholding without imminent danger hanging over her head like a guillotine.
It was a nice thought.
The interior of the warehouse was sparse, only a battered office desk and three chairs as evidence that anyone had ever been here. It smelled musty, reminiscent of a wet dog.
Buffy stood uncertainly in the center of the room while Spike lowered the gate behind them, slid the bolt lock through. "What now?"
She instinctively winced when Spike reached into his coat pocket. He brought out a burner phone and a ballpoint pen, tossing her the former. "Ring your Angel," he said. "Ask 'im to save you."
Buffy caught the phone and stared dumbly at it. "I don't understand."
"Don't need to." He took hold of her hand and turned it palm up. Removing the pen cap with his teeth, he inked their current address on her forearm. As he wrote—she'd never noticed he was lefthanded—Buffy pictured herself back in high school, scribbling her digits on the arms of guys she liked. An excuse to touch them, practice being coy.
"Tell him to come here," Spike said as he released her. "And for all our sakes, tell him to come alone."
It took Buffy a few seconds to process what was being asked of her, a few more to recall the number. Once she had it correct, she opened a text thread and typed: It's me. Get somewhere you can talk privately, then call this number.
She spent the longest three minutes of her life standing phone in hand (eyes on Spike), before the ringtone sounded.
"Buffy? Buffy?!"
"A-Angel?" She couldn't keep the quiver out of her voice, and at the sound of his she began to feel faint. She crossed the room to the office desk and took a seat, placing the phone on the tabletop so she wouldn't be in danger of dropping it.
Spike followed, standing behind her left shoulder. He reached past her to tap the 'speaker' icon, but remained silent.
"My God, baby," Angel said, the frantic pitch of his voice sharp enough to draw blood. "Are you alright?" She couldn't even begin to answer that question, but he saved her from it a moment later. "Where are you?"
Spike had given her no conversational instructions, most likely to enjoy watching her squirm. "I'm at a warehouse in Manhattan. I think. I…I need you to come get me."
"Of course! I'm in the city right now. We've been staking out his old place, but he hasn't showed. I'll tell the agents—!"
"NO!" It came out too loudly, bouncing around the bare concrete. "You can't involve them. Don't tell them. He's here. With me. He wants you to come alone."
"Fuck what he wants, that worthless piece of shit!"
Buffy looked up at Spike, who (rather predictably) appeared moments away from mouthing off. She shook her head; certain the conversation would devolve into chaos at his first word.
"Angel. Calm down, sweetheart." At this Spike visibly grimaced. "If you bring in the police, he'll kill us both before you even get through the door. I'm sure of it. Please. Don't risk it."
A suffocatingly tense pause followed. Just as she was about to prompt him, Angel said, "Fine," in the forced, over-enunciated manner one does when agreeing to something utterly repugnant to them.
She took a shaky breath, the sense of relief both infinitesimal and fleeting. "Thank you. Here, I'll give you the location. Ready?
Angel said he was, and Buffy repeated the address scrawled on her arm. "Got it?"
"Yeah. Only a few miles away, but I didn't bring my car and requesting one would be suspect. Don't worry, though. I'll be there as soon as I can." This was all said in a rush, breathlessly. "I can't wait to see you. I'm so glad you're ok."
"Remember, just you."
"I know. I promise." A beat, then, "I love you, Buffy."
Spike ended the call before she could respond. For the best, really.
She watched him fetch his bag and bring it over. Rummaging, he pulled out a roll of duct tape, the all-too-familiar folding dagger, and the pistol, lined them up on the desk. Then her tape recorder appeared, followed by the cassette bearing his moniker. Holding it up, he asked, "The other side's blank, innit?"
Buffy managed a slight nod, wary of wherever this was headed. Inserting the cartridge, Spike started the recorder and positioned the machine in the middle of the table. He took a seat across from her.
"I figure, as long as we're waiting, we may as well have one last session," he said evenly, pulling out his pack of smokes and Zippo, lighting up. "For posterity, if nothing else."
Anything for posterity, luv. How the hell did they get from there to here?
Buffy swallowed repeatedly, trying to find her voice. "I don't think I'm up for it."
"Oh, come now, Doctor," he said. "Ask me anything. I'll answer." Her expression must have spoken for itself, because he added, "Yeah, even her." Spike leaned back in his chair until the front legs left the ground. "Don't tell me you're going to pass on that?"
No. She wasn't. More like she couldn't.
"Ok," she said,"but the second you start with your usual bullshit, we're done. I'm serious." She was too goddamn tired to go nine rounds against Spike's manipulation. "We clear?"
"Crystal," he replied, expelling twin jets of smoke from his nostrils. "Whenever you're ready, pet."
"Ok," she started carefully. This is so fucked up. "Tell me about Cecily."