Special author's notice: My apologies for the glitch last Tuesday; I accidentally put up an ancient first draft instead of a finished, properly edited chapter. If you happened to catch that version before I put up the right one, please go and reread chapter 13! And thanks to everyone who took the trouble to tell me about it…
Crossing into unchipped country (14/?) by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R
Timeline: At the start, around AtS 5.09 or 5.10
Author's note: Thanks to my dear betas
Author's website:
Feedback: Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
After a quarter hour of all out running the emotions driving Buffy begin to simmer down. She slows to an easier lope. It's pitch dark but the street lights are on and a soft drizzle is falling, perfect running conditions. Usually when she's running she replays past victories in her head, because the memories jack up the adrenaline and she runs faster. But now she keeps seeing the Spike lying there and saying 'Buffy'. Her Spike only ever said that after they'd become lovers. What does that mean? She can hear her heart thudding faster and faster. Her breathing is becoming harsh and rough and she has a stitch in her side. She's in perfect condition, why is the going so hard tonight? Sweat is running down her cheeks, hot, stinging sweat, and she has to stop a moment and wipe it off with the sleeve of her shirt, she can't see from all that sweat streaming in her eyes. Her chest heaves and her nose runs.
It doesn't go away with a few stretching exercises and okay, she'll admit to herself she's crying. Fine, now what? Why the hell would she cry? Because secretly she's convinced that the Spike lying on the ground in all that tarp, staring up at her is her Spike, that's why. Silly, but there you have it, her heart clings stubbornly to that ridiculous conviction. She knows he's dead, she saw him burn up, didn't she? If he's become not-dead, she would have known. He would have let her know. He'd have been on her doorstep the minute he was not dead anymore. So. It's quite clear that this was not her Spike, but some other model, and she's not gonna try another version again after her less than salutary experiences with the last one.
Still, she'd better turn around and make sure. There can be no harm in that. She doubles back and starts running. She's been gone for about half an hour now; it'll take her at least that long to get back. Suppose he was her Spike. That meant that somehow the other Spike had found him in her home dimension, accidentally or on purpose, while he was searching for Dru. If not, if it's some completely different model Spike, Spike two must have gotten hold of a transdimensional device, which is quite disturbing on its own. Both options really need looking into.
The mild drizzle turns into rain and when Buffy gets home she's dripping wet and pretty damn cranky. The house is empty. No Spike, no friends. Thank God the car is gone, indicating a mundane outing, or she'd be worried. Huh. She showers, heats some leftover soup and watches television. She's yawning after her long day and all that crying and eventually she falls asleep. They'll wake her if they get back, if anything interesting is afoot. If it had been her Spike who was tipped out of that trunk there would have been a party or a note, right? Right.
Buffy wakes up with her spine in intricate knots and a taste of dust bunnies in her mouth. She's lying on the couch, TV still on, gray daylight peeking through the windows. It's a good guess nobody woke her, huh? Did they not come home at all, or maybe tiptoe in, thinking she was in bed?
She forces her body into its natural knotless state and yawns with abandon. It's still early, so she contemplates taking another few hours in her own bed. In the hall she notices the full row of coats hanging on their hooks, so everybody's probably home. Just to make sure that there is no Spike in the basement, be it on a cot or safely chained up, she slides down silently on her bare feet. Nobody in the basement whatsoever. Pity. Willow must have sent him to his home dimension while she was running. This notion doesn't sit too comfortably in her mind and she pushes and pulls at it to make it fit in but it won't. It's really not fair that Willow just did that while she was gone. She might have guessed Buffy wanted to see or interrogate any Spike that passes by.
During her long and uninterrupted shower she slowly comes to a boil. If she doesn't get answers soon she's gonna shriek like an old-fashioned kettle. She's clean on the outside but inside there's churning and fuming like a thermal mud pool. What were they thinking, sending that Spike away? She's the Slayer, she's the one making decisions about vampires, especially Spikes.
By the time she's dressed and made up for the day her top's long blown. What are her friends thinking, lying abed at all hours? She needs to talk to them.
When she comes down for breakfast everybody is up. Grouchy and red-eyed, but up. And really grouchy, did she think grouchy already? At first she just thinks they've seen one movie too many and she's kinda resentful they took Dawn along because she has school today, but gradually she starts to feel it's directed at her. Unpleasant memories stir behind firmly closed doors in her brain. Perhaps that feeling of exclusion should be addressed right away before it festers. Lance it right now.
"What did I do wrong now? Did I ignore a school performance, a new spell, the latest edition of X-men or a newly crafted side table? Well?"
Dawn puts down her bowl of Sugar Puffs with a clang. "No Buffy. You just did what you always do."
Her tricorder must be out of order, because she can't parse this into an actual slight. "Few more details, Dawn? Actual felony, date of?"
"Dawn…" Willow says warningly, but Andrew cuts her out.
"What does a person have to do to get your attention? If, you know, like dying isn't enough? If like being this amazingly beautiful superhero isn't enough?"
He leaves the room with a flounce and a toss of his short hair. Some people just have this inflated sense of self worth. Superhero her ass. Supergeek maybe.
A dreadful suspicion insinuates itself into her thoughts. Was her first intuition right after all? That would explain Andrew's anger and their guilty looks. Her skin bursts into one big glowing advert of shame, she's sure she must be beet red to her toes. It can't be true. She can't have made that big a mistake, please don't let it be true. She has to sit down and looks straight into Willow's stricken face, which gives her an inkling how she looks herself right now. Her eyes burn harder than her cheeks and she has to clench her lips to keep her chin from wobbling like a big disgusting pudding.
"Willow?" It comes out very small and squeaky, but it's enough, Willow relents at once and rushes over to hug her.
"I'm sorry, Buffy, we thought it was the right thing to do. You were so mad, and he was so devastated, we wanted to help him."
Her eyes plead for understanding and forgiveness, which makes the dreadful size of her stupidity even clearer to Buffy.
Being hugged always makes you cry harder, and this soft fragrant Willow hug is no different. Buffy gulps and hiccups on Willow's velvety sweater.
"What did you do to him? Did you return him to hell? Was he dead there?"
"Oh, no, sweetie, nothing like that! We put him on a plane to LA. He lives there, he's helping out Angel and his crew."
"B-but how?" Buffy stammers. "He was dead. He burned up. I left him to burn up in that cave. I left him."
Now that there seems a glimmer of a chance of seeing him again she can allow herself to dwell on the enormity of that deed. She can't remember making that decision in cold blood, or imagine ever making it again.
"I don't know exactly, Buffy. He said something about the amulet resurrecting him."
Buff's mind is flitting to and fro over Willow's words.
"A plane. Is that safe? What if he flies straight into the rising sun or something?"
"Well, LA is west from here, so the chance of meeting the rising sun would be kind of slim."
"Oh. Yeah."
Xander has refrained from joining in this conversation so far, but apparently judged this time ripe for a fortifying cup of coffee.
"Thanks."
The caffeine clears her brain and her gaze sharpens. "How long has he been in LA? Why didn't he call?"
Xander's eyes are brown and unreadable. He lowers his eyes and takes a sip of his own coffee. "We didn't go into that, Buffy. He just wanted to get home, and I could understand that. Must have hurt, what you did. Can't have been what he expected when you two were so close right before he died."
Thanks, Xander. Talk about rubbing salt in a wound. The small flare of anger does help to make clear to her what she should do right now. She puts on her general's cap and issues orders.
"Will, could you book me the earliest flight to LAX? Xan, will you drive me to the airport? I'm gonna pack. Hey, it'll be a lot warmer in LA than here, I can wear my new spring clothes!"
Buffy flies up the stairs and throws in her lightest summeriest clothes, which is quickly done, as the fall of Sunnydale has obliterated most of her wardrobe. Too bad she didn't invest in more cute underwear. What she has is mostly kind of practical. Never mind. It will only get ripped off, she hopes. The anticipation gives her a dull burning in her lower belly, the good kind.
Internet master Willow has arranged a flight for her, Xander takes her to the airport and Andrew forgives her for slighting his hero. Dawn is silent and doesn't force any kind of judgment on her, for which she's grateful.
Her patience is sorely tested. The security checks and waits are endless, and she wonders how Spike managed to get through all this. Does he have ID now? She's too keyed up to read the fashion magazines Willow thoughtfully bought her or the snacks Xander got. All she can think of is Spike. Her Spike. How his face will light up when he sees her into that glowing expression of love she's remembering and craving all of a sudden. How they'll run towards each other in slow motion, or anyway it will seem like that, and they'll kiss. Talk, maybe cry a little, and then make gentle, reverent love like they should have done when they were sleeping together on the cot but she couldn't bring herself to do for some reason.
The ungentle, irreverent sex she and the other Spike had together intrudes annoyingly on these sweet dreams and she has to stifle a little gasp as she remembers the things they did together. She hopes her fellow passengers won't notice her flush and squirms a little in her seat. None of that now, as Spike would say.
For the first time she thinks the words to herself. I'm in love with Spike. I love Spike. She said it, true, but it was kind of a scary moment, she wasn't sure about it at all. They were a formula she thought she ought to say, as Spike was dying and she should show her appreciation. She was testing the words to see if they felt true and they did, more than she had expected. Only when she was fleeing from the destruction, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, she realized that they were also the last words she said to him, and that she wouldn't get to say them again. She'll get to say them now, which is important, and she'll have to be the one to say them first, to let him know it's alright now. No more fears of loving a vampire, no more bad memories between them.
As long as she's in motion the time seems to pass quickly enough. She can dream while she stares at the clouds which obscure her vision of the earth below, but when the plane lands the waiting and the agonizing start again. More security checks. Finding a taxi. Realizing she doesn't know his address. Calling Willow and waiting while that staunch friend climbs on the web again, or does whatever she does, to discover a certain illegal vampire's location.
This wait is unexpectedly short. Within two minutes Willow rings back with the information.
"Gee, Will, way to surf the net," Buffy says admiringly.
Willow laughs. "Not everything is on the net, Buffy. I just called Wolfram&Hart, and got Harmony Kendall on the line. She wasn't too keen on revealing Spike's address, but when I threatened her with a telephone spell she caved."
"What is a telephone spell, Willow?"
"I made that up. I didn't think Harmony would know enough to get it…"
Harmony. Buffy can't stop thinking about Harmony while the taxi takes her through the rapidly falling dusk to Spike's apartment. Spike wouldn't take up with Harmony again, would he? It would be so lowering to have her as a rival. Buffy wants to recapture her happy airplane dreams but it isn't easy. Spike has been alive again for an unknown period of time, and he didn't call her. What if he doesn't love her anymore? What if he has a new girlfriend? Those thoughts aren't fun at all and refuse to go away when Buffy tells them to.
The area she ends up in looks pretty much derelict, ill lit abandoned warehouses and stores. Like Sunnydale alleys, only whole neighborhoods of them, and the good side of town is a whole lot farther than two hundred yards away. The driver refuses to drive on but in his incomprehensible foreign accent offers to take her to a motel nearby. She declines. LA demons can't be that much different from the Sunnydale or Rome variety, she can take care of herself.
She hoists up her bags and tries to find her way to the address she wrote down. Most of the buildings aren't numbered anymore, if they have ever been, or maybe the signs are covered by the torn and flapping remnants of posters and ads. Buffy wishes she wasn't wearing her bright pink and hopeful Manolo Blahnik imitations. And her bags would not be an asset in a fight, although maybe they are heavy enough to kill a demon if she uses them to hit with.
At last her vampire radar gives the vaguest of pings. It could be Spike, but if it's another vampire she'll not kill him right away but coerce him into taking her back to habitable territory. This is a worse part of LA than she's ever seen before.
She totters down a broken concrete stairway. She doesn't want to touch the wall, wary of its warm moist smell. The number that is scrawled on a piece of cardboard near the door matches the address Willow gave her. There is an actual doorbell. She breaks a nail the first time she rings it. The wait that follows is long enough to make her think several times of everything she thought of to say on the plane and discard those words completely. A joyful reunion seems not so likely anymore. She tells herself it's silly to feel like that, not as if he ever used to live in grand surroundings, but whether this is a step up or down from a crypt is hard to say.
She rings again. Maybe he's out already, doing whatever he does by night in LA. Rescuing people, not killing them, she assumes.
At last she hears a faint shuffle behind the door. It opens by a crack, and a deep silence falls.
"Spike?" Buffy's voice wavers out.
The door opens slowly to reveal a tousle haired Spike, clad only in half-buttoned jeans. He doesn't look happy to see her. He just stands there and looks at her speechlessly. He just looks and looks, and it's as if he disappears behind his eyes. A cold fist closes around Buffy's heart and squeezes it firmly.
"Hi," she tries again.
Still no response.
This is not the kind of ambience Buffy has prepared her speech for. She'd been thinking more of a romantic, opulently decorated room, Persian rugs, soft couches, candles, like his crypt only better. With Spike kneeling at her feet in adoration and her telling him how much she loves him.
This cold closed-off stranger, this smelly basement entrance, seem like a forewarning of the outcome she suddenly fears. It can't be too late. It can't be that one moment of panic has doomed her, it wouldn't be fair.
"I'm sorry about what happened in Cleveland," she plows on gamely. "I wigged and I shouldn't have. Can I come in so we can talk?"
The moments Spike needs to think this over aren't any fun at all. They tick by and she starts counting her breaths. In, out, thirteen times and her breathing has gotten more and more shaky and her bags weigh a ton.
"All right then," Spike says reluctantly and turns away to lead her in. A few steps in the dark hallway - too dark for her to see anything - he suddenly takes a left and she bumps her nose into the bare skin between his shoulder blades. The scent memory of his skin takes her straight back to the Cleveland motel she and the other Spike stayed in right before they encountered Kakistos. Gunsmoke and hot metal, creaking bed springs and rivulets of shower water running into his sodden curls as he knelt at her feet and licked her into ecstasy. She stumbles over nothing and knows her heart is racing. This is wrong wrong wrong. She shouldn't have memories of the other Spike. For once she gave into needs and wants instead of staying true to her sense of righteousness and already it's coming back to haunt her.
The brightly lit space she enters starts out blurry but clears up into a bare, clean basement apartment. Grey paint over bricks, functional furniture, lots of emptiness. No candles, no rugs, nor gothic ornaments or a fifties style jukebox like Spike had. No books, no postcards tacked onto the fridge, and the bed in the corner is narrow and neatly made up. The only lush thing in the room is the red couch.
She puts her hand on his bare skin, feels it jump under her fingers. "Did you just move in?"
"Been here for five months. Why?"
He quickly moves aside a step so that her hand falls away. Brief cool velvet.
The cold hands around her heart reminds her it's still there and squeezes harder. Five months. Not only ample time to decorate a bare apartment, but certainly enough to place a couple of phone calls. Ouch.
Spike lifts one of his retro looking kitchen chairs and sits on it wrong side around, his bare arms leaning on the narrow backrest.
"What did you have to tell me, Buffy? Make it short. I've got work to do."
Buffy swallows down the frog in her throat. "I'm sorry about last night, Spike. I wigged and I should have followed my instinct. I should have known it was really you instead of..."
"Yeah, pet, I got that. The other Spike confused you, didn't he? Do forgive me if I'm sort of miffed about another guy 'confusing' you," Spike says.
He isn't going to make it easy for her, that's clear. She also guesses him to be hurt and angry, possibly even jealous. She can work with that.
"Spike, I was forced to make an alliance with the other you. Why are you so upset about that?" Buffy tries, but her heart is battering against the cage of her ribs. It seemed a good idea at the time, sleeping with the other Spike, an allowance she'd made for herself. Not always being the stern general, but just the girl Buffy, who could succumb to the lure of a hot bod and not have to bear the consequences.
"Is that all that was, pet? If you say so. Didn't seem like making alliances to me when we were together. Having sex, " he amends quickly.
Buffy thinks this is an opening. "Right. We were together, and we can be again."
Would this be a good moment to mention that she loves him? There doesn't seem to be that kind of a mood between them right now.
"Yeah?" Spike says heavily. "I dunno, Buffy. Maybe you know what you want, but that's not my main concern anymore. I don't know what I want. Don't wanna throw myself at your feet again, that's for sure. Got my own purpose to worry about. Paid my dues to you, didn't I? We're even."
He starts getting clothes from a scantily filled closet, a black T-shirt, socks, shoes. He doesn't look at her. When he's finished lacing up the shoes he reaches behind her to retrieve his duster. For a few seconds he's physically so close that Buffy can't help herself and reaches for him. He freezes when her hands fall on his shoulders and looks down on her with such anger and loathing it's like a blow. She staggers back and let her hands drop.
Now. It's gotta be now, before he's gone. Maybe he just needs some time to mull it over, she can at least give him some reassurance.
"Spike, I love you."
He thrusts his chin forward and looks at his feet for a moment. Then he looks her full in the eye again. "Thanks for saying it, Buffy."
A swirl of his coat and he's out of the door, leaving Buffy and her bags in the neat, impersonal space. Buffy thinks for a second about bursting into tears or crashing on his couch but the night is too young for that. She won't give up that easily. Leaving her bags where they have fallen she hurries out of the door behind him, hoping to catch up with him in the alley. They can patrol together, bond again.
Outside there is no sign of Spike anywhere. The alley is silent and empty. Crap! Buffy runs to the end of the alley, cursing her shoe choice. Where has he gone? A flash of light on a bright head directs her attention to the rooftops, and she sees him jump straight across an alley to another roof, black leather flaring out behind him. Very dramatic. She never saw him do this in Sunnydale, and she never went in for it a lot either. She can do this. She can go wherever he goes, and she'll have to make it fast if she wants to catch up with him. She flexes and springs. Maybe it's kinda undignified to follow the guy who has declined your offer of eternal love, maybe you could call it stalking, but man is it fun to jump from roof top to rooftop, the chase singing in her veins, the city spread out beneath her like a skipping pattern on a schoolyard. Evil beasties in LA, here comes the Slayer!
TBC