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Dee Bradfield
FEEDBACK: deebradfield@hotmail.com.
TIMELINE: AU. Set post-chip and Riley is long gone (happy, happy, joy, joy - spontaneous outburst, sorry). It's like Season Five, but without all the Glory/Dawn hoo-ha. (Who? Huh?).
SUMMARY: Spike realized his feelings a bit earlier than depicted in the show and took off for a while. Now he's back, and he's a little different. He experiments with some psychic stuff and is contaminated by a supernatural infection that he may have inadvertently passed on to Buffy and Giles. At least, that's how it started - I kinda went all Forrest Gump with the ball.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em but I'll put 'em back in their Mutant Enemy box when I'm done playing, so don't sue me, 'K?
DEDICATION: To James Wesley Marsters for being such an all-fired hottie.
Giles approached the Old Crawford Street Mansion with the knowledge that he was being drawn there - that he was under the influence of some kind of psychic siren song.
Apollyon lumbered behind him, aware that something was happening with the Watcher, but not entirely sure of what. He'd been following the human around Sunnydale for what seemed like hours, trying to make sense of the his aura and occasional mutterings about Spike and the Slayer.
From what he could ascertain, the Serpiente had somehow mutated under the destructive influence of the Hellmouth. It had fed off Spike's love for the Slayer and linked them together, as was meant. But it had also fed on the Watcher's hatred of the vampire and allied itself through him with Spike's demon side. This was where the danger lay.
The Watcher was no longer in full control.
************
Angel closed the door of the Magic Box behind him, leaving Buffy and Spike in the street outside. The Scoobies all looked at him expectantly.
"Spike's coming back too, right?" Anya asked point blank. "You didn't kill him, or run him out of town?"
Angel brushed his fingers gingerly over his injured cheek. He had the makings of another bruise. "He hasn't gone anywhere. He doesn't do that."
"Yeah, you know, even when you toss him out on his ear he's at you again the next day," Xander rolled his eyes. "It's like the never-ending Spike-a- thon."
"Oh, or - or that song," Willow put in. "You know, the one about the cat comin' on back."
Angel managed a small smile at the analogy. "He ... uh, he and Buffy have something they have to work out." He avoided their eyes. "They'll be in soon."
"What did you do?" Willow asked him suspiciously.
"Why does everyone around here assume that everything is my fault?" Angel threw his hands up in surrender. "What does it take for you guys? I'm not evil, okay? Spike is."
He glanced back over his shoulder at the door. "I think."
************
Spike had started the pacing thing as soon as Angel had gone. He really was a great big ball of hyperactive energy when he was upset.
"Something clicked," Buffy commented, perching on the edge of a bench. "Major clickage, I can sense it. Something Angel said filled in a gap."
Spike stopped the pacing long enough to throw her a questioning glance.
"William," she said, reading him. Then, "Hold up a sec, William?"
"Bloody right William," Spike spat. He rapped a fist against his breastbone. "A whole century he's been in here, plaguin' me with his ... goody goodness. Weak little prat. Trained myself to shut him out, to let the demon have all the say. But this sodding chip..."
"Subdued the demon side," Buffy nodded in understanding. "That's why you've been acting more human." She hesitated. "Are you saying that he's been back there the entire time you've been -?" She blinked, stunned. "The not- leaving thing is really ingrained there, isn't it?"
Spike's lips quirked. "Never one for the dramatic goodbye scene, me."
"William can't still be in there," Buffy insisted. "Not the original human version, otherwise you wouldn't have become a vampire."
"I didn't say he was all here," Spike griped. He resumed his pacing, albeit at a slower pace. "Not in your usual soul-having sense anyway. I'm just sayin' that there's always been something in here, a wimpy something that makes me wanna not do demon stuff. I call it William. You can call it a soul if you want but I've never been comfortable that label, it's too narrow a definition."
"But that means that you chose to kill all those people."
Spike paused, standing directly in front of her. "It's not about choice, love. Not that simple. Shades of grey remember?" He shrugged. "I just let the demon have his space. I wouldn't be here without it. Besides which, it's easier that way. Your Watcher's probably figurin' that out as we speak."
"But if you knew..."
"I suspected," Spike explained. "That's all it was. Havin' Neanderthal-brow blurt it out like that was..." He made an ambiguous gesture. "Well, I've never had an epiphany before, but I expect that's what just happened." He shook his head. "Clickage," he murmured, smiling softly.
"So," Buffy concluded. "If this William thing is your 'soul', then you're just like Angel, huh? Except you haven't actually let it have much say in how you are. Until the chip, I mean."
"Gettin' tired of yammerin' about it, Slayer." Spike sighed. He tipped his head, the scarred eyebrow lifting inquisitively. "Wanna go get snockered?"
"We can't. We have to go and find Giles and Apollyon."
He nodded. "Knew you'd say that. Your sacred duty thing is a real bitch."
"That's what I keep saying."
Spike wavered for a moment, undecided. "Right then," he said finally. "Back to the bloody inquisition."
Buffy stood and pulled the door open. She'd already taken a half step inside before she realized that he'd deserted her. Why hadn't she sensed that he was gonna do that?
She rolled her eyes - stupid broody vampires and their stupid preternatural speed.
"I know what you're doing," she called telepathically to his rapidly retreating psyche. "And believe me, buddy, you can't run away from this one."
**********
The first thing they noticed was that she started to get clumsy - a stumble here, a few dropped books there.
Then she got giggly - loud giggly.
"What's with Buff?" Xander questioned the group in undertone. "The Spike thing? You think she's finally flipped?"
Angel glanced up from the sheet of paper he was writing on and stared sourly. "She's drunk."
"Nope. She's been here the whole time. How could she be -?" Willow's eyes widened. "Oh."
"Yeah. He's drunk," Angel confirmed. "Consequently..." He gestured toward Buffy, who produced an enormous belch.
She smiled widely and swayed in her seat, her head bobbing rhythmically. "Ooh, I love this song!"
"He's gotta be in a club somewhere," Willow surmised. "The Bronze?"
"We'll check there first." Angel abandoned his handwritten vision descriptions and got to his feet. He cupped a steadying hand beneath Buffy's elbow as she did the same.
"Sod off," she snapped, tugging her arm away so violently that she almost fell over. She blinked rapidly, composing herself, and turned back to him.
"I get to kill him, okay?" she said in a moment of absolute sobriety. "Just me. No one else touches him."
She ruined the self-possessed Slayer image by tripping up the stairs on the way out.
***********
The gang, minus a Magic Box-bound Giles-spotting Xander and Anya, entered the Bronze to find it in the throes of an "Infernal Disco" night, complete with obligatory mirror ball and lava lamps.
"Ooh, way cool!" Willow exclaimed, immediately forgetting why she was there and dragging Tara toward the dance floor.
Angel watched the witches disappear into the crowd and shook his head. Talk about skewed priorities. They were way too unworried about what was happening.
He suddenly realized that Buffy was no longer draped unsteadily over his arm. He quickly scanned the area and spotted her heading unerringly for a dimly lit booth at the back of the room, almost like she was being drawn there. Peering through the crowd, Angel had to acknowledge that she probably was.
Buffy stopped as she reached the booth and folded her arms, unabashedly eyeing its occupant. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
Spike was slouched back against the wall, his eyes hooded as he surveyed the dancing throng. Several empty beer bottles sat on the table before him and another dangled from his hand, held loosely by the neck. That wasn't what made her stare.
He'd changed.
He still wore his torn denim jeans and rumpled red T-shirt. He still wore his duster and boots. What had changed since she last saw him were his lack of temperance - and his hair.
It still tangled about his ears and tumbled boyishly over his forehead. He hadn't cut it. It was just so... WHITE. He was practically glowing in the dark.
Typical - just when she was starting to get used to the au naturel version, he'd reverted back to the bleached one.
Spike blinked sleepily and looked up, finally registering her presence.
"Hello cutie," he greeted and threw her a wobbly smile.
There was a world of hurt simmering under his drunkenness and she decided to let the lecture about his intoxicated condition slide for now.
"Hi yourself, Back-to-Bleach Boy." She sat down next to him and tugged on one of his curls.
"Whossat?" He frowned, and Buffy smiled.
He'd actually forgotten that he'd had all the color sucked from his hair. It was funny, really.
"So, the Big Bad's back, huh?"
"Where?" The out and out confusion on his face was priceless. He abruptly struggled to his feet. "Angelus!" he cried. "You bloody poofy ... wanker!"
Buffy pulled him back down as Angel approached them.
"Back to normal?" he inquired.
"Him or me?"
"Either."
"I sobered up as soon as I got in the same room with him," Buffy said. "Weirdness rears its ... weird head again. But hey, gettin' used to that now."
Angel nodded. He looked amused, though how he managed that without changing his facial expression was beyond her.
"What about the hair?" he asked.
"Hair?" Spike piped up. "Hey, Broomstick Brow's an expert on hair." He gestured at his Sire with his beer. "It don't stand up like that on its own." He leant forward. "It used to be long, didn't it, Dad?" He tipped his head, delighting in his retrospective description. "You used to tie it back."
Angel gave him a withering look. "So did you."
There was a long pause and then both vampires smiled, reliving old memories.
Buffy peered speculatively back and forth between the pair, trying to imagine them a century ago. They were probably hot then too.
"I was," Spike assured her, picking up on the thought. "He ... wasn't. Ever."
Buffy laughed and playfully nudged him with her knee. He covered it with his hand and squeezed possessively. She placed her own hand over his and glanced up to find him gazing at her.
"God, I love you," he declared. He lowered his head and rested it against her shoulder, sighing contentedly.
Buffy froze in shock, her eyes darting up to meet Angel's.
The older vampire gave her a feeble, somewhat strained smile, then turned on his heel and left.
Spike nuzzled her neck. "Is he gone?"
She shoved him away from her. "You're impossible!"
He snorted and took a long draft of his beer.
"So," Buffy offered, uncomfortable now. "Disco huh?"
"Disco sucks." Spike slammed his empty bottle onto the table.
"It does not. It's like ... classic, or something."
"I was there when it happened, Slayer. It sucked then too." Spike gave the boisterous club-goers a contemptuous sneer. "This lot remind me of that time I turned up at Studio 54."
Buffy raised her eyebrows at him and he shrugged. "Dru's idea."
"Was it ultra-cool? You know, like the movie?"
"Never saw the flick, love, but back in the day I chanced upon Michael Jackson and fed on a couple of swingers. Kept me wired for a week after."
"You met Michael Jackson?"
"Oh yeah. He's not human, you know."
"Like that's a news flash."
They shared a conspiratory grin.
"So why'd you do it?" Buffy asked.
"Do what? Get sloshed?"
"No, that part I can understand." She reached up and yanked out a tuft of his hair.
He winced and glowered at her. "Hey!"
She waved it under his nose. "Peroxide therapy."
Spike grabbed her wrist, keeping it still so that he could focus on what she held. He blinked at the white strands.
"I didn't."
"Yea-huh." Buffy nodded enthusiastically. "It's like a bad horror film. Punk Vampire Part Two - Return of the Deadhead."
"Sodding hell."
"If it's any consolation, you're more you now."
"And that means what? Spike's an inebriated idiot?"
"Yep." Buffy grinned. "No, it's just that you weren't fooling anybody with that whole new-look-me thing. You were trying to be something you weren't. This is you." She tenderly tucked a stray curl behind his ear. "The hair is who you are."
"That's incredibly shallow, Slayer. And here I was thinkin' that the bloody soul thing made me who I was."
"Well, that too. I was being ... symbolic."
"O-Kay." Spike gave her a skeptical look and then pointed to his empties. "I'm out."
"Over and out," Buffy clarified. "We're leaving."
"Wanna take me home, huh?" Spike leered. "Wanna have your wicked way?"
"Don't tempt me," Buffy muttered, hauling him to his feet.
They went into the back alley together, having reverted at some point in the departure to their recently acquired habit of holding hands.
Buffy briefly wondered if the feel of a vampire's skin was addictive.
Spike, still under the influence of his beer-binge, and the bottle of vodka that had come before it, intercepted the thought and a goofy grin plastered itself across his face.
The couple took several determined steps toward the street, stopped, and then turned back around. Their actions were all completely synchronized.
"Bet we'd clean up at the ballroom dancin' championships," Spike deadpanned. "Points for timin'."
Buffy ignored him and peered into the shadows, her spider sense tingling. There was definitely something demony afoot.
"How 'bout ice-skating?" Spike continued. "Better than that poncey bloody Torvill 'n Dean." He snorted. "'Bolero' my ass."
She frowned at him then. "You skate?"
He nodded. "Wasn't kiddin' about the dancin' either." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "I got moves you've never seen."
Buffy was denied the chance to puncture his ego when a wheezed-hiss of a voice emanated from the darkness.
"Slayer Spike," it proclaimed.
Apollyon's massive, horned head popped out of obscurity for a second before retreating. For a big guy he was pretty good at the hiding thing.
"Was that his version of 'Psst, over here'?" Buffy asked. She blinked. "Hey, I understood what he said and I don't speak the lingo."
"I do," Spike proudly declared. He actually raised his hand before realizing what that meant.
Vampire and Slayer stared at each other. No doubt about it, the link had upped the creepy ante again. Was there no end to how close they could get?
"Does this mean I'm as smart as you now?" Buffy wondered. "Scary. Good thing I'm not at school anymore. Oh, except for Modern History, damn it. I could have aced that."
Spike was silent, but she could hear his mind ticking over.
"I know the names of all the Backstreet Boys," he announced suddenly. "There's something scary." He began to list them, counting off on his fingers. "Brian, Nick, Howie..."
Buffy jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.
"Oi! Watch it," he complained. "Sportin' your bruises, remember?"
She shrugged indifferently and dragged him toward Apollyon's hidey-hole.
"I hate you," Spike greeted the lurking Keratos, scowling sullenly. "Rotten sodding Serpiente-carrier."
Apollyon just looked at him, and then abruptly gave him a solid whack upside the head with one of his tentacles.
Buffy winced at the blow, a nasty reddish welt appearing along one side of her face. "Well, that stung," she said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Spike shoved the Keratos against the brick wall in retaliation - no mean feat considering the difference in their sizes. "I can still do demons over, you know," he snarled viciously, his eyes burning intently.
It was his don't-mess-with-Spike expression. Fully-fledged master vampires had been known to run screaming from it, though for some reason it only provoked laughter and ridicule from Slayers - his Slayer in particular.
He waited for a beat, making sure that Apollyon understood the message, then turned back to Buffy and ran his fingers soothingly across her cheek.
"Alright, pet? Not too bad?"
When she nodded, he realized something horrifying.
"I'm sober." He glared. "He bloody well made me sober. Now I'm really pissed off."
He whipped back around, more than ready to beat the Keratos into a slimy green pulp.
Apollyon held up his enormous clawed hands in defense. "Of Drusilla is news," he hastily divulged.
Spike's fist paused mid-flight, but it remained cocked. "Well, go on then," he said. "Keep yappin'. Might save you if you're lucky."
Buffy stepped in front of Spike and curved her fingers over his tightly clenched hand. She gently lowered it to his side, stroking his knuckles and sending him calming vibes.
"I think he came to talk, Spike," she said. "Knocking him out might kinda defeat the purpose."
"And when did you become Little Miss Peacenik?" Spike was struggling to stay annoyed. He wanted to hit something, damn it! She wasn't being fair.
Buffy kept her gaze steady and his anger abruptly deflated, punctured not only by her determination, but also by the burgeoning affection that he sensed behind it.
"Developed a real bad case of the warm fuzzies there, Slayer," he accused.
"Well, duh! Link?" She rolled her eyes. "Besides, we couldn't hurt him when he was all screechy, how'd you figure it would be any different now?"
Spike looked chagrined. "Just wanted to have a go," he mumbled. "A spot of violence before bed 'n all that rot."
"It's two a.m.!"
"And your point is?"
"Right through that freakish humany heart of yours if you don't shut up and let feely-feeler guy have his say."
"Appreciate," Apollyon hissed, gracing her with a hideous yellow-toothed smile.
"'S Okay," Buffy acknowledged. "Though, hey, could have done without the happy face from hell."
Apollyon was about to impart his news when the door to the Bronze flew open and he once again retreated into the shadows.
"Oi!" Spike shouted to the group leaving the club, and they whirled around in surprise.
Buffy hadn't even recognized Angel, Willow or Tara.
Where was her head at?
"Believe we're hung over," Spike volunteered by way of an explanation. "A bit mud-stuck, not exactly on the ball."
"And whose fault is that?"
"His." Spike pointed a condemning finger at the looming Keratos-shaped figure behind them. "He did the soberin'. I think a hell of a lot straighter when I've got a couple under me belt."
Buffy glanced down - her mind suddenly fixed on speculating what was under said belt.
"Let's keep it clean, Slayer." Spike's voice purred in her head.
"I - What?" She blushed furiously, mortified at being caught out.
"Oh, don't play the dainty ice-queen. I know good 'n well what you're ponderin' under all that perky bottle-blondeness."
"Bottle-blonde?" Buffy was offended. "Hey Pot, I'm Kettle. Black much?"
"More like white," Willow commented as she reached them. She grinned. "So, what's with hangin' out in the alley, you crazy hangin'-out-in-the-alley people?"
Tara smiled crookedly, enjoying her girlfriend's humor.
"What is that?" Angel was peering past them into the gloom, having picked up the other presence almost immediately. "Is that him?"
The Keratos cautiously moved back into the light, towering over the much smaller Buffy and Spike.
Despite already having seen the demon, Willow and Tara both squealed and clutched each other. Angel continued to peer at him suspiciously.
"I've heard of you," he said.
"Keratos demons are legendary," Buffy began. "Giles says..."
"No, I mean I've heard of him. Specifically." Angel's eyes narrowed. "You all kept mentioning him and it set a few bells ringing. He's a mercenary, for one."
"You're a bit behind the times there, aren't you?" Spike jeered. He gave his Sire his best 'you're-a-daft-git' look. "Dru hired him, you blundering prat. That's how this started."
Angel frowned. "I didn't think Dru was that..."
"Smart?" Spike scoffed. "She is. Mad as a hatter, sure, but a clever little chit."
"I was gonna say 'gullible'." Angel awarded his Childe a superior smile. "I just remembered where I heard the name. From Doyle."
Everyone remained quiet, not really being familiar with who he was talking about. Music from the Bronze thumped distantly in the background.
"Irish guy? Used to get all the great helping-helpless visions before Cordy?" Angel sighed impatiently. "Your pal there occasionally works for the PTB."
"The who-tee-huh?" Buffy's brow furrowed as she tried to work out what the letters stood for. She was enlightened by using Spike's more comprehensive knowledge. "The Powers That Be?" She gawked at the demon. "Are you kidding me?"
"Yikes," Willow whispered. "That's just..." She trailed off, awestruck.
"Drusilla was just a means to an end, wasn't she?" Angel asked the demon. He snorted. "You guys are too much."
"Unexpected arises," Apollyon warbled. His tongues flicked nervously. "Hellmouth mutate."
"The Hellmouth unexpectedly mutated what?" Spike pivoted around to face the Keratos. He could barely restrain himself from strangling the reticence out of the creature barehanded. Buffy was the only thing holding him back.
The entire assemblage stared at the demon.
Apollyon shuffled under their scrutiny. "Tale of long involved be," he offered.
"Looks like its back to the bloody shop then," Buffy sighed, completely unaware of how much like Spike she had just sounded.
**********
The Magic Box was oddly deserted when they arrived.
Granted, it was almost three in the morning, but Xander and Anya had stayed behind in case of Giles' return. They should have been there.
Apollyon squeezed his way through the entrance and stood in the foyer, uncertain as to whether he should proceed any further. There were strange vibrations here. It reminded him of the Watcher and he cradled one hand close to his body protectively.
Spike noticed the action and swiftly snatched hold of the scaly appendage, realizing something that they had all missed.
"Claw's gone," he announced, holding up Apollyon's damaged limb.
"Giles?" Buffy asked. It was not so much a question as a resigned statement.
"Blameworthy," the Keratos confirmed. He looked almost embarrassed at the injury and tucked the misshapen hand behind his back. "Escape must or demise fear of."
Spike snorted in disbelief. "Like Rupes would even..."
"No, Rupert wouldn't," Angel said quietly. "But Ripper is more than capable, especially if he's being controlled by some form of vampire demon."
Buffy cringed, and Spike frowned at her.
"Ripper?" he inquired, searching their now combined memories. He managed to piece together a rough picture of the Watcher's dark demon-hunting past and his eyebrows shot up.
"Well, well. What do you know? It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?"
"Not always," Buffy commented dryly.
"Um, hello?" Willow raised a tentative hand. "A little wigged out about the Xander-Anya missing-ness over here."
"Hey, it's freakies all round, Red," Spike assured her. "But level heads are needed now, a bit of underhanded plot-plannin'. Best that we're not all pointlessly panicky."
"Try saying that three times fast," Tara mused offhand.
Angel was regarding Spike with skepticism.
"Weren't you the guy who had a carefully laid out plan for getting the Gem of Amarra back, but abandoned it because he got bored?"
"Told you, Peaches, with all that watchin' and waitin' my leg started to cramp," Spike explained as if his decision had been perfectly logical. "That's awfully painful, you know."
"Oh sure, and being shish-kabobbed with hot pokers was a walk in the park," Angel sneered. "Not that you had the guts to do that yourself, did you my boy? Had to hire the power-hungry vamp with the kiddy fetish..."
Spike growled, moving to launch himself at his Sire. Only Angelus called him 'boy'. He'd always hated it.
Buffy intervened, pushing a restraining hand firmly against Spike's chest.
"Lay off," she said sternly. She gave him a shove but then allowed her hand to linger, relishing the steady thud of his-her-their heartbeat under her palm.
She gave Angel a pointed sidelong glance. "That means both of you."
Angel allowed himself the tiniest of self-satisfied smiles.
Spike was always so sensitive. He was an easy mark, quick to rile, but Buffy was right. As much as it amused him, picking at the younger vampires freshly bleached defenses was not going to get them anywhere.
"What we need is to begin at the beginning," he said. "Any ideas where that would be exactly?"
"At the PTB, I'll wager," Spike said. He shot a malicious glare at Apollyon. "Kept that wrapped nice 'n tight under your scales, didn't you?"
The Keratos didn't answer. Instead, thin milk-white membranes formed over his luminous green eyes and he began to hum like an oversized bumblebee.
He extended his tentacles until they fanned from his armored shoulders, translucent folds of skin unfurling between each feeler to create the illusion of graceful, scalloped wings.
"He ever done anything like this before?" Buffy whispered in Spike's head. She had to admit that Apollyon looked pretty damn creepy right now.
"Not even when he was three sheets to the wind and blind." Spike's reply was distracted as he stared at the demon in absolute fascination. He didn't even call her on the pointless whispering. "Hope this isn't leadin' to an explosion of some sort."
"Ditto." Buffy didn't take her eyes from the Keratos. She didn't do anything more than lean back against Spike, knowing that he'd support her.
He wrapped his arms around her slight form, partially enfolding her in his duster, and rested his cheek against her hair.
Neither one realized the bond that the intimate position implied - they were too engrossed in Apollyon's metamorphosis to even think about it.
Angel was transfixed.
Not by the demon, but by Buffy and Spike.
The familiarity was second nature to them, he realized. The short time that they'd been linked had been long enough for a synergy to have formed between them, a kind of harmony in their actions. It was there in the shared heartbeat and the synchronous breathing that he doubted they had even yet noticed. It was even present in the ebb and flow of their arguments.
Spike was smoldering dark to Buffy's radiant light, the night to her day.
Hell, Angel thought as his Childe absently brushed back a strand of Buffy's hair, he was even left-handed to her right. They were two halves of a whole. He could see that now. She was lost to him forever.
"It was never meant to be."
The insightful declaration came from the Keratos demon, but it was delivered in a clear and unmistakably feminine voice.