The Artifact: Chapter Eleven
I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. Especially to those who wanted a nice Spike/Joyce scene.. because *I* wanted a nice Spike/Joyce scene, and never got it written.
Chapter One Here
Chapter Eleven: The Body
Buffy was really surprised to see Spike approaching her from the front of her house. He was back in classic Spike Costume, with his longer hair slicked back with what must have been a gallon of gel. He held out two hands. “Don’t go in there.”
“What? Why? What are you doing at my house?”
“Came to see your mum.” Spike glanced back. The streetlight glinted on the sapphire in his eyebrow and a thin stripe of water on his cheek. “Don’t go in there, Buffy, please. Just… no one should go in there.”
Buffy ducked under his grab and shouldered past his attempt to hold her, a panic rising in her. “Mom?” She ran up the steps. The front door was open.
She didn’t hear Spike follow her in.
She didn’t see anything at all, or remember much, for a while, but Spike was there, holding her, when the paramedics came. Then he was talking in a quiet way about what time it was when he found the door open and when was the last time someone was home and if he knew when this and that. Mr. Yamaguchi from next door had seen her mom come home. All the Yamaguchi family was there, and the family who lived on the other side, whom Buffy had never gotten to know. People were walking by slowly with their dogs, staring at the blue and red lights. It was all so unreal. She wanted to close the front door, but a police officer was standing in it. Talking to Spike.
“Sir, 214 Maple Drive is the Restfield Cemetery.”
“I’m, uh, well, yeah. I’m the caretaker. You know, trim the bushes and whatnot.”
Buffy pushed Spike into the wall and demanded, “What did you do? What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. I… ow. Chip, remember?”
He looked unsure. Like he was lying. Buffy gathered handfuls of leather and slammed him. “You did something; you can un-do it.” His head broke the plaster, and her mom was going to be mad about that.
His face crumbled. “I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry.”
Then the police were prying her fingers out of fists and asking her to please step back, please be calm, please, we need you to sign a form, we know this is a difficult time but do you have the phone number for your sister’s friend and what is your primary care physician’s name?
There were hours and hours of it, and Spike slipped away, of course he did, it was daytime now, and who knew death was so full of forms and repeating the same facts over and over?
***
It was as if the gods themselves had decided to kick Spike while he was down every way they knew how.
He had no idea where his next meal was coming from, Buffy was heartbroken, and the only person he knew who could offer comfort was…
Spike finished off the last of his bottle of whiskey and threw it at the side of the building in front of him. “Useless hospital. Don’t take a dog to Sunnydale General! Don’t know a damn thing about brain surgery. It’s not rocket science, you know!”
He sniffled. He was a bit drunk. That was the last bottle that had been in the crypt. Also, he’d guessed wrong about the day for Sunnydale General’s blood delivery. Fuck he was hungry.
A guy in scrubs approached. “Hey, are you all right?”
Spike sneered. It was his best weapon. Wasn’t that pathetic? “If I wasn’t, wouldn’t want your lot touching me. Piss off and go kill another decent woman.”
The man straightened with a look of understanding. “You must be a friend of Buffy’s. I’m Ben. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You could be sorrier,” Spike said, and shoulder-checked the guy. It was the worst thing he could get away with doing. Well, leaving broken glass all over the ground, too. He tried to comfort himself with that thought as he wandered back toward his crypt.
At the entrance to the cemetery he caught a scent and it made him stop dead. As if not being able to attend the funeral hadn’t been enough. Had he actually thought to himself, even just to himself, ‘it can’t get worse’? Because he hadn’t, so it was completely unfair that it had just gotten worse.
The sharp apple scent of “LA Looks Extra Firm Hold”, a hint of peat, leather and silk. Angel was in HIS sodding cemetery.
Spike approached and confirmed: It was even worse than that. Angel was holding hands with Buffy. Sharing a quiet moment with Buffy, who would never love Spike back despite his crazy, idiotic, nonsensical devotion. How had he spent a decade telling himself that this girl was going to save him?
Except she had. In the end, Buffy had saved him, like he always knew she would. And now he loved her even more. Pathetic.
Spike sat down on a tombstone and rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Okay, fates, I’ll bite. It can’t possibly get ANY worse than this.” He put the cigarette between his lips and let himself just taste the end of it. The compulsion let him get away with exactly that much. If he reached for his lighter, he’d drop the cigarette. He could also light a cigarette, but not raise it to his lips. Holding one out and trying to get a second hand buzz was frustrating as all fuck, so he’d only done it the once.
Angel looked straight at him, through intervening branches, over Buffy’s shoulder, like an arrow shot. Of course he did.
Spike smiled and walked back to his crypt. He wished he could bet on this outcome. That would make some cash. He could practically time it.
He settled in his chair, put his feet up, turned on the telly, and then counted in his head. “Three… two…”
The door to the crypt slammed open. Spike laid his head back, eyes closed, and said, “Piss off, Angelus.”
“What were you doing, stalking us?”
Angel stood over Spike, fists at his side, doing that looming, threatening thing that probably worked for him with some people. Spike held up two fingers. “In case you missed it, I live here, you berk. What were YOU doing on my lawn?”
Angel’s enormous brow creased slightly, which meant he was actually thinking, which was cute, really, but Spike turned up the volume on the TV. It was a used car commercial, but that was better than listening to Angel.
Who grabbed two handfuls of Spike’s shirt and hauled him out of his chair.
Continued -->
Chapter One Here
Chapter Eleven: The Body
Buffy was really surprised to see Spike approaching her from the front of her house. He was back in classic Spike Costume, with his longer hair slicked back with what must have been a gallon of gel. He held out two hands. “Don’t go in there.”
“What? Why? What are you doing at my house?”
“Came to see your mum.” Spike glanced back. The streetlight glinted on the sapphire in his eyebrow and a thin stripe of water on his cheek. “Don’t go in there, Buffy, please. Just… no one should go in there.”
Buffy ducked under his grab and shouldered past his attempt to hold her, a panic rising in her. “Mom?” She ran up the steps. The front door was open.
She didn’t hear Spike follow her in.
She didn’t see anything at all, or remember much, for a while, but Spike was there, holding her, when the paramedics came. Then he was talking in a quiet way about what time it was when he found the door open and when was the last time someone was home and if he knew when this and that. Mr. Yamaguchi from next door had seen her mom come home. All the Yamaguchi family was there, and the family who lived on the other side, whom Buffy had never gotten to know. People were walking by slowly with their dogs, staring at the blue and red lights. It was all so unreal. She wanted to close the front door, but a police officer was standing in it. Talking to Spike.
“Sir, 214 Maple Drive is the Restfield Cemetery.”
“I’m, uh, well, yeah. I’m the caretaker. You know, trim the bushes and whatnot.”
Buffy pushed Spike into the wall and demanded, “What did you do? What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. I… ow. Chip, remember?”
He looked unsure. Like he was lying. Buffy gathered handfuls of leather and slammed him. “You did something; you can un-do it.” His head broke the plaster, and her mom was going to be mad about that.
His face crumbled. “I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry.”
Then the police were prying her fingers out of fists and asking her to please step back, please be calm, please, we need you to sign a form, we know this is a difficult time but do you have the phone number for your sister’s friend and what is your primary care physician’s name?
There were hours and hours of it, and Spike slipped away, of course he did, it was daytime now, and who knew death was so full of forms and repeating the same facts over and over?
***
It was as if the gods themselves had decided to kick Spike while he was down every way they knew how.
He had no idea where his next meal was coming from, Buffy was heartbroken, and the only person he knew who could offer comfort was…
Spike finished off the last of his bottle of whiskey and threw it at the side of the building in front of him. “Useless hospital. Don’t take a dog to Sunnydale General! Don’t know a damn thing about brain surgery. It’s not rocket science, you know!”
He sniffled. He was a bit drunk. That was the last bottle that had been in the crypt. Also, he’d guessed wrong about the day for Sunnydale General’s blood delivery. Fuck he was hungry.
A guy in scrubs approached. “Hey, are you all right?”
Spike sneered. It was his best weapon. Wasn’t that pathetic? “If I wasn’t, wouldn’t want your lot touching me. Piss off and go kill another decent woman.”
The man straightened with a look of understanding. “You must be a friend of Buffy’s. I’m Ben. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You could be sorrier,” Spike said, and shoulder-checked the guy. It was the worst thing he could get away with doing. Well, leaving broken glass all over the ground, too. He tried to comfort himself with that thought as he wandered back toward his crypt.
At the entrance to the cemetery he caught a scent and it made him stop dead. As if not being able to attend the funeral hadn’t been enough. Had he actually thought to himself, even just to himself, ‘it can’t get worse’? Because he hadn’t, so it was completely unfair that it had just gotten worse.
The sharp apple scent of “LA Looks Extra Firm Hold”, a hint of peat, leather and silk. Angel was in HIS sodding cemetery.
Spike approached and confirmed: It was even worse than that. Angel was holding hands with Buffy. Sharing a quiet moment with Buffy, who would never love Spike back despite his crazy, idiotic, nonsensical devotion. How had he spent a decade telling himself that this girl was going to save him?
Except she had. In the end, Buffy had saved him, like he always knew she would. And now he loved her even more. Pathetic.
Spike sat down on a tombstone and rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Okay, fates, I’ll bite. It can’t possibly get ANY worse than this.” He put the cigarette between his lips and let himself just taste the end of it. The compulsion let him get away with exactly that much. If he reached for his lighter, he’d drop the cigarette. He could also light a cigarette, but not raise it to his lips. Holding one out and trying to get a second hand buzz was frustrating as all fuck, so he’d only done it the once.
Angel looked straight at him, through intervening branches, over Buffy’s shoulder, like an arrow shot. Of course he did.
Spike smiled and walked back to his crypt. He wished he could bet on this outcome. That would make some cash. He could practically time it.
He settled in his chair, put his feet up, turned on the telly, and then counted in his head. “Three… two…”
The door to the crypt slammed open. Spike laid his head back, eyes closed, and said, “Piss off, Angelus.”
“What were you doing, stalking us?”
Angel stood over Spike, fists at his side, doing that looming, threatening thing that probably worked for him with some people. Spike held up two fingers. “In case you missed it, I live here, you berk. What were YOU doing on my lawn?”
Angel’s enormous brow creased slightly, which meant he was actually thinking, which was cute, really, but Spike turned up the volume on the TV. It was a used car commercial, but that was better than listening to Angel.
Who grabbed two handfuls of Spike’s shirt and hauled him out of his chair.
Continued -->