Ten Thousand
by wisteria

12. Amsterdam



His tongue must be halfway down her throat, and her hands were pawing him so hard he'd probably be flayed within a half-hour.

"Idiots in love," Spike muttered then turned away from the giggling couple who'd been all over each other since he'd arrived at the coffeehouse.

Bloody stupid to think that he could just get stoned and forget about everything. The only thing the pot did to him was bring on the brood.

The whole time on the overnighter from Zoobanhof, he'd been planning this. Arrive in Amsterdam and find the closest coffeehouse. Proceed to spend the next thirty-six hours in a brown haze, all cheerful and trippy. 'Course, things didn't turn out that way. Never did.

The train had arrived at 9:30 in the morning, and his only stroke of luck had been the light rain that that kept the sky overcast enough for him to get from Centraal to the nearest budget hotel, even though he felt like a royal git huddled under the stupid blanket still left over from Uganda. Slept the day away – no nightmares, at least – then stumbled out into the night in search of the nearest place to get trashed.

An hour later, the hash was mostly just ash, and he was still lucid and depressed. Even worse, he just had to pick a place that was apparently the biggest pick-up spot in town. Half the people there were either looking for some action or well on their way to getting it.

He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was okay. Didn't work.

A hundred-plus years of memories to draw on. Hell, three weeks of travel to some pretty damned fascinating climes. He should have been able to see a million different brilliant images in his mental slideshow.

But the eyes that had seen the world go from quaint Victoriana to blinding cyber-neon could see nothing but the way her face had looked when she walked toward him in that delicious moment before their first kiss.

A bit of curl at the ends of her hair. Huge green eyes like mint, and when she moved so close he could feel her cool breath, he saw himself in them. Lips parted, begging to be kissed. So he had. His hands on strong shoulders that felt so small that night. She had tasted of silver, of sugary cola, of the heaven of which she'd sang.

It had been one of those moments when everything and nothing seemed possible.

Oh, god, he missed her, more than a soulless thing ever should. He loved her. The soul hadn't changed that. Nothing ever would.

He opened his eyes and pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket. The hash had been a bust, but at least some good old nicotine would get rid of the jitters. When he lit a match – cursing himself again for forgetting the Zippo back in Berlin – he saw the dozen couples in the room, all getting kisses that he may never get again.

"Get over it," he muttered to himself. "Time to move on, Spike."

The smoky air swirled around him as he stalked out of the coffeehouse and into the damp night.






The 'net café off Reguliersbreestraat was bland but efficient, done up in orange and white. No fuss. Rather like Amsterdam, really. The man at the counter sold drinks, candy and, of course, space cakes, but Spike ignored it all in favor of alternating between his flask of blood and a huge mug of hot chocolate and cream. Reminded him of home.

First stop was Lucy's website, where he read her journal. He was a bit disappointed to see that she hadn't commemorated his visit; then again, it was all just archeology technicalities. No room for him in it. Still, was nice to see that life marched onward.

Then he went over to his e-mail. Slogged through the inevitable spam until he found another message from Clem. Ah, good. He'd almost forgotten about the Western Union thing.

The mail was typically Clem, too. Made him smile for a change.

Spike?

Okay. First off, I am SO sorry!!! I swear to Rabista that I'll have everything fixed by when you get home. See, here's the deal: you said I could make myself at home, right? Well, um... I did. I know this C'inok demon who's got a sweet gig with AT&T Broadband, and since he owed me some favors (kittens not litterbox trained, 'nuff said) I thought I'd surprise you with digital cable and high-speed internet. Except it kinda didn't work. Don't worry, I'll have everything cleaned up. Promise! Right now I'm at that coffee place downtown.

Anyway! =) Yay to hearing from you!! I just knew everything would work out, Mr. Mopey. Yeah, I gave Dawn the money. She had all sorts of questions, but I kept my mouth shut. Are ya proud of me?

Oh, that reminds me! Like, a day or so after you left, the Slayer brought Dawn by (which is how I know her now) and asked me to let her hang out at your place because some seriously weird stuff was happening in town (but I'll tell you all about that later.) She seemed pretty upset that you were gone, and she really wanted to know when you'd get back. Maybe there's something still there after all, Spikey! ::wink::

Okay, gotta go. This place costs a fortune! :o But as a little 'oops, sorry for messing up your TV' present, I made you this webpage.

Clem.



When the web page loaded, Spike wondered if he was more stoned than he thought. Huge smiley face vampire, American flag fluttering, tacky kitten background, and the huge words, "Hi Spike!!! See you soon, Clem." The visual assault damn near made his eyes bleed. He half-expected to see a giant rabbit hopping across.

But as he stared at it, he found himself beginning to grin. He had a friend who cared enough to make him a cheesy web page.

Huh. Imagine that.

Tipping the flask to his lips, Spike took a sip and noticed that he was almost out of blood. At least he had a couple of bags left back at the hotel, and he knew through the grapevine of a vampire in London who could fix him up with some more.

He re-read the e-mail, and something else hit him. Buffy had asked about him. She missed him too, or so Clem thought. Wow.

His smile grew wider.

The "print" button was clicked before he thought to find out whether he could print on these computers. When he heard the whirr of the printer gearing up, he shrugged and went over to it. Then he glanced up at the counter and saw that printed pages were a Euro each. Spike rolled his eyes. Buggering ripoff.

But when he looked down at the laser-printed e-mail, all posh graphics and clear words, he couldn't help but feel a little thrill. She'd been upset that he was gone. Sure, he could just chalk that up to her being pissed off that he wasn't there for a good staking, but he knew her better that that. And one thing he knew full well was that Buffy didn't talk to anyone else about him, unless it was to deny her involvement.

Spike knew he was probably jumping to conclusions, but this "hope" thing felt damned good.

Getting the tab for the session took him down a notch or two. Sixteen Euros per hour? Now, that was evil. Made him want to nick something out of spite.

First, he wanted to remember this. While the clerk was sorting out his change, Spike reached into his backpack and pulled out the camera. "Take a picture?" he asked.

The clerk stared back like Spike was the most pathetic fool in civilization. Made Spike think that theft wasn't good enough for the bastard; even fangs in the neck would be a kindness. With all the grace of an elephant in a tutu, Clerk Boy reached for the camera and proceeded to knock some candy onto the floor. When he bent down to pick them up, Spike seized the moment, slipping a pack of fags from the display into his pocket. 'Still got the touch,' he thought with a grin. Didn't feel guilty, either. Bastard deserved it.

Still smiling, he waited for the clerk to take the picture. At least the flash wasn't any more blinding than the harsh lights of the café. The man handed the camera and picture over, then went back to his magazine. Spike looked him straight in the eye and said – in Spanish, since he didn't much care to get a migraine from the potential fight – "I hope your girlfriend laughs at your tiny penis."

Damn, that felt good.

As he walked out of the storefront, Spike flicked the photo rapidly to develop it. A block away, he stood under the glow of one of the tacky sex shops of the Walletjes. A prostitute halfheartedly preened in the window behind him, but he barely noticed her. The piece of carbon and paper in his hand was far more interesting.

In the photograph, he saw a bloke in a faded black long-sleeved shirt. Brown roots peeking out from under whitish hair. Deathly pale skin. Eyes tinted red from the flash. And a stupid grin because the love of his life apparently missed him.

Best picture yet.






Good moods never did last very long for him.

Two hours later, he was stalking along the Herengracht canal, in hopes that the pace would knock some sense into his damned brain. Wasn't working very well.

He'd spent the past hour rehearsing his first conversation with Buffy when he got back to Sunnydale. Not all the scenarios were bad. His current favorite involved him murmuring, "Miss me, pet?" as she dragged him up to her bedroom and proceeded to shag him senseless for the following three days. 'Course, that was also the least likely.

No, the past couple of hours had convinced him that something else was far more likely. Couldn't quite decide what, but it would probably involve silence or fighting. The two of them were certainly good at the latter. Silence had never been them, though, since he'd never been able to keep his mouth bloody well shut. Oh, she was great at the silent treatment, but that all went to hell whenever he'd open his gob. Buffy'd always come back with some retort. She probably though they were witty. They hurt.

He stopped in the middle of a low canal bridge and forced himself to think of the worst-case scenario – one that had been lurking in his head for weeks now.

"I've got a soul now," he would tell her. "Did it all for you, pet. Wanted to be good enough for you."

Then she would look him in the eye and say, her voice like ice, "You'll never be good enough."


He scrubbed at his face with his hands, not knowing what to make of that one. He knew she was smarter than that. Bloody brilliant, she was. A bit stupid about her own emotions, but the girl had instincts that impressed even him, and he'd seen some damned good fighters over the past century-plus. He expected more out of her. Always had, which was why he kept coming back after all her rejections. Knew some feeling for him was lurking under all those stupid walls she put up.

Thinking about that sent his head down to rest along the rail. He'd said as much to her that night in her bathroom, right? She'd made it perfectly clear that it was over, but he just had to keep pushing until the wound was open, bleeding before her. And then he'd –

No. Can't think about that.

Spike shoved at the railing so hard that for a second he thought he might break it and tumble into the canal. The houses reflected brightly on the glassy water, but his reflection was nowhere to be seen. "Fuck it," he growled and started stalking down the street on the other side.

He rounded a corner and nearly tripped over a couple standing under a streetlight, kissing. Without letting himself get a good look, Spike pushed past them and kept walking. 'Amsterdam is for lovers,' he thought, 'and mine doesn't want me.'

After fifteen minutes of pacing so fast that it kept him from thinking, he stopped for a breather. Didn't need to, but it calmed him down. When his eyes focused again, he noticed that he was in front of a travel shop. He scanned the advertisements, hoping to find something to take his mind off things.

Near the top was the gold and white Eurostar logo. Though he didn't know Dutch, it was close enough to German for him to figure out what the banner said. "Travel from Brussels to London on our luxury trains."

London. No point in going there unless he was going to catch a flight home.

Spike thought about that for a moment, the questions sprinting through his brain. Did he want to go home? Wasn't that the whole point of traveling in this direction? Was Sunnydale even home anymore?

Once he got there, what would happen?

He lit another cigarette out of the pack. As he shoved the cheap replacement lighter back in his pocket, his fingers brushed against the folded e-mail printout from Clem.

Buffy missed him. But did she really? Always second-guessing himself these days. Maybe she'd just wanted someone strong to watch out for Dawn. Maybe she wanted him back so she could stake him for what he'd done. Both thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth, mingling with the ashy taste of the cigarette. He tossed it to the ground and stamped it out.

Then he remembered that photograph, and how he'd smiled. It was a real smile. Made him feel like a real person. Just thinking about Clem – and maybe Buffy – missing him had put it there.

Reality broke through, and he realized sunrise was coming soon. He looked around and noticed he wasn't too far from the cheap hotel he'd booked.

Spike took the walk back more slowly this time, soaking up those last few minutes of being out in the air before he'd have to lock himself in his room with the drapes closed, and sleep the day away.

As he walked, he thought about that first question: did he want to go home? He started making a list of reasons why it was a good idea.

Buffy. He remembered taunting her last year, gleefully reminding her of all the men who left her. And he'd left her too. Even if she hated him, he wanted to be there for her. He loved her enough to handle whatever she threw at him.

The crypt. He had a decent place there. Half of it was still uninhabitable, but he'd had fun making it posh last summer. Might be fun again.

Fighting the fight. Killing things that deserved to die. Wearing the white hat. Strange to think of that as a plus, but it held a certain appeal now. Maybe that was because of the soul.

Friends, like Clem. He still had a soft spot for the demon. Hell, Clem had made that tacky web page for him. Felt good to have at least one person in the world who wanted him around. He didn't much fancy starting over somewhere else.

Sunnydale. A place where even if the Scoobies hated him, Spike could at least be out and about without having to pretend he wasn't a vampire. The Hellmouth was good for things like him. Let him be what he was. Plus, definite bonus points for easily-available blood, instead of having to hunt it down over here.

Dawn. He loved the kid. He could still remember that look of disappointment on his face, but, for some reason, it didn't bring him down. She'd forgiven him far worse in those days last summer when he was out of his mind with grief. As long as she didn't know about the thing with Buffy, they'd be fine.

Buffy. God, he missed her. It all came down to that.

The front entrance to the hotel loomed before him. Spike pulled open the door and headed up to his small room.

Maybe tomorrow he'd call about a train to London.






Negotiating transport to Brussels had given him a headache that rivaled the one he would've gotten if he could've just thrown a punch at the booking agent on the other end of the phone line. After nearly an hour of hashing through the details, the only vampire-friendly solution he'd found was to take the last night train from Amsterdam and camp out in the Eurostar lounge at Midi Station until the train tomorrow night.

Spike slammed the phone down. At least it was almost dusk.

The backpack was getting heavy, and it looked the worse for wear. Best thing about getting back to Sunnydale was that he'd be able to light a fire and burn it to ashes. He was sick of lugging the damned thing around.

He dumped the contents onto the bed. The photographs fanned out on the coverlet. He grabbed those first and put them in a side pocket. Definitely had to keep those.

God, he'd accumulated a lot of shit in three weeks. Half of it went into the trash bin. When he'd shoved the keepers back in the bag, a small booklet caught his eye. Angelika's address book.

It'd been so long since he'd been in Cairo that he had nearly forgotten it. He flipped it open and stared at her address. Good Lord, she had lived in Amsterdam. Not too far from here, either, from what he could tell.

Spike glanced over at the clock. The sun had set. He could leave. But as he looked at the address book in his hand, he realized he had something to do first.

With a "good riddance," he left the hotel room and went downstairs to settle his bill. Still felt weird to sign those charge slips, but at least money wasn't an issue... until he checked his pockets. Almost out of cash.

A few doors down, he saw a bank with a cash machine and withdrew thirty Euros. Should be enough pocket change to get him through Brussels, and then he'd have to deal with good old pounds sterling in London.

One more place to go before Centraal Station.

As he neared her address, the tourists thinned out and were replaced by locals on bicycles. Her apartment building was easy to spot: bland post-war concrete and steel. He stared up at it for a few minutes.

He knew he didn't want to go in. Probably wouldn't get an invite anyway. But he hated the temptation to turn around and leave. He could still hear her voice as she'd asked to give him something. He could still hear her son's voice during that phone call when Spike had told him of his mother's death.

"You ponce," he muttered to himself. "Gonna let yourself be cowed by this? Hardly."

Spike rummaged in his backpack for a pencil and one of the paperbacks he'd bought in Berlin. He tore a blank leaf from the back and wrote a short message.

I spoke with you on the telephone two weeks ago. I told you about Mrs. Marken's death. She gave me this before she died. Accept my condolences.

Yours,
A friend.

He was surprised by how easy it was to write the words. He was even more surprised that he meant them.

Tucking the paper inside the address book, he laid it on the front doorstep. Someone would find and deliver it.

Spike started walking away, then he realized he wanted one last thing.

He walked back to the building and stood across the canal, pulling the camera out of the bag. When he raised it to his face, some passersby gave him odd looks. Spike ignored them.

Framing the front entrance in the viewfinder, he pushed the button and caught the photograph before it dropped to the ground. It was pretty stupid as mementos went, but he put it in the side pocket with all the other snapshots. Just a little something to remember it all.

Spike headed toward the train station. Time to begin the last leg of the trip home.




END, Chapter Twelve