What is Choice?
By Melissa(dettiot@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13 mostly, with one NC-17 epilogue.
Spoilers: Through Chosen.
Author's Note: Spike/Buffy, but only kinda. This story is a bit odd. Also posted on my website(http://lostinwonderland.org/buffy/fanfic.html).
Song lyric in chapter title comes from the brilliant song "Shelter from the Storm" by Bob Dylan.
Chapter Seven: Was in Another Lifetime, One of Toil and Blood
Will walked to his car, not heeding his surroundings at all. It took him five minutes to even find his car, he was so confused. When he finally got into the vehicle, he didn't even bother putting his key in the ignition. He just sat, staring out the windshield.
'What just happened?' he thought to himself. He had no idea what was going on. They had been together, blissful from finally speaking their feelings, and then, he had left her reading his book. The book . . . the first big thing he had ever accomplished in his life. He had never done anything that important before. Knowing that she was going to read it had tied his stomach into knots. He was so hopeful that she would like it. Would be able to read his words, and see beyond them, into his mind, into his heart and soul. It took so much, to leave her in the kitchen with his pride and joy, and not hang around, asking her as she turned each page, "Do you like it?"
So he had retreated to the bathroom, and stood under the spray of the shower. The water, first hot and then lukewarm, before becoming downright chilly, slicked down his body, and all he could think about was how she was going to react. To the book, and to the first page of the book. He had typed the dedication page last; in fact, he had written it this morning, after getting the good news from his agent. Even now, he could see the page in his mind's eye.
"To Buffy, who answered the question I didn't even realize I was asking."
Will frowned as he realized he was staring at her apartment's windows. They were dark, and he wondered what she was doing. Was she crying, those giant sobs that had pierced his heart? Was she furious? Was she missing him?
'Sure she misses you, mate, after screaming at you, pounding on you, and refusing to talk to you,' that little voice in the back of his mind sarcastically commented. Will groaned, and shook his head. He had to get away from here. He started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot, only to realize that he didn't know where he wanted to go. He had planned to stay at Buffy's. He could go to his mother's house, of course, but he knew she'd want to know why he was in LA in the middle of the week, and especially why he wasn't staying at Buffy's place. He sat at a three-way intersection, and tried to figure out where to go, what to do.
A car idled behind him as he tried to make up his mind. The driver finally gave up being patient and laid on his horn. Will, in no mood to be polite, flipped him off and gunned his car, turning left towards the freeway. He drove fast down the roads, barely obeying posted signs and completely ignoring the speed limits. He rolled down the windows, and turned on the stereo. The CD in the player was the Sex Pistols, and he screamed along with Johnny as he started driving north.
Will didn't care that he was driving too fast. Didn't care that he was swerving around cars, ignoring the horns and flashing lights. He drove, and part of him couldn't help hoping that if he drove fast enough, he could outrun his thoughts. Outrun his memories. Because he kept seeing Buffy's face in his mind, tears streaking down her cheeks as she demanded, "Who told you about me? How did you find out?" He kept remembering how he had felt when she started crying, his shock at her words, and his disbelief.
What in the hell was going on? Had he managed to fall for another nutcase, a woman who had no grasp on reality? If that was so, Buffy had hidden her crazy tendencies damn well. Because if she expected him to believe that she was some all-powerful superhero . . .
It was too much for him. Barely checking his mirrors, Will wrenched his car into the lane for the upcoming exit. Driving fast through the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp, he found he was not that far from downtown LA, in a somewhat seedy area that seemed to be trying to reclaim itself. He could smell salt on the breeze, and figured he must be near the ocean.
He drove down the road until he spotted just what he was looking for. A bar.
He swung into the parking lot, not caring that he took up two spaces when he parked. He slammed the car door, and stormed into the place.
When he entered, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lights. The place was dark, smoky, and filled with loud music. There was a small dance floor, but this place obviously wasn't out to attract the club-hopping sort. This was an honest-to-God bar, where people went to drown their troubles or use alcohol to help start some.
Will didn't think he'd ever found a place more suited to the mood he was in.
He found a seat at the bar, and gestured to the bartender, a muscle-bound guy who obviously doubled as the bouncer for the place. The bartender nodded at him, and Will said, "Wanna run a tab," flashing his credit card. "Whiskey, and keep it coming." The bartender nodded again, and plopped down a glass and poured him a shot. Will lifted the glass, tossed back the burning alcohol, and slammed the glass back down.
"Again," he said. The bartender shrugged, poured another glass, and then left the bottle sitting on the counter before wandering to the other end of the bar. Will once again threw back the drink, and refilled his glass.
The alcohol hit him quickly, although he just felt a bit dazed. "But then, you already felt like you'd gotten your fucking teeth kicked down your throat," he muttered to himself. He stared into the glass, wondering how in the hell he had gotten screwed like this. Here he was, a decent, hard-working bloke. He had found a woman who seemed absolutely, positively perfect to him. Her mind was brilliant and quirky, she had the face of an angel, she had the biggest yet shyest heart he'd ever seen, and a sex drive that had always impressed him.
Will groaned and dropped his head onto the bar. Sex with Buffy had been a revelation. Mostly because it wasn't just sex. It was love-making, and he hated the fact that he was a big enough poof to even think that. But that's what it was: not screwing or fucking, but love-making. At least, that's how he had always felt. Even during the hottest, wildest times they had together, he had still seen it as making love.
He snorted. "Such a nancy boy you are," he said, as he propped his head up with one hand. His other hand lifted the whiskey to the mouth, and he took a sip. "Had to be all romantic," he sneered, taking another swig. "Had to be all soft. 'Oh, you're my girl, Buffy,' 'Oh, you're my inspiration, Buffy,' 'Oh, I love you, Buffy'." He finished off the last of the whiskey in his glass. "Some inspiration you were."
Her actions when she read his book were just so . . . odd. She had seemed angry, yet he could see fear swirling in her eyes. She had approached him, her anger surrounding her like the corona around a star. He had backed up against the cabinets, because he felt like a wildebeest about to be attacked by a lion. She had looked at him like he was prey, something to be destroyed. The anger had gone out of her quickly, and he was left with a crying, hysterical woman in his arms, babbling about baking and betrayal. He had tried to understand what she was saying, but it was just too ludicrous to be believed. He had somehow stolen her life and based his book on it?
Will stared at the whiskey bottle, and started peeling one of the corners of the label. It was ridiculous. His book was supposed to be your traditional metaphorical coming of age story, using the fantasy leit-motif of supernatural demons representing your own personal demons. He had thought, as he wrote, that he was basing it on his own feelings when he was 18, coming to a new country with his mother, his only family who had been told she might only have three months left to live, and leaving his girlfriend behind. The fear and anger and sadness, tinged with unexpected pleasure--that was the emotions and memories that had shaped the book as he wrote.
The coming-of-age story was one of those plots that every writer wrote some variation on at some point in their career. It was so damn common. And his "twist" on the cliched story wasn't that original, he knew. When he first started developing the idea, in fact, he had hesitated from giving in to the emotional appeal it held for him. He had thought it was too ordinary, not special, not memorable. But that day, when he had looked over his ideas and decided to go with it . . . suddenly, what had looked ordinary looked unique. What looked happenstance seemed chosen. Fate became destiny.
That feeling--that 'click' of a key fitting into a lock--had been with him ever since he wrote the first word of the book. He'd never written anything so quickly. Even with extra work and spending as much time as he could with Buffy, he'd managed to churn out the book in six weeks. He'd stay up all hours, writing until the sun came up, only to go to work, put in a full day, and then come home. He'd fit in a phone call to Buffy, eat a little, and then put in another few hours of writing before finally collapsing into bed.
Will had wondered in passing how this was happening, but he'd just ignored the feeling and kept writing. He hadn't wanted to jinx himself and think himself into writer's block. So he had kept writing, not letting himself ponder the choices he was making in the story. Why have the hero fall in love with one of the creatures he killed? Why did he write Luke as deeply scarred by that first love, growing increasingly unable to connect to others? How did he decide to let Luke share his power with others in order to save the world, rather than trying to do it all by himself?
Now he wished he had thought more about the choices he made. About the words he picked and the ideas he'd developed. Because maybe then he could understand what the hell Buffy had meant when she said he had written her life.
Because he couldn't understand it. Couldn't believe it. Because if he believed her, that meant she had kept things from him. Lied to him. Maybe she wasn't crazy like Dru, just a lying bitch. So his luck with women once again held true.
He drank some more whiskey as he thought over the problem. It was impossible. Incredible. First, you had the question of, how in the world had he tapped into her life so much that every major event of her life was in his book? It would imply the existence of powers and possibilities that he couldn't comprehend.
But more importantly, if he accepted that he had somehow, in some way, used her life for his book, what the hell did that mean? That demons were real? That there were people out there, fighting against evil and the darkness that he had thought was only metaphorical?
And that Buffy, little Buffy who barely came up to his shoulder, had the strength to take on vampires who had been linebackers when they were alive?
Will snorted, and pushed away the glass. It was a crock of shit. There was no way in hell that any of it was possible. He knew exactly what was going on. He knew that bitch all too well. After the fuzzy "I love you" moment, the stupid bint had gotten too scared with the idea of being in love, and so she'd grasped for the first pretext she could find to push him away. Threw a pretty little fit, saying that she'd been betrayed, turned on the waterworks, and confused him so much that he gave in and left, rather than talk things out with her.
"Although probably a good thing at this point, as I want to fucking strangle her," he grumbled under his breath as he left the bar and headed to his car. He weaved as he walked on the pavement, the whiskey in his system affecting him too much. He managed to get inside his car, but slumped down in the seat, not bothering to start it. He knew he was in no shape to drive. He knew he should go and sleep this off. But he wasn't even sure where he was, much less if he could even find his mother's house. Not that he wanted to see her at this point.
Will leaned back against the headrest, and wondered what he was going to do. He didn't want to see his mother. He didn't want to keep drinking; he knew he'd just end up getting in a fight. He couldn't see Buffy, and he didn't know at this point if he wanted to see her. Rich was on vacation with Rosie in Hawaii for their anniversary, and he certainly didn't feel like interrupting that.
"I need more guy friends," he muttered. Then, he realized he did have a guy friend . . . kinda. He opened up his bag and dug around for his cell phone. Only last week, Buffy had given him Xander and Willow's phone numbers, saying it was always good to have them in case. He had shrugged and gone along with it; although he didn't know them that well, both of Buffy's friends had seemed like good people, and besides, he'd do anything to keep her happy. So, he'd programmed their numbers into his cell phone's address book, and had then forgotten about it.
He quickly flipped open the phone and punched a few buttons.
"Hello?"
"Xander! Friend of Buffy!"
"Will?" Xander sounded confused. Not surprising, but Will ignored it and carried on.
"Yeah, s'me. Look, I need you to do me a favor."
"Well, sure, I guess. Anything for Buffy's boyfriend."
Will's lip twisted. "Not so sure I am anymore, mate. We had a fight, although calling it a fight is a bit of an understatement. On par with saying the Pacific is damp."
"Ooookay," Xander said. "Have you been drinking?"
"How'd you guess?" Will asked, knowing that he was slurring his words a bit.
"Painful experience. Where are you?"
"Umm . . . a bar called Soulless. It's on . . . " Will craned around in the car, looking for a street sign.
"Don't bother," Xander said. "It's just down the road from me. You're lucky that you ended up in my backyard when you decided to go on a bender. I can drive, but it's not the easiest thing to do at night with only one eye. Hold on and I'll be there in about ten minutes."
"Xander, you are a prince among men. I take back any insults I've ever made about you," Will said.
He heard Xander faintly saying, "Huh? Insults?" as he disconnected the phone.
Will sighed and dropped the phone on the seat next to him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the steering wheel. He was so tired. He was strung out from finishing the book, and the excitement that had caused. Then, the reunion with Buffy, the anticipation of showing her the book, and then the emotional meltdown . . . it was no wonder that when you combined all that with half a bottle of whiskey, he was feeling out of sorts.
He was jolted out of his drifting, half-formed thoughts by a knock on the window. He looked up and saw Xander. He grinned, grabbed his phone and his bag, and stepped out of the car.
"Insults, huh?" Xander said, cocking an eyebrow at him.
Will waved one hand in the air. "A joke, mate. Anyway, I am a good responsible citizen and wouldn't dream of driving while intoxicated. And besides, I need another male to join me in cursing females, not to mention the man who invented whiskey." He swayed a bit, and Xander put out a hand to steady him.
"Oh, this is gonna be fun. I hope you're not a singer when you're drunk," Xander said, pulling him towards a Honda Civic.
"Of course I sing!" Will insisted loudly. He cleared his throat, and immediately began singing, "Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go, I wanna be sedated!"
"So do I," muttered Xander, as he got Will settled in the car, where the Brit was insisting on regaling the neighborhood with the Ramones' greatest hits.
**
"Girls are stupid," Will said again as he looked up at Xander. He knew that he was rather drunk at this point. But he had gotten past the loud, obnoxious singing and was now on the obnoxious self-doubting whinging.
He knew that Xander was both confused and annoyed at his behavior. He knew that Xander wanted to call Buffy and dump this mess in her lap. After all, that's what he'd do, if Rich came to him drunk and moaning about some fight with Rosie.
"I'm stupid, too," Will said. "Told her I loved her. And I do, you know? S'bloody incredible, being with her. And she said she loved me back! I couldn't believe it. And then I had to bollocks it all up. Left her reading my book, and came back to a different woman," he explained to Xander, who still looked confused.
"What do you mean a different woman?" said Xander, who sat down on the chair that matched the sofa Will was currently sprawling across.
"She had read the first couple chapters of my book. It's a great book," Will said, proudly. "All about fighting the forces of darkness, with one person able to defeat the evil in this world. But it's all meta . . . meta . . . " he trailed off, not quite remembering what he meant.
"Metaphors?" Xander suggested.
"Yeah, that!" Will said. "Metafives. Anyway, I come out, and she starts yelling at me. 'Someone betrayed me!' 'How did you know about me?'" Will shook his head. "Don't know what she meant. 'Cause it's impossible, what she said. She said it was her life! That everything in the book happened to her!" Will snorted. "As if. Bloody bitch just got scared with the warm fuzzies, and needed something, anything, to pick a fight over."
Will looked over at Xander, and noticed that the other man had gone pale. "Hey, what's up, mate? I'm the one who's supposed to be pale-got that English skin, doesn't tan, just burns . . . " he trailed off, knowing he was approaching the passing-out stage of his evening.
Xander stared at Will. "Oh, man. I can't believe this." Xander got up and started pacing. "It is impossible--it couldn't be true. Because it's just unthinkable!"
Will groaned, Xander's pacing making him dizzy. He closed his eyes and drifted off, to the sound of Xander's babbling.
**
The feeling of a thousand knives stabbing into his brain awoke Will. He turned over awkwardly and stared at the room he was in. He ran through a mental checklist. Still in his clothes? Check. On a couch? Check. Fuzzy tongue, churning stomach, and an anvil for a head and the world was making horseshoes? Check.
In short, he was majorly hung over.
Will sighed, keeping his eyes shut. He slowly felt things coming back into focus, and he waited, half-hoping that he'd realize last night was a dream. Although it couldn't compare to the weird experiences he'd had while he slept. He had dreamt of blood and violence, and then of a girl who looked suspiciously like Buffy. Of falling in love and changing his whole world for her, but to never feel like it was enough.
He humphed. "Too close to the truth, mate," he said out loud. Still, it had been a bit disturbing; the images had been so vivid. But hell, that would be expected, with the amount of liquor he had put away last night. Weird dreams would be part and parcel of the whole experience.
Will decided to try sitting up, and had managed it without tossing his cookies, when a high electronic trilling made him want to pierce his own eardrums.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," he muttered, forcing his eyes to open. He slowly pulled himself off the couch, and looked around for his bag. The whole time, he kept ordering his stomach to stay put and not get any ideas to do anything further about that whole nausea thing. The phone kept ringing, and he finally found his bag and dug out the phone.
"Yeah?" he said, not caring how he sounded.
"Will?"
At the sound of her trembling voice, he felt several emotions race through him. Happiness that she had followed through on her promise to talk to him today. Sadness that they had fought. Fear that she didn't trust him. But somehow, the anger over her unbelievable excuses won out.
"Yeah?" he replied, curtly.
He heard her take a deep breath. "Well, I had said we could talk tomorrow, and since it's now tomorrow, I thought we could meet for breakfast, and I could try and explain what happened last night."
He didn't say anything. He was doing all he could not to crush the phone in anger. The little bitch thought he'd fall for the sadness and hope in her voice, and let her play him. Well, he had been played before by women more talented at head games than Buffy. He wasn't going to let it happen again.
He had let himself waste three years of his life, hanging around, waiting for Dru to finally come back to him, for real. He had bent over backwards, letting his soul get chipped away by her games. And at the end, he had been left with nothing.
Never again.
"I don't think so."
He could practically hear her mouth drop open. "What? I mean . . . I thought you wanted to talk. And I want to talk to you. I need to . . . to apologize."
"Well, you know how you said last night you couldn't deal with it right now? Well, I can't deal with you right now."
He didn't care that he loved her. He couldn't let himself think about that. If he did, he'd forget his anger and get his heart trampled again.
"Will, I don't understand," she said, her voice sounding choked. "I know this is all confusing, but I was able to figure things out last night. I know what's wrong."
"So do I. It's you, pet. You decided to play a little game on old Will. You got scared when we said the dreaded three little words, so you had to figure out a way to destroy things. And you picked a fine way to destroy me, love. You attacked something that I had poured my heart into, and you accused me of betrayal. Not only that, but if the book is your life, which I doubt, you've been lying to me the whole time! I've figured everything out, so I don't think we need to talk."
She was sobbing now. "Will! Why are you doing this? Last night--I'm so sorry. It was such a shock for me. And there was no way you could know what was going to happen when I read the book, because I haven't told you everything about me. But I want to tell you now. Please, Will, I have to tell you. It's the only way you'll understand."
"I don't think you understand, girl. There's nothing to explain. I can't find smaller words than 'I don't want to talk to you,' that could be processed by your pea-sized brain."
Will let his words flow out, letting the anger rule. His heart may be screeching at him that he was a heartless bastard and a pathetic excuse for a man, but he refused to let himself listen to his heart breaking.
He listened to Buffy sniff, and said, "Goodbye."
"Will!" she said quickly.
"What?" he said, trying to sound disinterested.
She paused, and then said, tremulously, "I love you."
"No, you don't, love," he sneered, before he hit the end button. He quickly turned off the phone, dropped it on the floor, and headed to the bathroom to puke his guts up.
**
Will stumbled out of the bathroom, feeling even more like shit. You'd think throwing up till you saw your feet come out of your mouth would make you feel better, but it didn't work like that.
He paused when he saw Xander, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. "Hey, mate, thanks for letting me stay here last night. I was . . . messed up."
Xander looked at him, and Will nearly shivered at the ice in Xander's gaze.
"I heard the end of your phone call to Buffy."
Will stepped back. Xander looked murderous. Like he wanted to tear Will apart with his two hands. Xander took a step towards him.
"I tried to call her last night, after you passed out, but I couldn't get through. Couldn't warn her. And then I heard what you said to her." Xander paused, and Will swallowed hard. "Will, I know you're hurting. You're confused. You're hung over. For those reasons, I'm not going to kick your ass, although we could argue that you deserve it. But I want you to get the hell out of my apartment."
Will looked at Xander for a moment, before he had to drop his eyes. Couldn't take looking at Xander, his normally kind face set in a hard expression, the eye patch that normally looked a bit goofy making his face seem dangerous. He wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to explain to Xander. But he couldn't find the words. So he picked up his cell phone and his bag, and walked stiffly out of Xander's apartment into the bright sunshine.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked down the street. He felt like he was burning bridges, not after he had crossed them, but as he crossed them. The flames were licking at his heels, and it was only a matter of time before he plunged into the cold water, broken on the current and the debris.
He plodded towards the bar, planning to retrieve his car and then get the hell out of this town. Go back to San Diego, lick his wounds, figure out what to do. Try to put his life back together without Buffy. How quickly she had fallen into place, making his life so incredibly full. Now, the emptiness was so complete, he wondered if he could make it through.
He stared at his feet, before letting his gaze drift. The road was lined with small stores, their windows full of pawned items, homemade crafts, or food. It was still early, so most of them were still closed, the glass protected by iron bars. As he walked past one second-hand store, though, he glanced at the window, and stopped in his tracks, staring ahead of him. Part of him didn't want to turn back to the window. He had a feeling that something in his life was about to change, and he didn't understand how or why.
Slowly, Will turned his head. The item in the store's window that had caught his attention was a long, leather duster. It looked battered and worn, like it had gone through years of abuse, but at the same time, it looked well-tended; he noticed a rip that had been repaired around one of the sleeves.
He let his bag drop to the ground, as he walked towards the window. He put his hands on the glass, trying to get closer to the coat. It called to him. It looked imposing and intimidating on the mannequin, but he knew how it felt. How the weight settled over his shoulders, how the leather flapped against his legs, how the cuffs hung just a hair too long over his wrists.
"What the hell?" he said.
And like that, Will remembered who he was. Who he had been. What he had done. Who he loved.
Spike stepped away from the window, not caring that he could see his reflection. He stared at his hands, and looked up at the sunlight. He felt the breath going in and out of his lungs. Felt his heart beating.
In an awed voice, he said, "Bloody hell."
End, Chapter Seven
By Melissa(dettiot@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13 mostly, with one NC-17 epilogue.
Spoilers: Through Chosen.
Author's Note: Spike/Buffy, but only kinda. This story is a bit odd. Also posted on my website(http://lostinwonderland.org/buffy/fanfic.html).
Song lyric in chapter title comes from the brilliant song "Shelter from the Storm" by Bob Dylan.
Chapter Seven: Was in Another Lifetime, One of Toil and Blood
Will walked to his car, not heeding his surroundings at all. It took him five minutes to even find his car, he was so confused. When he finally got into the vehicle, he didn't even bother putting his key in the ignition. He just sat, staring out the windshield.
'What just happened?' he thought to himself. He had no idea what was going on. They had been together, blissful from finally speaking their feelings, and then, he had left her reading his book. The book . . . the first big thing he had ever accomplished in his life. He had never done anything that important before. Knowing that she was going to read it had tied his stomach into knots. He was so hopeful that she would like it. Would be able to read his words, and see beyond them, into his mind, into his heart and soul. It took so much, to leave her in the kitchen with his pride and joy, and not hang around, asking her as she turned each page, "Do you like it?"
So he had retreated to the bathroom, and stood under the spray of the shower. The water, first hot and then lukewarm, before becoming downright chilly, slicked down his body, and all he could think about was how she was going to react. To the book, and to the first page of the book. He had typed the dedication page last; in fact, he had written it this morning, after getting the good news from his agent. Even now, he could see the page in his mind's eye.
"To Buffy, who answered the question I didn't even realize I was asking."
Will frowned as he realized he was staring at her apartment's windows. They were dark, and he wondered what she was doing. Was she crying, those giant sobs that had pierced his heart? Was she furious? Was she missing him?
'Sure she misses you, mate, after screaming at you, pounding on you, and refusing to talk to you,' that little voice in the back of his mind sarcastically commented. Will groaned, and shook his head. He had to get away from here. He started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot, only to realize that he didn't know where he wanted to go. He had planned to stay at Buffy's. He could go to his mother's house, of course, but he knew she'd want to know why he was in LA in the middle of the week, and especially why he wasn't staying at Buffy's place. He sat at a three-way intersection, and tried to figure out where to go, what to do.
A car idled behind him as he tried to make up his mind. The driver finally gave up being patient and laid on his horn. Will, in no mood to be polite, flipped him off and gunned his car, turning left towards the freeway. He drove fast down the roads, barely obeying posted signs and completely ignoring the speed limits. He rolled down the windows, and turned on the stereo. The CD in the player was the Sex Pistols, and he screamed along with Johnny as he started driving north.
Will didn't care that he was driving too fast. Didn't care that he was swerving around cars, ignoring the horns and flashing lights. He drove, and part of him couldn't help hoping that if he drove fast enough, he could outrun his thoughts. Outrun his memories. Because he kept seeing Buffy's face in his mind, tears streaking down her cheeks as she demanded, "Who told you about me? How did you find out?" He kept remembering how he had felt when she started crying, his shock at her words, and his disbelief.
What in the hell was going on? Had he managed to fall for another nutcase, a woman who had no grasp on reality? If that was so, Buffy had hidden her crazy tendencies damn well. Because if she expected him to believe that she was some all-powerful superhero . . .
It was too much for him. Barely checking his mirrors, Will wrenched his car into the lane for the upcoming exit. Driving fast through the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp, he found he was not that far from downtown LA, in a somewhat seedy area that seemed to be trying to reclaim itself. He could smell salt on the breeze, and figured he must be near the ocean.
He drove down the road until he spotted just what he was looking for. A bar.
He swung into the parking lot, not caring that he took up two spaces when he parked. He slammed the car door, and stormed into the place.
When he entered, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lights. The place was dark, smoky, and filled with loud music. There was a small dance floor, but this place obviously wasn't out to attract the club-hopping sort. This was an honest-to-God bar, where people went to drown their troubles or use alcohol to help start some.
Will didn't think he'd ever found a place more suited to the mood he was in.
He found a seat at the bar, and gestured to the bartender, a muscle-bound guy who obviously doubled as the bouncer for the place. The bartender nodded at him, and Will said, "Wanna run a tab," flashing his credit card. "Whiskey, and keep it coming." The bartender nodded again, and plopped down a glass and poured him a shot. Will lifted the glass, tossed back the burning alcohol, and slammed the glass back down.
"Again," he said. The bartender shrugged, poured another glass, and then left the bottle sitting on the counter before wandering to the other end of the bar. Will once again threw back the drink, and refilled his glass.
The alcohol hit him quickly, although he just felt a bit dazed. "But then, you already felt like you'd gotten your fucking teeth kicked down your throat," he muttered to himself. He stared into the glass, wondering how in the hell he had gotten screwed like this. Here he was, a decent, hard-working bloke. He had found a woman who seemed absolutely, positively perfect to him. Her mind was brilliant and quirky, she had the face of an angel, she had the biggest yet shyest heart he'd ever seen, and a sex drive that had always impressed him.
Will groaned and dropped his head onto the bar. Sex with Buffy had been a revelation. Mostly because it wasn't just sex. It was love-making, and he hated the fact that he was a big enough poof to even think that. But that's what it was: not screwing or fucking, but love-making. At least, that's how he had always felt. Even during the hottest, wildest times they had together, he had still seen it as making love.
He snorted. "Such a nancy boy you are," he said, as he propped his head up with one hand. His other hand lifted the whiskey to the mouth, and he took a sip. "Had to be all romantic," he sneered, taking another swig. "Had to be all soft. 'Oh, you're my girl, Buffy,' 'Oh, you're my inspiration, Buffy,' 'Oh, I love you, Buffy'." He finished off the last of the whiskey in his glass. "Some inspiration you were."
Her actions when she read his book were just so . . . odd. She had seemed angry, yet he could see fear swirling in her eyes. She had approached him, her anger surrounding her like the corona around a star. He had backed up against the cabinets, because he felt like a wildebeest about to be attacked by a lion. She had looked at him like he was prey, something to be destroyed. The anger had gone out of her quickly, and he was left with a crying, hysterical woman in his arms, babbling about baking and betrayal. He had tried to understand what she was saying, but it was just too ludicrous to be believed. He had somehow stolen her life and based his book on it?
Will stared at the whiskey bottle, and started peeling one of the corners of the label. It was ridiculous. His book was supposed to be your traditional metaphorical coming of age story, using the fantasy leit-motif of supernatural demons representing your own personal demons. He had thought, as he wrote, that he was basing it on his own feelings when he was 18, coming to a new country with his mother, his only family who had been told she might only have three months left to live, and leaving his girlfriend behind. The fear and anger and sadness, tinged with unexpected pleasure--that was the emotions and memories that had shaped the book as he wrote.
The coming-of-age story was one of those plots that every writer wrote some variation on at some point in their career. It was so damn common. And his "twist" on the cliched story wasn't that original, he knew. When he first started developing the idea, in fact, he had hesitated from giving in to the emotional appeal it held for him. He had thought it was too ordinary, not special, not memorable. But that day, when he had looked over his ideas and decided to go with it . . . suddenly, what had looked ordinary looked unique. What looked happenstance seemed chosen. Fate became destiny.
That feeling--that 'click' of a key fitting into a lock--had been with him ever since he wrote the first word of the book. He'd never written anything so quickly. Even with extra work and spending as much time as he could with Buffy, he'd managed to churn out the book in six weeks. He'd stay up all hours, writing until the sun came up, only to go to work, put in a full day, and then come home. He'd fit in a phone call to Buffy, eat a little, and then put in another few hours of writing before finally collapsing into bed.
Will had wondered in passing how this was happening, but he'd just ignored the feeling and kept writing. He hadn't wanted to jinx himself and think himself into writer's block. So he had kept writing, not letting himself ponder the choices he was making in the story. Why have the hero fall in love with one of the creatures he killed? Why did he write Luke as deeply scarred by that first love, growing increasingly unable to connect to others? How did he decide to let Luke share his power with others in order to save the world, rather than trying to do it all by himself?
Now he wished he had thought more about the choices he made. About the words he picked and the ideas he'd developed. Because maybe then he could understand what the hell Buffy had meant when she said he had written her life.
Because he couldn't understand it. Couldn't believe it. Because if he believed her, that meant she had kept things from him. Lied to him. Maybe she wasn't crazy like Dru, just a lying bitch. So his luck with women once again held true.
He drank some more whiskey as he thought over the problem. It was impossible. Incredible. First, you had the question of, how in the world had he tapped into her life so much that every major event of her life was in his book? It would imply the existence of powers and possibilities that he couldn't comprehend.
But more importantly, if he accepted that he had somehow, in some way, used her life for his book, what the hell did that mean? That demons were real? That there were people out there, fighting against evil and the darkness that he had thought was only metaphorical?
And that Buffy, little Buffy who barely came up to his shoulder, had the strength to take on vampires who had been linebackers when they were alive?
Will snorted, and pushed away the glass. It was a crock of shit. There was no way in hell that any of it was possible. He knew exactly what was going on. He knew that bitch all too well. After the fuzzy "I love you" moment, the stupid bint had gotten too scared with the idea of being in love, and so she'd grasped for the first pretext she could find to push him away. Threw a pretty little fit, saying that she'd been betrayed, turned on the waterworks, and confused him so much that he gave in and left, rather than talk things out with her.
"Although probably a good thing at this point, as I want to fucking strangle her," he grumbled under his breath as he left the bar and headed to his car. He weaved as he walked on the pavement, the whiskey in his system affecting him too much. He managed to get inside his car, but slumped down in the seat, not bothering to start it. He knew he was in no shape to drive. He knew he should go and sleep this off. But he wasn't even sure where he was, much less if he could even find his mother's house. Not that he wanted to see her at this point.
Will leaned back against the headrest, and wondered what he was going to do. He didn't want to see his mother. He didn't want to keep drinking; he knew he'd just end up getting in a fight. He couldn't see Buffy, and he didn't know at this point if he wanted to see her. Rich was on vacation with Rosie in Hawaii for their anniversary, and he certainly didn't feel like interrupting that.
"I need more guy friends," he muttered. Then, he realized he did have a guy friend . . . kinda. He opened up his bag and dug around for his cell phone. Only last week, Buffy had given him Xander and Willow's phone numbers, saying it was always good to have them in case. He had shrugged and gone along with it; although he didn't know them that well, both of Buffy's friends had seemed like good people, and besides, he'd do anything to keep her happy. So, he'd programmed their numbers into his cell phone's address book, and had then forgotten about it.
He quickly flipped open the phone and punched a few buttons.
"Hello?"
"Xander! Friend of Buffy!"
"Will?" Xander sounded confused. Not surprising, but Will ignored it and carried on.
"Yeah, s'me. Look, I need you to do me a favor."
"Well, sure, I guess. Anything for Buffy's boyfriend."
Will's lip twisted. "Not so sure I am anymore, mate. We had a fight, although calling it a fight is a bit of an understatement. On par with saying the Pacific is damp."
"Ooookay," Xander said. "Have you been drinking?"
"How'd you guess?" Will asked, knowing that he was slurring his words a bit.
"Painful experience. Where are you?"
"Umm . . . a bar called Soulless. It's on . . . " Will craned around in the car, looking for a street sign.
"Don't bother," Xander said. "It's just down the road from me. You're lucky that you ended up in my backyard when you decided to go on a bender. I can drive, but it's not the easiest thing to do at night with only one eye. Hold on and I'll be there in about ten minutes."
"Xander, you are a prince among men. I take back any insults I've ever made about you," Will said.
He heard Xander faintly saying, "Huh? Insults?" as he disconnected the phone.
Will sighed and dropped the phone on the seat next to him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the steering wheel. He was so tired. He was strung out from finishing the book, and the excitement that had caused. Then, the reunion with Buffy, the anticipation of showing her the book, and then the emotional meltdown . . . it was no wonder that when you combined all that with half a bottle of whiskey, he was feeling out of sorts.
He was jolted out of his drifting, half-formed thoughts by a knock on the window. He looked up and saw Xander. He grinned, grabbed his phone and his bag, and stepped out of the car.
"Insults, huh?" Xander said, cocking an eyebrow at him.
Will waved one hand in the air. "A joke, mate. Anyway, I am a good responsible citizen and wouldn't dream of driving while intoxicated. And besides, I need another male to join me in cursing females, not to mention the man who invented whiskey." He swayed a bit, and Xander put out a hand to steady him.
"Oh, this is gonna be fun. I hope you're not a singer when you're drunk," Xander said, pulling him towards a Honda Civic.
"Of course I sing!" Will insisted loudly. He cleared his throat, and immediately began singing, "Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go, I wanna be sedated!"
"So do I," muttered Xander, as he got Will settled in the car, where the Brit was insisting on regaling the neighborhood with the Ramones' greatest hits.
**
"Girls are stupid," Will said again as he looked up at Xander. He knew that he was rather drunk at this point. But he had gotten past the loud, obnoxious singing and was now on the obnoxious self-doubting whinging.
He knew that Xander was both confused and annoyed at his behavior. He knew that Xander wanted to call Buffy and dump this mess in her lap. After all, that's what he'd do, if Rich came to him drunk and moaning about some fight with Rosie.
"I'm stupid, too," Will said. "Told her I loved her. And I do, you know? S'bloody incredible, being with her. And she said she loved me back! I couldn't believe it. And then I had to bollocks it all up. Left her reading my book, and came back to a different woman," he explained to Xander, who still looked confused.
"What do you mean a different woman?" said Xander, who sat down on the chair that matched the sofa Will was currently sprawling across.
"She had read the first couple chapters of my book. It's a great book," Will said, proudly. "All about fighting the forces of darkness, with one person able to defeat the evil in this world. But it's all meta . . . meta . . . " he trailed off, not quite remembering what he meant.
"Metaphors?" Xander suggested.
"Yeah, that!" Will said. "Metafives. Anyway, I come out, and she starts yelling at me. 'Someone betrayed me!' 'How did you know about me?'" Will shook his head. "Don't know what she meant. 'Cause it's impossible, what she said. She said it was her life! That everything in the book happened to her!" Will snorted. "As if. Bloody bitch just got scared with the warm fuzzies, and needed something, anything, to pick a fight over."
Will looked over at Xander, and noticed that the other man had gone pale. "Hey, what's up, mate? I'm the one who's supposed to be pale-got that English skin, doesn't tan, just burns . . . " he trailed off, knowing he was approaching the passing-out stage of his evening.
Xander stared at Will. "Oh, man. I can't believe this." Xander got up and started pacing. "It is impossible--it couldn't be true. Because it's just unthinkable!"
Will groaned, Xander's pacing making him dizzy. He closed his eyes and drifted off, to the sound of Xander's babbling.
**
The feeling of a thousand knives stabbing into his brain awoke Will. He turned over awkwardly and stared at the room he was in. He ran through a mental checklist. Still in his clothes? Check. On a couch? Check. Fuzzy tongue, churning stomach, and an anvil for a head and the world was making horseshoes? Check.
In short, he was majorly hung over.
Will sighed, keeping his eyes shut. He slowly felt things coming back into focus, and he waited, half-hoping that he'd realize last night was a dream. Although it couldn't compare to the weird experiences he'd had while he slept. He had dreamt of blood and violence, and then of a girl who looked suspiciously like Buffy. Of falling in love and changing his whole world for her, but to never feel like it was enough.
He humphed. "Too close to the truth, mate," he said out loud. Still, it had been a bit disturbing; the images had been so vivid. But hell, that would be expected, with the amount of liquor he had put away last night. Weird dreams would be part and parcel of the whole experience.
Will decided to try sitting up, and had managed it without tossing his cookies, when a high electronic trilling made him want to pierce his own eardrums.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," he muttered, forcing his eyes to open. He slowly pulled himself off the couch, and looked around for his bag. The whole time, he kept ordering his stomach to stay put and not get any ideas to do anything further about that whole nausea thing. The phone kept ringing, and he finally found his bag and dug out the phone.
"Yeah?" he said, not caring how he sounded.
"Will?"
At the sound of her trembling voice, he felt several emotions race through him. Happiness that she had followed through on her promise to talk to him today. Sadness that they had fought. Fear that she didn't trust him. But somehow, the anger over her unbelievable excuses won out.
"Yeah?" he replied, curtly.
He heard her take a deep breath. "Well, I had said we could talk tomorrow, and since it's now tomorrow, I thought we could meet for breakfast, and I could try and explain what happened last night."
He didn't say anything. He was doing all he could not to crush the phone in anger. The little bitch thought he'd fall for the sadness and hope in her voice, and let her play him. Well, he had been played before by women more talented at head games than Buffy. He wasn't going to let it happen again.
He had let himself waste three years of his life, hanging around, waiting for Dru to finally come back to him, for real. He had bent over backwards, letting his soul get chipped away by her games. And at the end, he had been left with nothing.
Never again.
"I don't think so."
He could practically hear her mouth drop open. "What? I mean . . . I thought you wanted to talk. And I want to talk to you. I need to . . . to apologize."
"Well, you know how you said last night you couldn't deal with it right now? Well, I can't deal with you right now."
He didn't care that he loved her. He couldn't let himself think about that. If he did, he'd forget his anger and get his heart trampled again.
"Will, I don't understand," she said, her voice sounding choked. "I know this is all confusing, but I was able to figure things out last night. I know what's wrong."
"So do I. It's you, pet. You decided to play a little game on old Will. You got scared when we said the dreaded three little words, so you had to figure out a way to destroy things. And you picked a fine way to destroy me, love. You attacked something that I had poured my heart into, and you accused me of betrayal. Not only that, but if the book is your life, which I doubt, you've been lying to me the whole time! I've figured everything out, so I don't think we need to talk."
She was sobbing now. "Will! Why are you doing this? Last night--I'm so sorry. It was such a shock for me. And there was no way you could know what was going to happen when I read the book, because I haven't told you everything about me. But I want to tell you now. Please, Will, I have to tell you. It's the only way you'll understand."
"I don't think you understand, girl. There's nothing to explain. I can't find smaller words than 'I don't want to talk to you,' that could be processed by your pea-sized brain."
Will let his words flow out, letting the anger rule. His heart may be screeching at him that he was a heartless bastard and a pathetic excuse for a man, but he refused to let himself listen to his heart breaking.
He listened to Buffy sniff, and said, "Goodbye."
"Will!" she said quickly.
"What?" he said, trying to sound disinterested.
She paused, and then said, tremulously, "I love you."
"No, you don't, love," he sneered, before he hit the end button. He quickly turned off the phone, dropped it on the floor, and headed to the bathroom to puke his guts up.
**
Will stumbled out of the bathroom, feeling even more like shit. You'd think throwing up till you saw your feet come out of your mouth would make you feel better, but it didn't work like that.
He paused when he saw Xander, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. "Hey, mate, thanks for letting me stay here last night. I was . . . messed up."
Xander looked at him, and Will nearly shivered at the ice in Xander's gaze.
"I heard the end of your phone call to Buffy."
Will stepped back. Xander looked murderous. Like he wanted to tear Will apart with his two hands. Xander took a step towards him.
"I tried to call her last night, after you passed out, but I couldn't get through. Couldn't warn her. And then I heard what you said to her." Xander paused, and Will swallowed hard. "Will, I know you're hurting. You're confused. You're hung over. For those reasons, I'm not going to kick your ass, although we could argue that you deserve it. But I want you to get the hell out of my apartment."
Will looked at Xander for a moment, before he had to drop his eyes. Couldn't take looking at Xander, his normally kind face set in a hard expression, the eye patch that normally looked a bit goofy making his face seem dangerous. He wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to explain to Xander. But he couldn't find the words. So he picked up his cell phone and his bag, and walked stiffly out of Xander's apartment into the bright sunshine.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked down the street. He felt like he was burning bridges, not after he had crossed them, but as he crossed them. The flames were licking at his heels, and it was only a matter of time before he plunged into the cold water, broken on the current and the debris.
He plodded towards the bar, planning to retrieve his car and then get the hell out of this town. Go back to San Diego, lick his wounds, figure out what to do. Try to put his life back together without Buffy. How quickly she had fallen into place, making his life so incredibly full. Now, the emptiness was so complete, he wondered if he could make it through.
He stared at his feet, before letting his gaze drift. The road was lined with small stores, their windows full of pawned items, homemade crafts, or food. It was still early, so most of them were still closed, the glass protected by iron bars. As he walked past one second-hand store, though, he glanced at the window, and stopped in his tracks, staring ahead of him. Part of him didn't want to turn back to the window. He had a feeling that something in his life was about to change, and he didn't understand how or why.
Slowly, Will turned his head. The item in the store's window that had caught his attention was a long, leather duster. It looked battered and worn, like it had gone through years of abuse, but at the same time, it looked well-tended; he noticed a rip that had been repaired around one of the sleeves.
He let his bag drop to the ground, as he walked towards the window. He put his hands on the glass, trying to get closer to the coat. It called to him. It looked imposing and intimidating on the mannequin, but he knew how it felt. How the weight settled over his shoulders, how the leather flapped against his legs, how the cuffs hung just a hair too long over his wrists.
"What the hell?" he said.
And like that, Will remembered who he was. Who he had been. What he had done. Who he loved.
Spike stepped away from the window, not caring that he could see his reflection. He stared at his hands, and looked up at the sunlight. He felt the breath going in and out of his lungs. Felt his heart beating.
In an awed voice, he said, "Bloody hell."
End, Chapter Seven