The moon was high overhead Monday night when the plane from California
landed in New Jersey. Spike stepped off the airplane, surveying the hectic
mess that was Newark International Airport. People moved like cattle, each
searching for their own gate and destination. He looked around, half-
expecting to see a familiar face, but knowing that he was utterly alone.
"So this is the East Coast," Spike muttered to himself, running a hand
through his unruly hair. The flight had been hellish, sitting for hours in
a small cramped space with four hundred or so total strangers, breathing
compressed air.
Now Spike was in New Jersey. One of the most depressing places on Earth, he observed, making a characteristic snap judgment of the situation. "Why are you even here," he asked himself, as he joined the hundreds of other people all moving towards the baggage claim. Spike sighed in exasperation as he waited for his luggage to come out from the mysterious carousel-like apparatus. All of my life stuffed into two suitcases, that's pretty pathetic, Spike mused darkly. He still didn't know what had possessed him to pack up and travel across the country. For some reason, it just felt right and Spike knew he had wasted too much of his time playing the what-if game and second guessing his decisions.
Outside the airport, the cloudy day had given way to a clear evening. The automatic doors hissed as Spike exited the terminal, pulling his duster tighter around his waist in an effort to ward off the bitter chill. "Bloody hell," Spike swore under his breath as he hailed a taxi. I don't even know what I'm doing, he thought, I turned out to be an even bigger poof than Angel. At least Angel never let her go, he added sadly, Buffy deserves something better than a wanker like me. The taxi driver turned around in the seat, "Where to sir," he asked in a nasal voice. "New York," Spike replied, "the Upper East Side." The cabbie nodded and pulled out of the parking deck as Spike stared blankly out the window, consumed by his broken heart.
Spike reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out his bulging wallet. Before leaving California he had liquidated his bank account and converted the assets into cash and gemstones. One entire side of his suitcase was stuffed with money and a few packets of diamonds. His briefcase was at his side, sitting on the seat next to him and the suitcase rested at his feet. He had all his possessions in these bags: blood, money, clothes, a laptop and some books for his poetic scribbling. All a bloke needs in life, he thought sardonically. Watching the bright lights of the city flash outside the cab window, Spike sighed deeply. I need a drink, he thought, something strong. Pushing that from his mind, he focused on the task at hand-Buffy.
Fear filled Spike, so many doubts were swirling through his head that he didn't know whether this was the right decision or the dumbest thing he had ever done in his undead life. What if Buffy rejected him? What if she was involved with someone else? What if she hated him? Spike shook his head, he needed to make amends for what he had done. I am such a bloody fool, he thought bitterly. He had promised her that he would never leave, but instead of listening to her arguments Spike had left her with no explanation. Well, this is bloody marvelous, he thought angrily, I'm here on my hands and knees begging Buffy to take me back.
The last few years had been torturous for the blonde vampire. He had tried to placate himself with the newspaper articles that showed Buffy's success, another reminder that he had made the right decision by ending their relationship. But somehow he knew that he was wrong. They were meant to be together, he yearned for Buffy's love and acceptance. If she wouldn't love him or if she couldn't love him, after all he had done to her, then Spike knew that his undead existence was worthless. Without Buffy he was only a shell of a man; she completed him, making him feel more alive then he had in centuries. Deep in the dark recesses of his mind, Spike knew that he wasn't in New York to force his love on Buffy. He was there for peace; he had finally broken down the walls of pride that had clouded his judgment for years. Spike wanted to see her; he needed to know if there was any chance that Buffy would forgive him.
After their last argument, Spike had gone back to the house two days later. The curtains were drawn, the doors locked and there was a For Sale sign on the lawn. He had called Buffy who had hung up on him twelve times before turning off her phone. Xander had given him the key to the storage garage where Buffy had left all his things, the construction worker had thrown the key at Spike before threatening to stake him if he didn't leave immediately. After cleaning out the locker, Spike had left Sunnydale and hadn't looked back. He got an e-mail from Dawn a few months later, telling him that Buffy had moved to New York and was working with David Bucan. Dawn had begged Spike to make things right with Buffy, but had had just thanked Dawn for the information and ignored her request. They still talked occasionally, quick e-mails once every few months, just enough to keep Spike involved in her life. When Dawn had graduated college, she had begged Spike to come but he had declined, making up an excuse about business meetings in Europe. Spike knew that he wasn't really welcome and he couldn't bear to see Buffy again.
Spike had followed Buffy's rise through the fashion world through magazine articles and television interviews. It was easier to pretend that she was living a better life without him, but after a while the dull ache became a fierce pain. He was proud of his Slayer but still missed her desperately. Now he was ready to swallow his pride and beg her forgiveness. Spike knew that if he didn't act soon, he would lose his chance to tell Buffy how much he loved her and how sorry he was.
Hours of traffic passed by the window as Spike remained silent in the backseat of the taxi. When they crossed into Manhattan, the cabbie broke the silence. "You got an address, or you just want me to drop you off on the East Side?" Spike looked at him blankly then replied dully, "Just drop me off at a hotel, a nice one, no cheap one-night motels." The cabbie nodded and went back to driving. His job wasn't to talk to the passenger; he got paid to drive the cab. It wasn't any of his business where the guy got dropped off.
Spike's watch read 1:34 am when he finally dropped his bags in his hotel room. His sleep-deprived brain was still on California time, refusing to let him unwind. Closing all of the drapes tightly, he placed the placard on the door handle that told the housekeeping staff to stay out of his way. He opened the mini-bar, pulled out a scotch and relished in the soothing burning sensation he experienced as the liquor traveled down his throat. His empty stomach growled and Spike grabbed a Nutri-Grain bar from his suitcase, not wanting to dip into his blood supply. He put five blood packets in the fridge, making a mental note to go out later and get more. Gradually, his eyelids drooped and Spike crashed on the bed without even undressing, the television playing an endless stream of infomercials.
Now Spike was in New Jersey. One of the most depressing places on Earth, he observed, making a characteristic snap judgment of the situation. "Why are you even here," he asked himself, as he joined the hundreds of other people all moving towards the baggage claim. Spike sighed in exasperation as he waited for his luggage to come out from the mysterious carousel-like apparatus. All of my life stuffed into two suitcases, that's pretty pathetic, Spike mused darkly. He still didn't know what had possessed him to pack up and travel across the country. For some reason, it just felt right and Spike knew he had wasted too much of his time playing the what-if game and second guessing his decisions.
Outside the airport, the cloudy day had given way to a clear evening. The automatic doors hissed as Spike exited the terminal, pulling his duster tighter around his waist in an effort to ward off the bitter chill. "Bloody hell," Spike swore under his breath as he hailed a taxi. I don't even know what I'm doing, he thought, I turned out to be an even bigger poof than Angel. At least Angel never let her go, he added sadly, Buffy deserves something better than a wanker like me. The taxi driver turned around in the seat, "Where to sir," he asked in a nasal voice. "New York," Spike replied, "the Upper East Side." The cabbie nodded and pulled out of the parking deck as Spike stared blankly out the window, consumed by his broken heart.
Spike reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out his bulging wallet. Before leaving California he had liquidated his bank account and converted the assets into cash and gemstones. One entire side of his suitcase was stuffed with money and a few packets of diamonds. His briefcase was at his side, sitting on the seat next to him and the suitcase rested at his feet. He had all his possessions in these bags: blood, money, clothes, a laptop and some books for his poetic scribbling. All a bloke needs in life, he thought sardonically. Watching the bright lights of the city flash outside the cab window, Spike sighed deeply. I need a drink, he thought, something strong. Pushing that from his mind, he focused on the task at hand-Buffy.
Fear filled Spike, so many doubts were swirling through his head that he didn't know whether this was the right decision or the dumbest thing he had ever done in his undead life. What if Buffy rejected him? What if she was involved with someone else? What if she hated him? Spike shook his head, he needed to make amends for what he had done. I am such a bloody fool, he thought bitterly. He had promised her that he would never leave, but instead of listening to her arguments Spike had left her with no explanation. Well, this is bloody marvelous, he thought angrily, I'm here on my hands and knees begging Buffy to take me back.
The last few years had been torturous for the blonde vampire. He had tried to placate himself with the newspaper articles that showed Buffy's success, another reminder that he had made the right decision by ending their relationship. But somehow he knew that he was wrong. They were meant to be together, he yearned for Buffy's love and acceptance. If she wouldn't love him or if she couldn't love him, after all he had done to her, then Spike knew that his undead existence was worthless. Without Buffy he was only a shell of a man; she completed him, making him feel more alive then he had in centuries. Deep in the dark recesses of his mind, Spike knew that he wasn't in New York to force his love on Buffy. He was there for peace; he had finally broken down the walls of pride that had clouded his judgment for years. Spike wanted to see her; he needed to know if there was any chance that Buffy would forgive him.
After their last argument, Spike had gone back to the house two days later. The curtains were drawn, the doors locked and there was a For Sale sign on the lawn. He had called Buffy who had hung up on him twelve times before turning off her phone. Xander had given him the key to the storage garage where Buffy had left all his things, the construction worker had thrown the key at Spike before threatening to stake him if he didn't leave immediately. After cleaning out the locker, Spike had left Sunnydale and hadn't looked back. He got an e-mail from Dawn a few months later, telling him that Buffy had moved to New York and was working with David Bucan. Dawn had begged Spike to make things right with Buffy, but had had just thanked Dawn for the information and ignored her request. They still talked occasionally, quick e-mails once every few months, just enough to keep Spike involved in her life. When Dawn had graduated college, she had begged Spike to come but he had declined, making up an excuse about business meetings in Europe. Spike knew that he wasn't really welcome and he couldn't bear to see Buffy again.
Spike had followed Buffy's rise through the fashion world through magazine articles and television interviews. It was easier to pretend that she was living a better life without him, but after a while the dull ache became a fierce pain. He was proud of his Slayer but still missed her desperately. Now he was ready to swallow his pride and beg her forgiveness. Spike knew that if he didn't act soon, he would lose his chance to tell Buffy how much he loved her and how sorry he was.
Hours of traffic passed by the window as Spike remained silent in the backseat of the taxi. When they crossed into Manhattan, the cabbie broke the silence. "You got an address, or you just want me to drop you off on the East Side?" Spike looked at him blankly then replied dully, "Just drop me off at a hotel, a nice one, no cheap one-night motels." The cabbie nodded and went back to driving. His job wasn't to talk to the passenger; he got paid to drive the cab. It wasn't any of his business where the guy got dropped off.
Spike's watch read 1:34 am when he finally dropped his bags in his hotel room. His sleep-deprived brain was still on California time, refusing to let him unwind. Closing all of the drapes tightly, he placed the placard on the door handle that told the housekeeping staff to stay out of his way. He opened the mini-bar, pulled out a scotch and relished in the soothing burning sensation he experienced as the liquor traveled down his throat. His empty stomach growled and Spike grabbed a Nutri-Grain bar from his suitcase, not wanting to dip into his blood supply. He put five blood packets in the fridge, making a mental note to go out later and get more. Gradually, his eyelids drooped and Spike crashed on the bed without even undressing, the television playing an endless stream of infomercials.
