Title: RETURN
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Like I could create these guys.
All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: A Spike-centric alternative ending (which you can bet will never happen) for Ep. 22 of this season, incorporating many (though not all) recent spoilers. The end of BtVS, and the beginning of The Spike Show.
DEFINITE SPOILERS
-------------------------------------------
RETURN
Part. 18 Recalled to Life
"Why don't you tell me yourself?" There was hostility and a slight challenge in Willow's tone.
Spike looked at her for a moment, and deliberately ground out his cigarette. Then he suddenly shifted, his posture straightening, his expression smoothing to one of impassive regard. A glisten of blue-white light seemed to pass over him, gleaming off his hair and cheekbones, and highlighting the folds of his black shirt.
"We are the Watchers," he said. Giles and Buffy recognized the feathery echoes of multitudes in his voice, and managed to maintain their composure, but the others were electrified.
Seeing Spike change before her eyes, Dawn shrank away at first, but after a reassuring look from Buffy held her ground. Xander sat bolt upright in his chair, Anya clinging tightly to his hand.
In fact, Buffy had to strive to control herself. This process, whatever it was, bluntly terrified her, for purely personal reasons; a lover's reasons. She wanted whomever these people, or creatures, or personalities, or whatever they were, gone. She wanted Spike back as he was, and never to lose him again, even for the brief minutes these manifestations had taken so far. What if something went wrong? What if he couldn't get back? What if, someday, they wouldn't let him come back? What if it were hurting him, or damaging him in some way they didn't understand yet? Yet she knew she couldn't have what she wanted, that it must be done, and done right now. She had to trust his judgement about that from now on. It went against the grain, but she'd do it. So she held her peace.
The Watchers continued. "For millennia, we have been preparing for a suitable vessel to return to this world. Spike is that vessel. We have come to aid the Slayer in the strife that is to come. That is," he smiled grimly, "the short version."
Willow looked at him nervously across the table. It was obviously not a trick. It was Spike, and not Spike. It was Spike with power and insight she had never dreamed of, and wished she didn't know about now. And possessing the authority to judge, and punish, supported by thousands of years of wisdom and experience. She knew she was in trouble. She knew she had disregarded ageless limits; only she and Giles -- and now Spike -- knew what boundaries she had crossed, what dark contracts she had made, and broken. "What -- what can you do?" she stammered.
"Almost anything," he replied, without irony. "Ask, rather, what can we not do. But power is not a toy. It is a weapon, to be wielded only when necessary. We will do what is necessary."
"What did you do -- to me? My power is -- "
" -- is gone."
"Will I ever get it back?"
"Will you ever be deserving of it?"
She looked down into her coffee again. "I don't know," she said.
"Ask when you are."
Willow slumped miserably. No one knew what to say; it probably wasn't fun getting a supernatural scolding in front of them all, but they couldn't say she didn't deserve it, either. Her friends' faces around the table reflected certain realities; they all still loved her, or wanted to love her if they could, but they also feared her. Losing her power might diminish and pain her, but it eased their fear. And one question still hung over everything -- how could they ever trust her again? Once she had been the backbone of the Scoobies, the reliable one. She had grown to hate the ordinariness of that role, the un-glamour of it all. Now what wouldn't she give to get it back? Who could she be now?
Apparently the Watchers had said all they came to say. The white light around Spike shimmered out with a faint whoosh; he shuddered and sat back in his chair, rubbing the back of his head. Buffy again openly clasped his hand between both of hers, and in return got another one of those looks that made her feel her blood rushing through her veins, strong and alive. And suddenly rather warm. "Got any of that whisky left, Rupes?" he asked plaintively, dragging his eyes away from hers. "The gang are still a bit rough with the entrances and exits."
"As a matter of fact, I do." There were still matters to be decided, Giles supposed, but he really didn't think he could take anymore this evening. They still had some time. "An excellent suggestion."
"I'd like to second that; whiskey's looking better and better all the time." Xander turned to Spike. "'The gang?'" he said.
TBC
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - --
'"Buried how long?"
The answer was always the same: "Almost eighteen years."
"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?"
"Long ago."
"You know that you are recalled to life?"
"They tell me so."
"I hope you care to live?"
"I can't say."'
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Like I could create these guys.
All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: A Spike-centric alternative ending (which you can bet will never happen) for Ep. 22 of this season, incorporating many (though not all) recent spoilers. The end of BtVS, and the beginning of The Spike Show.
DEFINITE SPOILERS
-------------------------------------------
RETURN
Part. 18 Recalled to Life
"Why don't you tell me yourself?" There was hostility and a slight challenge in Willow's tone.
Spike looked at her for a moment, and deliberately ground out his cigarette. Then he suddenly shifted, his posture straightening, his expression smoothing to one of impassive regard. A glisten of blue-white light seemed to pass over him, gleaming off his hair and cheekbones, and highlighting the folds of his black shirt.
"We are the Watchers," he said. Giles and Buffy recognized the feathery echoes of multitudes in his voice, and managed to maintain their composure, but the others were electrified.
Seeing Spike change before her eyes, Dawn shrank away at first, but after a reassuring look from Buffy held her ground. Xander sat bolt upright in his chair, Anya clinging tightly to his hand.
In fact, Buffy had to strive to control herself. This process, whatever it was, bluntly terrified her, for purely personal reasons; a lover's reasons. She wanted whomever these people, or creatures, or personalities, or whatever they were, gone. She wanted Spike back as he was, and never to lose him again, even for the brief minutes these manifestations had taken so far. What if something went wrong? What if he couldn't get back? What if, someday, they wouldn't let him come back? What if it were hurting him, or damaging him in some way they didn't understand yet? Yet she knew she couldn't have what she wanted, that it must be done, and done right now. She had to trust his judgement about that from now on. It went against the grain, but she'd do it. So she held her peace.
The Watchers continued. "For millennia, we have been preparing for a suitable vessel to return to this world. Spike is that vessel. We have come to aid the Slayer in the strife that is to come. That is," he smiled grimly, "the short version."
Willow looked at him nervously across the table. It was obviously not a trick. It was Spike, and not Spike. It was Spike with power and insight she had never dreamed of, and wished she didn't know about now. And possessing the authority to judge, and punish, supported by thousands of years of wisdom and experience. She knew she was in trouble. She knew she had disregarded ageless limits; only she and Giles -- and now Spike -- knew what boundaries she had crossed, what dark contracts she had made, and broken. "What -- what can you do?" she stammered.
"Almost anything," he replied, without irony. "Ask, rather, what can we not do. But power is not a toy. It is a weapon, to be wielded only when necessary. We will do what is necessary."
"What did you do -- to me? My power is -- "
" -- is gone."
"Will I ever get it back?"
"Will you ever be deserving of it?"
She looked down into her coffee again. "I don't know," she said.
"Ask when you are."
Willow slumped miserably. No one knew what to say; it probably wasn't fun getting a supernatural scolding in front of them all, but they couldn't say she didn't deserve it, either. Her friends' faces around the table reflected certain realities; they all still loved her, or wanted to love her if they could, but they also feared her. Losing her power might diminish and pain her, but it eased their fear. And one question still hung over everything -- how could they ever trust her again? Once she had been the backbone of the Scoobies, the reliable one. She had grown to hate the ordinariness of that role, the un-glamour of it all. Now what wouldn't she give to get it back? Who could she be now?
Apparently the Watchers had said all they came to say. The white light around Spike shimmered out with a faint whoosh; he shuddered and sat back in his chair, rubbing the back of his head. Buffy again openly clasped his hand between both of hers, and in return got another one of those looks that made her feel her blood rushing through her veins, strong and alive. And suddenly rather warm. "Got any of that whisky left, Rupes?" he asked plaintively, dragging his eyes away from hers. "The gang are still a bit rough with the entrances and exits."
"As a matter of fact, I do." There were still matters to be decided, Giles supposed, but he really didn't think he could take anymore this evening. They still had some time. "An excellent suggestion."
"I'd like to second that; whiskey's looking better and better all the time." Xander turned to Spike. "'The gang?'" he said.
TBC
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - --
'"Buried how long?"
The answer was always the same: "Almost eighteen years."
"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?"
"Long ago."
"You know that you are recalled to life?"
"They tell me so."
"I hope you care to live?"
"I can't say."'
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities