Loose Ends
Chapter 1 of several
by Lynne C.
Rating: This part rated G, later episodes will become more adult.
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' - I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.
Setting/Spoilers: AtS Season 5, generally - and, Spike's "semi-canon" past (London, mid-1970s)
Summary: An unexpected epilogue to an incident in Spike's past, inspired by a throwaway line from Buffy 7.8
Misc: You can look in my ff.net profile for my website, and check there for updates to this story, or to read this part with its proper formatting (italics and such).
Loose Ends
Ever since his improbable return from the sinkhole-inducing, great fiery beyond, Spike had been contemplating loose ends. Not just that he was most definitely at them, but, that there were so many of which he was aware.
Many had to do with Buffy, but not all of them.
Dawn…he'd felt like perhaps her steely attitude towards him had softened towards the end, but they'd never really talked about any of it. Not that he had any idea what he'd say – not that he even felt that he deserved her forgiveness and the return of her affection towards him. But that didn't stop him wanting those things.
Anya…she was quite something. When he'd learned that she was gone, he felt sorry for the world that it'd lost someone so vibrant – someone just figuring out humanity all over again, failing and picking herself up and keeping at it, in spite of it all. And, though he'd have died (yet again) before he admitted it, he'd surprised himself by discovering some sympathy for Xander. Losing her the first time had been his own bloody fault, no doubt about it. But since then, the whelp'd been trying to make good on it, and in the end that's all anyone can do. So, losing her this time – it had to have hurt.
It wasn't all as maudlin as that.
He'd participated in training those potentials at Ft. Summers…it would be nice to be able to check in on them to see what they'd done with it, now that they had the full Slayer cred going on. He'd heard about the backup that Andrew had called in on Operation Psycho Slayer, and would have liked to see and feel all that Slayer power concentrated in one place. Too bad he'd had is own troubles at that point and had missed out.
But, honestly, plenty of those loose ends did revolve around Buffy. Still love's bitch…, he'd think to himself, and shake his head.
Things reminded him of her – the shampoo that one of the secretaries used, a new pair of shoes that Harmony had prattled on about the first day she'd worn them, a turn of phrase that he'd overhear that would catapult him back into her presence.
And then, there were the unfinished stories. Over those last couple-three years, when they'd let their guards down just a bit, and talked like they weren't mortal enemies, they'd traded anecdotes from the past. True, he had a deeper pool of them, and a greater willingness to share, especially when they'd been seeing – okay… doing – each other, and he'd been more than a little desperate to pretend that they were a real couple. And then again, after his return from Africa and the school basement. But, too often, those stories got interrupted. He'd piss her off and she'd storm out of his crypt. Or, one of the Slayerettes would come out on the back porch and they'd clam up guiltily, having been caught in clandestine chumminess. Or their quiet, conversational night of patrol would be invaded by some baddy in need of killing and the threads just wouldn't get picked up again.
Now, since memory was all he really had, he'd recall not having gotten to make his point, or give the punch line, or brag about his victory (or escape, depending). And then, there was the story that he'd thought was finished. Until, it acquired an unexpected epilogue. And he'd wanted nothing more than to share it with her.
It had happened when he'd been allowing this Doyle-Lindsey person lead him about, playing the Dark Alley Crusader. He'd been canny enough to know there was something fishy about the setup, and figured he'd better do a little more to take care of himself. There was an old converted warehouse in one of the dive-y-er parts of LA that operated as a legitimate, but still on-the-edge, pseudo-rave dance club. Occasionally, they managed to book real acts onto their stage, and when they did, Spike would act as extra security. It was a strictly back-door, cash-and-carry arrangement with the management. But, it provided him with a bit of independent dosh, no questions asked.
He'd been sent by D-L's "visions" into this particular neighborhood twice, and so had started patrolling through it on his own impetus. Just as the alleyway behind the Bronze had been a favorite place for vamps and other nightcrawlers to troll for a tasty morsel, this club had a dark lane that attracted the undead and unhuman. Not especially surprising, really. Anywhere that people gathered in large numbers, at night, especially if there was a chance their judgment might be impaired by booze or drugs, made for a good feeding ground.
Spike ought to know. He used to prowl the same sort of venues himself. Enjoy the entertainment, create a little of his own, and enjoy a meal on the way out. A scenario that dovetailed, ironically, with the crux of this particular unfinished tale.
To be continued….
Chapter 1 of several
by Lynne C.
Rating: This part rated G, later episodes will become more adult.
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' - I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.
Setting/Spoilers: AtS Season 5, generally - and, Spike's "semi-canon" past (London, mid-1970s)
Summary: An unexpected epilogue to an incident in Spike's past, inspired by a throwaway line from Buffy 7.8
Misc: You can look in my ff.net profile for my website, and check there for updates to this story, or to read this part with its proper formatting (italics and such).
Loose Ends
Ever since his improbable return from the sinkhole-inducing, great fiery beyond, Spike had been contemplating loose ends. Not just that he was most definitely at them, but, that there were so many of which he was aware.
Many had to do with Buffy, but not all of them.
Dawn…he'd felt like perhaps her steely attitude towards him had softened towards the end, but they'd never really talked about any of it. Not that he had any idea what he'd say – not that he even felt that he deserved her forgiveness and the return of her affection towards him. But that didn't stop him wanting those things.
Anya…she was quite something. When he'd learned that she was gone, he felt sorry for the world that it'd lost someone so vibrant – someone just figuring out humanity all over again, failing and picking herself up and keeping at it, in spite of it all. And, though he'd have died (yet again) before he admitted it, he'd surprised himself by discovering some sympathy for Xander. Losing her the first time had been his own bloody fault, no doubt about it. But since then, the whelp'd been trying to make good on it, and in the end that's all anyone can do. So, losing her this time – it had to have hurt.
It wasn't all as maudlin as that.
He'd participated in training those potentials at Ft. Summers…it would be nice to be able to check in on them to see what they'd done with it, now that they had the full Slayer cred going on. He'd heard about the backup that Andrew had called in on Operation Psycho Slayer, and would have liked to see and feel all that Slayer power concentrated in one place. Too bad he'd had is own troubles at that point and had missed out.
But, honestly, plenty of those loose ends did revolve around Buffy. Still love's bitch…, he'd think to himself, and shake his head.
Things reminded him of her – the shampoo that one of the secretaries used, a new pair of shoes that Harmony had prattled on about the first day she'd worn them, a turn of phrase that he'd overhear that would catapult him back into her presence.
And then, there were the unfinished stories. Over those last couple-three years, when they'd let their guards down just a bit, and talked like they weren't mortal enemies, they'd traded anecdotes from the past. True, he had a deeper pool of them, and a greater willingness to share, especially when they'd been seeing – okay… doing – each other, and he'd been more than a little desperate to pretend that they were a real couple. And then again, after his return from Africa and the school basement. But, too often, those stories got interrupted. He'd piss her off and she'd storm out of his crypt. Or, one of the Slayerettes would come out on the back porch and they'd clam up guiltily, having been caught in clandestine chumminess. Or their quiet, conversational night of patrol would be invaded by some baddy in need of killing and the threads just wouldn't get picked up again.
Now, since memory was all he really had, he'd recall not having gotten to make his point, or give the punch line, or brag about his victory (or escape, depending). And then, there was the story that he'd thought was finished. Until, it acquired an unexpected epilogue. And he'd wanted nothing more than to share it with her.
It had happened when he'd been allowing this Doyle-Lindsey person lead him about, playing the Dark Alley Crusader. He'd been canny enough to know there was something fishy about the setup, and figured he'd better do a little more to take care of himself. There was an old converted warehouse in one of the dive-y-er parts of LA that operated as a legitimate, but still on-the-edge, pseudo-rave dance club. Occasionally, they managed to book real acts onto their stage, and when they did, Spike would act as extra security. It was a strictly back-door, cash-and-carry arrangement with the management. But, it provided him with a bit of independent dosh, no questions asked.
He'd been sent by D-L's "visions" into this particular neighborhood twice, and so had started patrolling through it on his own impetus. Just as the alleyway behind the Bronze had been a favorite place for vamps and other nightcrawlers to troll for a tasty morsel, this club had a dark lane that attracted the undead and unhuman. Not especially surprising, really. Anywhere that people gathered in large numbers, at night, especially if there was a chance their judgment might be impaired by booze or drugs, made for a good feeding ground.
Spike ought to know. He used to prowl the same sort of venues himself. Enjoy the entertainment, create a little of his own, and enjoy a meal on the way out. A scenario that dovetailed, ironically, with the crux of this particular unfinished tale.
To be continued….