Ten Thousand
by wisteria
13. London
The ballpoint pen scraped so hard as he wrote that the paper finally tore.
Spike grit his teeth as he wadded it up and tossed it aside to join the
collection of abandoned drafts. The to-and-fro rocking of the train
didn't help either. His handwriting came out sloppy and disjointed.
Barely legible, not that the words themselves made much sense either.
Obviously this whole writing-a-letter thing was not meant to be, but he
persisted anyway. Oh, he knew he'd never mail the letter to Buffy.
Too much potential for a shitload of trouble. Still, best be prepared.
Prepared.
Oh, please. He turned the word over in his head then glanced down
at his hands and legs, half-expecting to see that he'd turned into some git
like Buffy's watcher. That'd be a fate worse than death, and he should
know. What the hell was he doing using words like "prepared" or even
phrases that began with "best be"? If that was a nasty side-effect
of the soul, then he wondered if there was some medication he could take.
As the train finally entered the tunnel under the English Channel, the
lights in the car shifted. It'd been twilight outside before, but
now the outside was nearly black and the overhead lights were bright fluorescent.
"Make me look dead," he remembered telling Buffy.
Another problem, that. Since when did vampires take the bloody Chunnel?
Hell, since when did they travel coach or have backpacks to stow under their
seats? Or a credit card, for that matter?
Since when did they write letters to their lovers, using words like, "I'm
sorry I –" and "I hope that someday—"? Not just that, but lovers who
were the bloody Slayer?
God, he was a fucking pathetic excuse for a vampire.
He wanted to toss things around the cabin, to scream, maybe even grab another
passenger and hold him hostage. Better yet, take the whole car hostage.
When he clenched his fists and glared up at the ceiling, he found himself
seized with laughter. Loud laughter, no less, like an idiot.
Once the laughing finally subsided, he glanced around and noticed the woman
across the aisle staring at him. "Sod off," he shot back with a sneer.
She gave him a dirty look and turned back to her magazine.
He looked around at the other passengers who were apparently trying to
ignore him. None of them looked appetizing anyway, nor did he really
want to bite them.
Spike chalked that up to having finished the last of the blood that morning
in Brussels. He was running on fumes now, which was obviously making
him divvy.
With perfect timing, a young woman pushed a beverage trolley past.
Spike paid for some tea, and gave her a smile and a "Thanks, love," along
with a Euro. She barely nodded a response, already halfway down the
aisle.
"So much for the old Spike charm," he thought as he took a sip, then had
to keep himself from spitting it back out. Stuff tasted like piss.
He'd give up the necessary blood-buying excursion if he could just get a
decent cuppa when he reached London.
That made him laugh again, though quieter this time. He looked down
at the remainder of the paper, then shoved it in his bag. Since
when were vampires more concerned with tea than blood?
Bloody awful excuse for a vampire, Spike.
He was surprised to realize that he didn't really care.
Spike didn't know what to make of London. After he'd been turned,
he'd never wanted to go back. Drusilla would whine about wanting to
visit once or twice a decade. Whenever she did, he'd find an excuse
or suggest a more interesting place to go, though a few times she won out.
Never could resist her.
The place gave him the wiggins, though. He couldn't pin down just
why, except that perhaps it represented too much of the old him. William.
Everything he didn't want to be.
As he stood at the edge of Trafalgar Square, swatting away pigeons and
ignoring the tourists still mulling about at one in the morning, he thought
about the last time he'd been here as a human, over a hundred years earlier.
Couldn't remember exactly what he'd been doing, but he could still recall
the way things had felt. Everything had been covered in soot, with
a cacophony of street vendors and rickety carriages. Now, though, most
of the buildings had been scrubbed free of grime, and the vendors had gone
home for the night, their t-shirts and magazines packed away.
He wouldn't be able to see it in daylight, but Spike knew that if he were
to come back at noon, it would all be tourists. Few locals probably
ever came here anymore. Hell, the National Gallery behind him even
had a gift shop now. Wasn't his London anymore, not that the city had
ever really been his. Was just a place he'd lived once upon a time.
Could've been anywhere. He'd lived such a sheltered life back when
he'd been one of the living.
Spike shifted on his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting
for the sodding N5 to show up. A moment of panic when he realized
he'd forgotten to get a bus transfer on the N1 from Waterloo, then he remembered
that this wasn't New York. Just one ticket here. Much easier.
The bus was taking its own sweet time, though, and he was about ready to
just walk all the way to Camden himself. Sure, it'd take a couple of
hours, but he had enough time before sunrise.
When he finally gave up and started walking toward Charing Cross, the bus
rumbled up. Spike nearly tripped over himself sprinting to catch it,
and only his strong grip kept him from flying off when he grabbed the pole
at the back entrance. He swerved down the aisle and found an empty
bench, then sprawled across it lest some punter try to take the other seat.
The bus ambled north up Charing Cross, past all the bookshops. People
were still out and about, though the crowds were beginning to thin.
This was the time of night he'd always liked best in the old days.
Easy pickings for a good meal, with lots of dark alleyways for dumping a
corpse. Anonymity was a vampire's friend.
Though the steel walls of the bus insulated him from most of the noise
outside, he picked up on the voices of some of the people walking past.
They called out each other's names, asked if there was still time to hit
the pub before last call, teased and catcalled the opposite sex. Not
much anonymity in that.
Leaning his head against the window, he watched as the crowds thinned out
through the university area and then pick up again as they reached Euston.
The stop-and-start motion of the bus lulled him into a daze, and he found
that he rather liked it. It was so calming that he jerked back with
a start when he recognized Camden.
As he leapt off the bus and hustled down the street trying to get his lucidity
back, he could almost feel the coat billowing around him the way it used
to do. For the past few weeks, he'd been glad to be rid of the coat.
Felt more free without it. Now he missed its sense of menace, of being
something bigger than himself.
He knew he had plenty of time, but the quick pace flowed through him like
a phantom pulse. With each step, he could almost feel himself shaking
off the swamp his mind had been on the bus.
D'Var was just where the Calabra demon he'd seen outside Waterloo told
him it would be. The grapevine was strong, and all Spike had had to
do was sidle up to him and ask where to score fresh meat. At least
something had been easy for once.
He pushed the front door open and felt the odd shift of entering a different
world. Some Grapple demons laughed around a table, and a couple of
vampires circled a pool table. Others too, but Spike was too set on
getting to the bar to bother classifying them.
The barkeep was a Ka'ta demon with at least a dozen piercings, Medusa hair,
and a surly attitude thrown in for good measure. "What'll you have,
bastard?" she asked with a sneer.
He really, really didn't have time for this. Oh, sure, he had all
the time in the world, but patience had left him a long ways back. With
his best glare, he said, "Was told this was the place to pick up some blood."
She didn't pause from wiping down the counter. "Lots of people out
there just asking for a snack. Find a goth, alright? They'd
most likely offer 'emselves right up."
His eyes rolled toward the moldy ceiling, Spike pulled some bills from
the wad he'd exchanged at Thomas Cook. "I wouldn't wish that crowd
of punk and rave rejects on a fledgling. 'Sides, McDonald's is closed
and I'm craving pork. Slip us some piggy juice, love."
When she didn't answer, he had to ball his fists to keep from reaching
over the counter and yanking that silver bar out of her eyebrow. Bar
fights weren't his style anymore. He grit his teeth and growled, "Look,
are you going to hand it over or not?"
"Knickers. Twist. Look into it." But she ducked under
the bar and emerged with a jar of red. "That's all we've got right now.
Dvero will be here tomorrow night, if you want more."
Spike shoved the bills across the bar and watched them fly onto the floor.
Didn't bother with a 'thanks' as he grabbed the jar and stalked back out
onto the street.
Problem solved. Well, at least one of them was.
As the doors shut with a rumble and a whoosh, he closed his eyes and tried
to call the next stop by memory. Last one was Moorgate, so the next
would be Barbican. Opened them and checked. Ah, correct.
Still got the touch.
This was his third go 'round the Circle Line, unquestionably the most boring
of all Underground lines. Ranked down there in the seventh circle
of hell, along with the murderers and mercenaries. Rather like him,
really. Didn't those get an eternity of submersion in hot blood?
Might be fun, except the heat would get boring after a century or two.
Still, as depressing as the Circle Line was, it was also completely subterranean.
No pesky sunlight to spoil things except at a couple of stops, and on his
first go he'd figured out how to shift his seat to avoid the rays.
Some would call this endless loop "soul-sucking," but last time he'd checked,
the soul was still lurking around inside. If it hadn't been yanked
out of him yet, it was probably around to stay.
No matter how awful it was, it gave him something to do. Ten hours
of attempted sleep in his dodgy room in a B&B near Euston Square were
enough to drive him nearly mad. When he wasn't tossing and turning
on the cheap, foul-smelling mattress, the nightmares invaded. Formless,
chaotic ones, full of rivers of blood and mouths opened in screams.
Yeah, going around in circles was definitely an improvement.
Spike watched the people come and go. Some stayed a bit; others hopped
on and off. He could tell from the start which they would do, just
by whether they sat or stood. Got a few dirty looks from how he sprawled
out over on the bench, but better that than letting some punter sit next
to him and risk absorbing secondhand pathetic vibes.
At Barbican, a woman came on and sat opposite. The car was half-empty,
though he knew it would fill up soon when the after-work rush began.
She was a curious sort – long dress, hair pulled up with a clip, dark spots
under her eyes. Probably an artist or the like. As he'd done
with a few others this afternoon, his idle mind began to make up a history
for her.
Gray smudges on her fingers, though she didn't have a portfolio.
Probably a sculptor, then. Looked like the classical type, all Greco-Roman
busts and finely-detailed musculature. An art student, or else she
lacked imagination. Clothes were shabby, so she didn't do it commercially.
She opened a book and began reading. Spike only saw the top half of
the jacket – something about women and loving too much. He could see
the disappointment in her eyes, in the way she would dog-ear pages as if
taking notes for further study.
He was almost tempted to ask if he could borrow the book. Loving
women too much? He knew the drill. Been marching in that parade
all his days.
When the train approached Euston Square, he thought about getting off but
quickly dismissed the idea. Sitting here and people-watching was far
more interesting than lying on a hotel bed and fending off nightmares.
After a few more stops, the woman stood to leave. He wondered where
she was going next. Maybe to find that man – or woman – she loved
too much. It was funny, he thought, how a few years ago he would've
followed her off for a snack. Now he was tempted to wish her luck.
Someone should be lucky in love, even if it wasn't him.
Was he unlucky, though? He thought about that for a while.
He'd spent all those months pining after Buffy, totally convinced he would
never have her. And it had been okay with him. Being around
her was enough. Sure, he wanted her so much it choked him, but he'd
coped. Then, when he did have her, it was never enough. Had
to have all of her, even though deep down he'd known he never would.
Kept pushing until he finally went too far and hurt her terribly.
The words echoed in his mind: Slayer, vampire. Vampire kills
Slayer, sucks her dry, etcetera. Wasn't supposed to be the way
it was with Buffy. That was unnatural, but he loved her all the same.
He let himself imagine what could happen when he got back. Maybe
she'd forgive him if he were lucky. He was smart enough to know he'd
never have her again, and maybe it would be enough just to be around her.
During one of those frantic times after he'd awakened from another nightmare,
he thought about all she'd done to him. "Big sis was treating me so
well up to then," he'd sarcastically told Dawn all those weeks ago.
So damned easy to forgive it of her, though. He loved her. It
was that simple.
Afternoon slid into rush hour, and the train began to fill again.
He kept going around in circles, though. Just like with Buffy.
Get his hopes up, have 'em dashed. He began to hope that she could forgive
him what he'd done. Maybe they could be friends, and he decided that
was enough. He'd lived through worse.
Maybe this time he could break the pattern. Be happy with what he
had. Avoid the inevitable fallout.
He could feel himself moving up Dante's hierarchy, toward somewhere near
Purgatory. If he waited long enough and kept his confidence when he
got home, maybe someday he'd move up to Heaven.
He circled the pool table full-on, staring down the Grapple demon who was
shooting sparks with its eyes. A taunt, a feint left, then a quick
sprint around. The demon grabbed the cue and shoved it toward Spike,
who deflected it with a flick of his wrist like swatting away a mosquito.
Grapples were always good for a fight; they got pissed off at the stupidest
things, like Spike refusing to step down when he lost his turn during the
game.
Oh, God, this was good. After nearly four weeks of wandering lost
and confused through Africa and Europe, he was back in familiar territory.
Problem with Grapples was that they gave up too easily. The demon
dropped the cue and walked away, and Spike was left wondering whether to go
after him or just move along.
Then the absurdity of the situation hit him. He didn't give up on
fights that he could easily win. When he ran away, it was because he
knew the odds weren't in his favor. That was smarts, not cowardice.
He didn't give up on a fight because he just didn't care anymore.
Never had been his style.
The demon went over to the bar and started chatting up the barkeep.
She'd been so surly to Spike last night, but now her face lit up with the
beginnings of a good flirt. She almost looked beautiful.
Spike looked around the bar, wondering what to do now. None of the
other demons looked worth chatting up. He could categorize each one
of them, count battles fought and alliances formed with their genii over
a hundred and twenty years. He could speak many of their languages
and sustain a conversation over a pint or two of blood and whisky.
This was supposed to be his crowd.
He found that he had nothing he wanted to say to any of them.
These were the predators, the underbelly-lurkers. The ones who fed
on the human populace and caused reporters to write stories about mysterious
murders in Kensington and the City and Whitechapel. God knows Spike
had done enough to fill a thousand crime blotters over the years.
But for the past two years, he hadn't been one of them. He took a
sip of his pint of blood and realized that he didn't want to be.
The knowledge prickled up his spine, spreading its claws along his muscles
and bones. Smothered his chest until he remembered that he chose to
breathe instead of needing to.
'Gotta get out of here,' he thought with a twitch.
He made it halfway to the door before remembering why he'd even come back
to this club in the first place. He went back to the bar and called
for some service. The barkeep looked up from where she was practically
undressing her Grapple beau with her eyes.
"Need the rest of the blood now." He thought about adding a "love",
but even if it was just an offhand term, he sure as hell didn't love her.
She was just an irritation, a demon he didn't want to see anymore.
With an expected eye-roll, she held out her hand for his cash, then she
walked over to the fridge and pulled out a half-dozen bags. Dropped
them in a plastic sack and handed it over.
Without another word, Spike left.
A faint mist blanketed his face as he stepped out into the London night.
He thought about going back to the hotel, but Camden was wide-awake and
so was he.
Walked about a block until he saw a very ordinary pub. It stood out
in a neighborhood of Goths and hipsters, and its familiarity was strangely
comforting. He was in the mood for ordinary now.
When Spike walked through the door, the acrid scent of barley and alcohol
assaulted his nose. It was divine. The barkeep pulled him a
pint of some brew – he didn't ask the name – and he found a seat at a banquette
near the far wall.
He looked around at the Thursday night crowd. Anonymous people laughing
and telling stories. Unwinding after another day at work or mourning
the loss of a few quid on the horses. No thoughts of demons or vampires.
Probably didn't even know they existed.
The demon thing? Spike finally knew it wasn't his world anymore.
Not that this one was either – different culture, with people oblivious
of vampires and hellmouths and all the darkness lurking underground.
But although D'Var was filled with non-humans like him, this tacky pub in
Camden felt more like his sort of place. It was a facsimile of home,
like a faded photocopy of Sunnydale tinted with the rain of a London summer.
He missed the California sunlight. Not the UV rays themselves, of
course, but just that feeling it brought out in him. Demons and humans
coexisting, the latter deliberately ignoring or clueless about the former.
A place where he could pop down to the butcher for a pint of blood as if it
was completely normal. His world, where he didn't have to think about
whether demon bars or the Bronze was more real. They both were.
He'd straddled the worlds like a Colossus. For the past two years his
balance had slipped and in slow-motion he fell toward the human side.
Distance made the heart grow fonder, didn't it? He wanted to go home.
Sunnydale was his home. It had everything he needed. Butchers,
clubs, and two girls he loved, who could make him feel warm and bright with
a rare smile. They were all the sun he wanted.
Spike thought about pulling the camera out and asking one of the blokes
nearby to take a photo. It was pointless, though. He knew what
the photo would show.
The barkeep announced last call. Spike drank his beer, not really wanting
another. He watched the other patrons make their way to the bar.
The beer flowed down his throat, warming him.
This pub wasn't home, but it would do for tonight.
Tomorrow he'd go to the airport and do better. He wanted to go home.
END, Chapter Thirteen
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