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shadowkatThree years ago, I tried my hand at fanfiction. The story that follows, was completed in January of 2006, before my lap-top was stolen, most of it was written bit by bit in my lj much like I write my posts - unbetaed by anyone but me. The final chapter however, was posted along with the rest of it on a scholary fanboard, which kept the story "private" or only available to the moderators and members of the board - I have no idea why. It wasn't my intent at any rate. So am posting it again here - so I can find it - and share it with those who read my lj.
I've written two fanfictions. This is the one I completed. The other may never be completed, but I will post it - hopefully in it's rough entirety after I finish posting this one.
This one is in four parts.
People write fanfiction for numerous reasons. But usually it is because they've fallen in love with a character or aspect of a work of art and wish to play with it further. The reason I did it was : 1)To see if I could sustain a dialogue between two people for a length of time. If I could move a story purely through conversation and description - no real action. And if I could make the two people sound different from one another, so you could tell who was talking without needing a "he said/she said" device. It was my response to a friend's critique of my last novel - she said everyone in it sounded alike. This critique niggled at me and I wanted to see if I could overcome it. 2) I fell in love with a television character, it happens, and his story felt incomplete to me or left me wanting more. I wanted to explore him in greater detail. This story in some ways explores my love for this character and may explain why I fell in love.
The story is not a romance. There is no sex. It is rated PG-13, mostly for language and adult themes. It has two characters - Buffy and Spike. It takes place ten-fifteen years after the events of Not Fade Away. In it a 40 year old Buffy has journeyed to a mountain in Colorado to visit a shan-shued Spike; he has in short become human finally. What follows is their conversation - the first one they've had since the day Buffy watched Spike give his life to close the hellmouth in Chosen.
No regrets, Buffy thought, climbing the crest of the mountain. It had been a constant chant in the back of her mind during the climb. During this trip, really. A trip, looking back, she realized she was destined to make even though like most of the things she'd experienced she never would have predicted it. Life was like that, not linear, so much as a bunch of dots in a pattern. When you stood amidst them you couldn't connect them, even see them, but standing back years later - you saw it, just as she saw the pattern of the houses and trees below her over the cliff's edge, as the breeze caressed her cheek with a silent whoosh.
Oh, she'd been lonely at times, striding through life by her lonesome. But there was a simplicity in making choices on her own. A simplicity she treasured, which may or may not explain why her love affairs seldom panned out, the little she had. Finding a companion to share one's life with wasn't the same as picking out a dress or a leather jacket or even a new house. Sometimes, you never quite found them. And she'd made her peace with that. But she did not regret the ones she left behind her.
Her early relationships were the rawest and oddly after forty years, the clearest in her memory. They had been so young, even her older lovers, now that she considered them, arrested as they were in time, unable to age physically. Of the three, Riley had been the only one to escape the trap of time. To live a full and normal human life. At the time she didn't think much on it, but then she'd never been the sort to ponder things or brood too long. She was action girl. That did not mean however, that she didn't think about them or wonder. Now, she wondered how the inability to age physically affected them? Souled or unsouled? Did it somehow stick them in time? What must it have felt like to have the world and everything you knew shift and age around you while you stayed as you were, unchanging, timeless, neither dead nor alive, stuck? She shuddered. How horrible. Yet how tempting it had once been to that girl she was - the concept of alluring death. It had not been until she surrendered to it, that she realized death and age were gifts not curses. Unlike her friends, she celebrated the lines around her eyes and mouth, avoiding magical face-lifts. She earned them and they comforted her, even the frown lines. Time she had learned the hard way was her friend not her enemy. The Immortal had taught her that, during their brief time together, ageless, timeless, he changed his clothes, his hair, his contacts, even his mates, yet he himself stayed the same. What was it, he had said? Don't envy me, slayer - this is no gift, but a curse. Ask your two undead friends sometime - in an honest moment, see what they say? If you aren't careful, it will drive you insane - the boredom, the repetition, the unchanging pattern.
She had debated coming here today, just as she had debated sending the letter that precipated this visit. A letter that had been sitting half written in her desk drawer for over five years now. Angel had visited her, a face and voice from a past she'd thought long gone and buried in the landfill that had once been Sunnydale, California. It wasn't the first time she'd heard from him, of course. Just the first she'd seen him. They had corresponded off and on during the intervening years, after the disaster in LA and the dark times that had followed leading finally and inevitably to his transformation. When she last saw him, he had aged. Lines creased his face, gray sparkled his hair, he looked like a man of sixty-five, not the twenty-six year old vampire she remembered. It had shocked her. His life like hers had had its own twists and turns, leading him places that she realized were inevitable. Not once in the intervening years had he mentioned any of his family, vampire or otherwise, or his friends in LA; the ones they'd shared, long dead, and she knew, those deaths hung heavy on him still. It was not until she saw him face to face that he mentioned Spike and told her at last what had happened to him. Speaking in clean short sentences, he laid it out then with a sad shake of his head and a gentle smile, was gone back to his life wherever that may be. They'd kissed. Like they always did. But the kiss did not hold the same magic it once had or the same drama. With older eyes she saw what she could not or would not see as a budding young woman - a tragic man, out of his time, caught and twisted by fate as opposed to in control of it. But then, she had found a way to make peace with her own father in the intervening years and knew in her heart this was something he would never have the ability to do.
Why he felt the need to tell her about Spike, after all these years, did not make sense to her. When she asked, he refused to explain it. Said she should ask Spike, it was between them. He was merely playing messenger.
So why was she here? It wasn't a mission of love - out of some romance novel, like her sister supposed. Nor a journey of regret. If anything, it was out of curiosity. To see who he'd become, now that he was a man and no longer a vampire. Now that he was no longer outside time, but rather in it. Like herself. Knowing Spike, she doubted he regretted much. He wasn't like Angel, he hated to brood on things. Seeing the past as just that the past. She often wondered if that was how he maintained his sanity? Keeping up with the trends, living smack dab in the here and now.
So how old was he now? Sixty-five like Angel? Or forty like herself? Angel hadn't said. He just gave her the address, explained the shanshu effect, and told her a little about what transpired in LA. They'd both shanshued, Angel said. At different times and for different reasons, he refused to provide details. Typical Angel. Or men in general. He also refused to tell her how he was dealing with the change. From his face and general appearance, she guessed not well. He looked tired, worn. The years hung heavy on him. Unlike herself, he clearly had regrets and wore them daily like chains. The chains you bore in life...she shook her head. Oh well, he had a family now - not to mention a grandchild, something he also refused to explain outside of the requisite photos. Connor's child, she was told. A chapter of Angel's life she'd missed and reflecting on it, had little interest in. They had parted ways ages ago, it just took them a while to recognize it. Love was like that, it didn't disappear all at once, so much as fade in stages, lingering, like a closed over scar or missing limb, tingling from time to time. Her love for Angel would always tingle, but that was all it was now, a tingle, small, contained, reminding her that she was alive.
The house stood a few feet away from her, shrouded with columbine flowers and pine trees. Quaint. Not flashy like she expected. Seeing him would be strange after all this time. Especially considering she had, until five years ago, believed him to be dead and buried with the rest of Sunnydale. It felt odd even now to think of Spike as alive, let alone a living, breathing, human in the world.
Buffy stared at Spike’s house. It wasn't the sort of house she imagined Spike owning or even living in, although come to think of it, she wasn't entirely sure she ever imagined Spike in a house. Surrounded by trees and flowers in the side of the mountain, it made her think more of Xander or Angel, than Spike. Wood paneling. All wood actually. And windows, lots and lots of windows.
She took off her pack and sat down for a moment on a rock, studying it. Taking it all in. Angel had told her where Spike lived, but he hadn't described it. Not a man of many words, Angel. Not like Spike. Or the Spike she'd known. He was different now - that much Angel had told her. But then, Angel wasn't the same man she'd known either. Nor was she. Time had changed all of them, even two ageless vampires who had believed they were doomed to live eternally outside of it. Or, she thought, more likely stuck in it as she once, long ago had been stuck with everyone racing past her, each minute she experienced, an hour for them - that had been a joke of course, a prank played by Andrew, Warren and Jonathan. Being a vampire - ah, that was something completely different.
The grounds surrounding the hilltop house were kept wild. Wildflowers, shrubs, pines, and tall Aspens. The smell of pine mixed with columbine twitched her nose. The path leading to it had a series of crudely cut blue stones intermittently spaced, then a few wooden steps, and a covered stoop with a chair. Behind the chair stood two thick pine doors.
Buffy took a deep breath, got up, lifted her pack back onto her shoulders and moved gradually up the path to the doors. She glanced up at the sky, then back down at her wrist-watch, almost 5 pm, nearing Sunset. Later than she intended. Although he had said in his reply that she was not only welcome to visit him but she could stay in his house. He had a couple of guest rooms. The least he could do, considering how many times she and her friends put him up years ago.
Before she reached the door, it opened and Buffy took a step or two backwards. Half expecting to see a blond head and black duster pop out of it, instead, a black man emerged. Tall, half balding, attractive, with a deep chuckle, clearly laughing at something someone had said within. Turning he caught sight of Buffy and his laughter dwindled slightly, while he assessed her. She came a few feet closer and he smiled.
"You must be Buffy."
He had a deep voice and wore a dark brownish green jacket over black jeans. She tilted her head.
"Sorry, Charles Gunn. Nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you over the years."
"Most of it good, I hope."
He laughed. "Most of it. You might as well go on in. He's in one of his better moods. So you picked a good day to visit."
"Better moods?"
Gunn shrugged.
"How is he?"
"Good as can be expected. Been through quite a bit in the last few years no more than most, but the human thing - it takes a bit getting used to. He and Angel, they were used to being able to leap up tall buildings in a single bound, see in the dark, smell anything from yards away, and well the super-healing. They aren't used to being alive. And all that comes with it. Wore heavy on Angel. Wears heavy on Will. Time does. And unlike you and I, they've seen a lot of time those two, just not been really a part of its progress, stayed unaffected, until now."
"Does he regret the Shanshu?"
Gunn shrugged. "You'd have to ask him. Will don't regret much. Not like..."
"I know."
"It changed him, some ways he's better than before, others worse. Not for me to say. Just do me a favor and try to persuade him to come down off that mountain of his every once and a while. Best the missus and I can do is get him to come down for Thanksgiving."
"Thanksgiving?"
"Yep, annual thing. Me, the missus, Angel, Connor, and their family and good ole Will there get together for some grub. Nothing major and not many of us. But enough to thank the powers for our lives. And to mourn those we've lost."
Buffy nodded.
"Anyhow, must be moving on. Told Annie, I'd be home tomorrow for supper. Stayed a bit longer than I intended. Nice meeting you."
She watched him move down the path behind her. His car must be parked like hers at the bottom of the mountain. No roads appeared to climb to the top of it. Although she noticed that there was a motorcycle perched next to the front porch.
The door opened before she had a chance to knock. "Gunn? You still out there? You forgot your bloody - Eh. Guess, he's gone." They stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking. Their eyes assessed each other, took each other in, bit by bit. He, she thought, had changed. His hair was no longer white for one thing, not that she really expected it to be. Instead it was sandy brown with streaks of gray, similar in tone to her own hair color. What some called dish-water blond. The eyes were the same, grayish blue, changing tone depending on the surroundings. His face and body were fuller though, less gaunt, less skeletal. While the cheekbones were still evident, they were not as sharp and the scar above his left eyebrow seemed to have diminished somehow. Also he had a bit of a belly, not large, just a little roundness there. But the most striking change was the wrinkles, or laughlines, around his eyes and nose and mouth. Showing his age. He no longer looked like the twenty-six year old vampire that she remembered. Guessing his exact age was problematic at best, but physically - she'd place him around forty-five.
"Hello, Spike."
"Buffy. You...right, come in. Make yourself at home."
"How long have you been living here, Spike?"
"Will."
"What?"
"It's Will, not Spike."
"Oh. Sorry. I knew that."
He shrugged. "Don't be sorry, happens a lot. Part of the reason I moved up here. Got sick of people calling me that. Old nickname, outgrew ten years back. Know what I mean?"
She nodded. She did. There were times she'd grown tired of being called Slayer. Considering there were so many now it seemed a bit like being called rock star. Although she doubted that was the same thing.
"What you think of Chuck?"
"Who?"
"Charley boy - I presume you ran into him outside, right?"
"Tall black man? Yes, I did. But we didn't speak very long."
He laughed. A quick sarcastic laugh that for a moment brought her back in time, to the old days.
They entered a large living room, with windows overlooking the tree-tops. On one side of the room was a wall filled with nothing but photographs, of all shapes and sizes, surrounding a large fireplace. The other side of the room contained bookshelves and on the walls between them crosses. The crosses caught her off guard. Different shapes and sizes. All varieties. Mostly wood though. Encased in glass was a beautiful gold leaf book with ornate lettering. She got closer to it for a better look. It was a 17th Century Bible, St. James version.
"My Mum's," he said behind her. "Handed down through my family. One of the few things I could find of hers."
"Oh, its...lovely. But why all the crosses?"
"You never can be too careful. Granted there haven't been many vamps around since that last apocalypse. But.. don't want to be taking any chances, do I?"
His accent was different, she thought. The English Punk twinge was gone from it. Oh he still sounded English, but more like Wesley used to or Giles. Less like Spike.
She turned around to look past him at the photographs. At the top of the fireplace, she saw a portrait of a woman in Victorian garb, light hair and sharp cheekbones, sitting regally on a seat next to a fireplace. "Is that her? Your Mom?"
"That be her." He dusted the photo off with his sleeve.
To the left of the photo she saw a couple of Drusilla, one of Angel and one of Darla. She glanced up at him in surprise. But he didn't deign to answer her query either vocally or with his eyes. Not that they were on hers anyways, no, they were on the photos in front of them as if he were lost inside them, lost inside that time, if only for a moment.
"Do you miss them?"
"What? No. See old Liam, a few times a year and believe me that's more than enough for both of us."
"Liam?"
"Angel. Liam's his Christian name."
"Do you miss Dru?"
He smiled, a softness hit his eyes. "Not now, no. She's at peace now, isn't she? Old man saw to that. Would have staked her my own self, but..." He shook his head. "Angel was right, it had to be him. Enough of this..."
"Who are these other pictures of?"
"The ones around me old Mum? That's family mostly. Gang in LA. People we met after..." His voice caught for a moment. "Ones next Dru and Angelus, those are people we killed. Some sired. Some just hurt. Some murdered. After I...changed, Charley and Annie helped me track down the families, attempt to make amends. Which of course is impossible - Angel tried to tell me that. So'd that young whelp of his, Connor. Great kid Connor. Didn't listen. Charley also tried. No, had to find out for my own self. You can't change the past, Buffy. Can't go back. Can't undo things. And sometimes Sorry, it just don't count for much. Wood - he knew that. And maybe he had it right back in that garage of his - plastered with crosses...." He shrugged. "Sorry, you didn't come all the way up here to hear me chatter on so. Got some tea on if you want any."
Buffy nodded. She stared at the crosses again. Then back at the photos. Surprised to see a picture of Harmony amongst them. Not so surprised to see pictures of herself, her mother, and Dawn. He even had photos of Cordy, Giles, Wes, Faith, Wood, Xander, Tara, and Willow - which did surprise her. Since she didn't think he cared much for them. Some were placed amongst his family, most though, she noted, were placed amongst the photos he called his victims.
Will came back into the room carrying a tray, startling her from her reverie.
"It isn't much, just a few scones that Annie made. Charley brought them up. Along with a few other things. Shame couldn't convince him to stay longer, so you could get acquainted like. "
"Does he come up here often?"
Will shrugged. "Not really. Once or twice a month, sometimes more. Sometimes Liam tags along, or Annie. But mostly it's just Charley boy."
"No one else?"
He shook his head, pouring the tea into two cups. As he did so, she studied his hands, spotted with freckles no longer smooth and white as she remembered. The skin leathery, tanned, as if he'd spent a lot of time in the sun. "Cream?"
She shook her head. Taking the cup from his fingers, which felt warm and rough. Noticing a slight tremor in them, a nervousness. He pulled back his hand and quickly offered her a scone, which she accepted graciously. "So you are alone up here?"
"More or less. Have a couple of hawks in a nest out back and the occasional deer or raccoon. Saw a few badgers the other day. And once, a mountain lion - which is a rarity."
"But no people?"
"Outside of Charley? No not really." He averted his eyes as he spoke, studying his hands or the cup or the trees outside the windows.
"Sounds lonely."
"I suppose. But I like the quiet."
"Where'd you get the photos?" She tilted her head towards the wall of pictures. Not so much a shrine as what one might find in someone's home or on a photographer's wall.
"The newer ones - I took or one of the Gang did. The older ones...acquired over the years. Some snagged off you lot, when you weren't looking. Others..." He swallowed, then set his cup on the tray. Stood and approached them, studied the ones towards the windows, thumbs hooked loosely on his belt, swaying back and forth on his heels as he contemplated each in turn, occasionally lifting a finger to dust off something or other that marred the visage.
Sipping her tea, Buffy watched him, curious which of the photos he was focusing his attention on. The one of the attractive black woman in the long black leather duster that resembled his old one? She wondered what he’d done with it. If he even still owned it. The picture of orphans standing in front of a large building? Or the pictures of the students she vaguely remembered from her old high school, long dead and buried? Holden Webster? Sheila? Ford? Harmony? The pretty blond punk vampire she'd fought ages ago on the Sunnydale U campus, whose name, assuming it had a name, escaped her. One didn't think too much about the vampires one killed.
He backed away from the wall and pivoted towards the windows, digging his hands into his pockets as he did so. "You ever killed anyone Buffy?"
The question caught her off guard. "What do you mean?"
"Not vampires or demons or monsters, but people, a living person. Did you ever kill anyone?" His voice fell to a whisper, so soft she felt as if it was a mere echo.
She thought about the question for a moment. Had she? People had died during her watch, sure, that was inevitable - you couldn't save everyone. But somehow she doubted that was the same thing.
"Didn't think so. Heroes don't. Kill people that is." He shook his head and lifted a finger to touch the glass. "Up here, things are so simple, you have deer and you have wildcats. The wildcats eat the deer. Raccoons and others pick up the waste. Normal. Natural. Beautiful even in its symmetry. Killing for food. Simple. Necessary. Ever had deer meat?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Not bad. Sort of gamey, used to have it a lot back in the day, before I was turned, before I died. Course seemed a bit unseemly at times. Back then...so many things did. Remember thinking that fighting, even discussing fighting was unseemly, made much more sense to focus on things of beauty, flowers, pretty girls, poetry. Wanted nothing to do with fisticuffs or such stuff. Abhored the idea of it. Or so I thought. Thought of myself as a good man, right horrible poet, but a good man."
"And you are one, Spi-" Buffy caught herself, "sorry, I mean Will."
He laughed, soft bitter barely audible, more a snort than a laugh. "Am I? Was I ever?" He leaned his forehead against the sill.
She got up and tentatively approached him. Her hand light on his shoulder. "I thought the shanshu was supposed to wash you of this, give you fresh outlook on life?"
Another derisive snort as he brushed her hand away. "That what old Liam tell you?" He glanced at her. "Yeah, suppose it does in its way. I mean the pain is gone, no longer hear them screaming in my head like I once did and so's the guilt, don't feel it quite the same way as back then. But haven't forgotten either. Not that I want to." He glanced back at the photos. "Some of those people up there don't have anyone to remember them but me. All trace of them is gone. We did that - Angel, me, Dru, Darla, and others like us. Took their lives as ours were took. Some we changed, turned into something else. They were the end of their line, like we were. Best I can do for them is to remember. Remember what they were. What we all were once, before we became monsters." He sighed. "In nature - a rabid dog can go on for months without being taken down, spread its disease. Vampirism is sort of like that, except worse. Because you don't die. Not until someone dusts you. Rabies? You die. Nature's cleaner that way. There's life, death, and life again. Vampires? We just go on and on and on, staying young and pretty forever. Sucking the life out of everything around us in the process."
"Oh. Don't get me wrong, I'm not eaten up with it - not like the old man is. No good comes of that. But, I do...Sorry, Charley boy were here, he'd rip me a new one. Says I worry over what was done and gone too much - sounding like some namby-pamby Nancy boy. "
With a little initial awkwardness, Buffy turned the conversation to neutral issues such as the weather and current events. He regaled her with a story about a mountain lion stalking a deer and the hawks building their nest in one of the trees. The weather, itself, proved to be a dicier topic than she realized - since as a vampire he'd rarely had to deal with it. Oh he got cold at times, he told her and never much liked the damp. But it's not the same when you're human. Heat was different too, vamp's burned, sure, but didn't sweat not like humans did. Also there was the sun, brilliant in all its tones and shades, how it lit the sky, filtered through the leaves, touched things, soft, yet at the same time brutal. He had learned to be careful of it up here - after obtaining a wicked full body sunburn; suffice it to say there were some parts of the human body that were never meant to see that much sunshine. Buffy giggled.
The remains of their tea lying scattered on the table before them, they chatted about the variety of SPF lotions, Will preferring the natural organic variety - most lotions made him break out horridly. Charles and Annie apparently lived in one of the nearby towns - about a 3 hour bike ride away. Angel, she knew, lived further up north, in Seattle, near his son.
"See the old man once or twice a year, sometimes more. Depending on how nostalgic he gets. Those portraits over there - towards the hall? They're his. You'll see a few more scattered about. Quite the artist, Liam. Course he's only been at it for a 100 odd years."
Buffy nodded, remembering Angel's drawings. She still had a few of them. Not the ones he'd drawn while Angelus, but latter ones, ones he'd drawn that last year they were together, before he left for LA. Funny, how in her mind she still kept the two separate even though she knew they were one and the same. “You said you were a poet once? Do you still write?"
"Yeah. Better at it than I was then. Wasn't much of a poet then. Thought I was though. Fretted over every word back then. Thumbed through dictionaries hunting the right ones. Then would attempt to cram them into verse whether they fit or not." He set his cup down and smiled. "Mother just encouraged me. Telling me to read her one awful verse after another. Lines dripping with sentimentality - ever read Jonathan Seagul or those new age romantic poets or Barry Manilow? Well my stuff wasn't much different. Liam? Loved them though. He likes the sentimential stuff. Won't admit it, but the old man has a sentimental streak. Drives his kid batty. Now? It's actually decent. Sold a few as songs. And last year? Annie found me an agent, so we might get a book published. Nothing major. Just a few short ones mostly about the woods, a few about my Mum, and one or two about...the ladies."
Buffy hesitated, uncertain whether to ask to read them. "I'd like to see a few if you have any handy?"
He cast a sidelong glance at her, tilted his head. Reminding her of a cat, warily checking out a new visitor to its territory. "Perhaps later, don't really have it lying around."
She nodded and changed the topic quickly to current events, his house, tv shows and the outdoors. Feeling a bit as if they were doing an odd dance around themselves and their past, avoiding it, yet inevitably hitting on it at the same time.
Listening to him talk at times in short sarcastic bites, reminding her a bit of the Spike she'd known, others in long precise sentences, she realized how close he and Angel had become - how much they needed each other. Invariably he'd refer to Angel no matter what the topic. Reminded her a bit of how she felt about Faith - someone who got you on a level no one else did. Too much of Faith - drove her crazy of course, but every once and a while, she needed to touch base, make sure she was okay, see what Faith was up to. As a reality check if nothing else. It was odd, after all these years, to think that the person she felt the closest to and trusted the most had at one time been her worst enemy, had been someone she'd tried to kill. Of all her friends, Faith - she knew would always tell her the God's honest truth. No batting about. Direct. Blunt. To the Point. That was Faithy. Faith kept her honest and it was, oddly Faith, her sister in more ways than even Dawn could ever be, that had helped her reach the stage she was in now.
"You see much of the Bit? Bet she's grown into a right handsome lady," he said interrupting her thoughts.
"Who?"
"Dawn."
"Not that much. She's busy as am I. Also not that much in common any more, now that she's teaching archeology in Rome, full time. She's happy though. Spends her vacations on digs, and helps out in her spare time with Watcher Council."
"Surprised she didn't become a Watcher."
Buffy shrugged. "It wasn't her calling. Besides the role has changed a bit since...well the old days." Truth was she saw very little of Dawn. Much as she loved her, Dawn had spread her wings and flown her own way. They rarely saw each other outside of holidays and the occasional sisterly chat. Faith actually saw more of her sister than she did. Wasn't intentional, nor did she regret it, just happened. They had little in common outside of blood and their experiences in Sunnydale. In Rome they'd more or less begun to live separate lives.
While she blathered on about Faith, Dawn's research, her own work with the slayerettes, she felt rather than saw his attention waver from her towards the windows facing him. Not quite realizing she'd lost him until she asked if his relationship with Angel or Liam rather, a name she couldn't quite twist her mind around, was similar to hers with Faith.
In the awkward silence, she noticed for the first time how the fading sun cast its rays through his windows, bathing the right side of his face and upper body in light. He leaned towards rather than away from it, eyes unblinking, letting it blind him, caress his cheek, touch the rim of his ear, and spread across his shirt. She turned to follow his gaze outwards and watched the sun fall bit by bit beneath the trees.
"See how it falls beneath the leaves. The light filtering just so through them, bits of orange fading into lavender then pink...every night slightly different. Sometimes the orange is just a tad darker, richer in tone, others lighter, softer...the blue draining from the sky as ink drains from those old fountain pens turning darker at the bottom." His voice did not sound like Spike, it was wistful. Distant. And for a while she wondered if he'd spoken at all.
As the sun sunk, the shadows stretched across the floors and walls of his house, blending and blurring together in the twilight, until the light was soft hazy gray, no longer orange or pink or white. For a moment neither said a word, letting the silence stretch along with the shadows, comfortably. All she heard was his breathing and her own along with the soft creaking of the house around them.
"Never grow tired of those. Liam even painted one once, horrid - not his thing, portrait man, prefers people, landscapes are a struggle. I think Annie has it hanging in one of her bathrooms. Sorry, you were saying?"
"I..." she hesitated. "Did you miss sunsets as a vampire?"
He frowned, staring at the remains of their tea. "Miss? Didn't really think of them. Just lived in the moment, the rush. Didn't do much thinking as a vamp, more doing - more...taking, no just being. Always hunting the next thrill, next challenge, next obsession - craving, what have you. Next thing. Vamps? Bloody short attention spans, in case you haven't noticed. Except when they get fixiated on something - then well, they go bloody bonkers, but then you would know that better than anyone."
Like teenagers, Buffy thought having spent time with more than her fair share. She often wondered how Giles had tolerated her, Willow, Xander and the others. Vampires were in effect the unruly teens of the demon world.
"Right, should clear this away, fix us some grub, as Charley boy would say. May-hap light a few of the votives. House has natural lighting. But, old habits die hard. Any preferences grub wise?"
"Whatever is fine. Do you need any help?"
"Nope. I'm good," he said picking up the tray. "Be back in a few to light those candles. You fine until then?"
She nodded, listening to him meander down the hall towards what she assumed must be the kitchen. The sun was almost completely gone now, the light faint in its wake. She stared out at it, feeling surreal, past and present blurring. Remembering the last time she'd watched the sun fade from the sky while in Spike's company. Except they hadn't exactly been in each other's company then, had they? He'd been down in her cellar while she stood alone on her mother's front porch. Faith used to tease her about that. Never quite believing that all they did those last few nights was hold one another, no sex, no passionate smooching, or heavy breathing. Just cuddling, just being. It wasn't as if they talked about it or discussed it. Even that last night, their last one on earth or so they'd thought at the time, they had just held one another, slept comfortably in each other's arms. Saying little.
During the period she believed him to be dead and buried under the heap that had once been Sunnydale, California, she contemplated what it would have been like to have made love to him that night. How she would have gone about it. Or more to the point, how he would have responded. She never regretted what they did or did not do. But she did on the rare occasion flip over in her imagination what might have been.
TBC - in next post.
I've written two fanfictions. This is the one I completed. The other may never be completed, but I will post it - hopefully in it's rough entirety after I finish posting this one.
This one is in four parts.
People write fanfiction for numerous reasons. But usually it is because they've fallen in love with a character or aspect of a work of art and wish to play with it further. The reason I did it was : 1)To see if I could sustain a dialogue between two people for a length of time. If I could move a story purely through conversation and description - no real action. And if I could make the two people sound different from one another, so you could tell who was talking without needing a "he said/she said" device. It was my response to a friend's critique of my last novel - she said everyone in it sounded alike. This critique niggled at me and I wanted to see if I could overcome it. 2) I fell in love with a television character, it happens, and his story felt incomplete to me or left me wanting more. I wanted to explore him in greater detail. This story in some ways explores my love for this character and may explain why I fell in love.
The story is not a romance. There is no sex. It is rated PG-13, mostly for language and adult themes. It has two characters - Buffy and Spike. It takes place ten-fifteen years after the events of Not Fade Away. In it a 40 year old Buffy has journeyed to a mountain in Colorado to visit a shan-shued Spike; he has in short become human finally. What follows is their conversation - the first one they've had since the day Buffy watched Spike give his life to close the hellmouth in Chosen.
No regrets, Buffy thought, climbing the crest of the mountain. It had been a constant chant in the back of her mind during the climb. During this trip, really. A trip, looking back, she realized she was destined to make even though like most of the things she'd experienced she never would have predicted it. Life was like that, not linear, so much as a bunch of dots in a pattern. When you stood amidst them you couldn't connect them, even see them, but standing back years later - you saw it, just as she saw the pattern of the houses and trees below her over the cliff's edge, as the breeze caressed her cheek with a silent whoosh.
Oh, she'd been lonely at times, striding through life by her lonesome. But there was a simplicity in making choices on her own. A simplicity she treasured, which may or may not explain why her love affairs seldom panned out, the little she had. Finding a companion to share one's life with wasn't the same as picking out a dress or a leather jacket or even a new house. Sometimes, you never quite found them. And she'd made her peace with that. But she did not regret the ones she left behind her.
Her early relationships were the rawest and oddly after forty years, the clearest in her memory. They had been so young, even her older lovers, now that she considered them, arrested as they were in time, unable to age physically. Of the three, Riley had been the only one to escape the trap of time. To live a full and normal human life. At the time she didn't think much on it, but then she'd never been the sort to ponder things or brood too long. She was action girl. That did not mean however, that she didn't think about them or wonder. Now, she wondered how the inability to age physically affected them? Souled or unsouled? Did it somehow stick them in time? What must it have felt like to have the world and everything you knew shift and age around you while you stayed as you were, unchanging, timeless, neither dead nor alive, stuck? She shuddered. How horrible. Yet how tempting it had once been to that girl she was - the concept of alluring death. It had not been until she surrendered to it, that she realized death and age were gifts not curses. Unlike her friends, she celebrated the lines around her eyes and mouth, avoiding magical face-lifts. She earned them and they comforted her, even the frown lines. Time she had learned the hard way was her friend not her enemy. The Immortal had taught her that, during their brief time together, ageless, timeless, he changed his clothes, his hair, his contacts, even his mates, yet he himself stayed the same. What was it, he had said? Don't envy me, slayer - this is no gift, but a curse. Ask your two undead friends sometime - in an honest moment, see what they say? If you aren't careful, it will drive you insane - the boredom, the repetition, the unchanging pattern.
She had debated coming here today, just as she had debated sending the letter that precipated this visit. A letter that had been sitting half written in her desk drawer for over five years now. Angel had visited her, a face and voice from a past she'd thought long gone and buried in the landfill that had once been Sunnydale, California. It wasn't the first time she'd heard from him, of course. Just the first she'd seen him. They had corresponded off and on during the intervening years, after the disaster in LA and the dark times that had followed leading finally and inevitably to his transformation. When she last saw him, he had aged. Lines creased his face, gray sparkled his hair, he looked like a man of sixty-five, not the twenty-six year old vampire she remembered. It had shocked her. His life like hers had had its own twists and turns, leading him places that she realized were inevitable. Not once in the intervening years had he mentioned any of his family, vampire or otherwise, or his friends in LA; the ones they'd shared, long dead, and she knew, those deaths hung heavy on him still. It was not until she saw him face to face that he mentioned Spike and told her at last what had happened to him. Speaking in clean short sentences, he laid it out then with a sad shake of his head and a gentle smile, was gone back to his life wherever that may be. They'd kissed. Like they always did. But the kiss did not hold the same magic it once had or the same drama. With older eyes she saw what she could not or would not see as a budding young woman - a tragic man, out of his time, caught and twisted by fate as opposed to in control of it. But then, she had found a way to make peace with her own father in the intervening years and knew in her heart this was something he would never have the ability to do.
Why he felt the need to tell her about Spike, after all these years, did not make sense to her. When she asked, he refused to explain it. Said she should ask Spike, it was between them. He was merely playing messenger.
So why was she here? It wasn't a mission of love - out of some romance novel, like her sister supposed. Nor a journey of regret. If anything, it was out of curiosity. To see who he'd become, now that he was a man and no longer a vampire. Now that he was no longer outside time, but rather in it. Like herself. Knowing Spike, she doubted he regretted much. He wasn't like Angel, he hated to brood on things. Seeing the past as just that the past. She often wondered if that was how he maintained his sanity? Keeping up with the trends, living smack dab in the here and now.
So how old was he now? Sixty-five like Angel? Or forty like herself? Angel hadn't said. He just gave her the address, explained the shanshu effect, and told her a little about what transpired in LA. They'd both shanshued, Angel said. At different times and for different reasons, he refused to provide details. Typical Angel. Or men in general. He also refused to tell her how he was dealing with the change. From his face and general appearance, she guessed not well. He looked tired, worn. The years hung heavy on him. Unlike herself, he clearly had regrets and wore them daily like chains. The chains you bore in life...she shook her head. Oh well, he had a family now - not to mention a grandchild, something he also refused to explain outside of the requisite photos. Connor's child, she was told. A chapter of Angel's life she'd missed and reflecting on it, had little interest in. They had parted ways ages ago, it just took them a while to recognize it. Love was like that, it didn't disappear all at once, so much as fade in stages, lingering, like a closed over scar or missing limb, tingling from time to time. Her love for Angel would always tingle, but that was all it was now, a tingle, small, contained, reminding her that she was alive.
The house stood a few feet away from her, shrouded with columbine flowers and pine trees. Quaint. Not flashy like she expected. Seeing him would be strange after all this time. Especially considering she had, until five years ago, believed him to be dead and buried with the rest of Sunnydale. It felt odd even now to think of Spike as alive, let alone a living, breathing, human in the world.
Buffy stared at Spike’s house. It wasn't the sort of house she imagined Spike owning or even living in, although come to think of it, she wasn't entirely sure she ever imagined Spike in a house. Surrounded by trees and flowers in the side of the mountain, it made her think more of Xander or Angel, than Spike. Wood paneling. All wood actually. And windows, lots and lots of windows.
She took off her pack and sat down for a moment on a rock, studying it. Taking it all in. Angel had told her where Spike lived, but he hadn't described it. Not a man of many words, Angel. Not like Spike. Or the Spike she'd known. He was different now - that much Angel had told her. But then, Angel wasn't the same man she'd known either. Nor was she. Time had changed all of them, even two ageless vampires who had believed they were doomed to live eternally outside of it. Or, she thought, more likely stuck in it as she once, long ago had been stuck with everyone racing past her, each minute she experienced, an hour for them - that had been a joke of course, a prank played by Andrew, Warren and Jonathan. Being a vampire - ah, that was something completely different.
The grounds surrounding the hilltop house were kept wild. Wildflowers, shrubs, pines, and tall Aspens. The smell of pine mixed with columbine twitched her nose. The path leading to it had a series of crudely cut blue stones intermittently spaced, then a few wooden steps, and a covered stoop with a chair. Behind the chair stood two thick pine doors.
Buffy took a deep breath, got up, lifted her pack back onto her shoulders and moved gradually up the path to the doors. She glanced up at the sky, then back down at her wrist-watch, almost 5 pm, nearing Sunset. Later than she intended. Although he had said in his reply that she was not only welcome to visit him but she could stay in his house. He had a couple of guest rooms. The least he could do, considering how many times she and her friends put him up years ago.
Before she reached the door, it opened and Buffy took a step or two backwards. Half expecting to see a blond head and black duster pop out of it, instead, a black man emerged. Tall, half balding, attractive, with a deep chuckle, clearly laughing at something someone had said within. Turning he caught sight of Buffy and his laughter dwindled slightly, while he assessed her. She came a few feet closer and he smiled.
"You must be Buffy."
He had a deep voice and wore a dark brownish green jacket over black jeans. She tilted her head.
"Sorry, Charles Gunn. Nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you over the years."
"Most of it good, I hope."
He laughed. "Most of it. You might as well go on in. He's in one of his better moods. So you picked a good day to visit."
"Better moods?"
Gunn shrugged.
"How is he?"
"Good as can be expected. Been through quite a bit in the last few years no more than most, but the human thing - it takes a bit getting used to. He and Angel, they were used to being able to leap up tall buildings in a single bound, see in the dark, smell anything from yards away, and well the super-healing. They aren't used to being alive. And all that comes with it. Wore heavy on Angel. Wears heavy on Will. Time does. And unlike you and I, they've seen a lot of time those two, just not been really a part of its progress, stayed unaffected, until now."
"Does he regret the Shanshu?"
Gunn shrugged. "You'd have to ask him. Will don't regret much. Not like..."
"I know."
"It changed him, some ways he's better than before, others worse. Not for me to say. Just do me a favor and try to persuade him to come down off that mountain of his every once and a while. Best the missus and I can do is get him to come down for Thanksgiving."
"Thanksgiving?"
"Yep, annual thing. Me, the missus, Angel, Connor, and their family and good ole Will there get together for some grub. Nothing major and not many of us. But enough to thank the powers for our lives. And to mourn those we've lost."
Buffy nodded.
"Anyhow, must be moving on. Told Annie, I'd be home tomorrow for supper. Stayed a bit longer than I intended. Nice meeting you."
She watched him move down the path behind her. His car must be parked like hers at the bottom of the mountain. No roads appeared to climb to the top of it. Although she noticed that there was a motorcycle perched next to the front porch.
The door opened before she had a chance to knock. "Gunn? You still out there? You forgot your bloody - Eh. Guess, he's gone." They stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking. Their eyes assessed each other, took each other in, bit by bit. He, she thought, had changed. His hair was no longer white for one thing, not that she really expected it to be. Instead it was sandy brown with streaks of gray, similar in tone to her own hair color. What some called dish-water blond. The eyes were the same, grayish blue, changing tone depending on the surroundings. His face and body were fuller though, less gaunt, less skeletal. While the cheekbones were still evident, they were not as sharp and the scar above his left eyebrow seemed to have diminished somehow. Also he had a bit of a belly, not large, just a little roundness there. But the most striking change was the wrinkles, or laughlines, around his eyes and nose and mouth. Showing his age. He no longer looked like the twenty-six year old vampire that she remembered. Guessing his exact age was problematic at best, but physically - she'd place him around forty-five.
"Hello, Spike."
"Buffy. You...right, come in. Make yourself at home."
"How long have you been living here, Spike?"
"Will."
"What?"
"It's Will, not Spike."
"Oh. Sorry. I knew that."
He shrugged. "Don't be sorry, happens a lot. Part of the reason I moved up here. Got sick of people calling me that. Old nickname, outgrew ten years back. Know what I mean?"
She nodded. She did. There were times she'd grown tired of being called Slayer. Considering there were so many now it seemed a bit like being called rock star. Although she doubted that was the same thing.
"What you think of Chuck?"
"Who?"
"Charley boy - I presume you ran into him outside, right?"
"Tall black man? Yes, I did. But we didn't speak very long."
He laughed. A quick sarcastic laugh that for a moment brought her back in time, to the old days.
They entered a large living room, with windows overlooking the tree-tops. On one side of the room was a wall filled with nothing but photographs, of all shapes and sizes, surrounding a large fireplace. The other side of the room contained bookshelves and on the walls between them crosses. The crosses caught her off guard. Different shapes and sizes. All varieties. Mostly wood though. Encased in glass was a beautiful gold leaf book with ornate lettering. She got closer to it for a better look. It was a 17th Century Bible, St. James version.
"My Mum's," he said behind her. "Handed down through my family. One of the few things I could find of hers."
"Oh, its...lovely. But why all the crosses?"
"You never can be too careful. Granted there haven't been many vamps around since that last apocalypse. But.. don't want to be taking any chances, do I?"
His accent was different, she thought. The English Punk twinge was gone from it. Oh he still sounded English, but more like Wesley used to or Giles. Less like Spike.
She turned around to look past him at the photographs. At the top of the fireplace, she saw a portrait of a woman in Victorian garb, light hair and sharp cheekbones, sitting regally on a seat next to a fireplace. "Is that her? Your Mom?"
"That be her." He dusted the photo off with his sleeve.
To the left of the photo she saw a couple of Drusilla, one of Angel and one of Darla. She glanced up at him in surprise. But he didn't deign to answer her query either vocally or with his eyes. Not that they were on hers anyways, no, they were on the photos in front of them as if he were lost inside them, lost inside that time, if only for a moment.
"Do you miss them?"
"What? No. See old Liam, a few times a year and believe me that's more than enough for both of us."
"Liam?"
"Angel. Liam's his Christian name."
"Do you miss Dru?"
He smiled, a softness hit his eyes. "Not now, no. She's at peace now, isn't she? Old man saw to that. Would have staked her my own self, but..." He shook his head. "Angel was right, it had to be him. Enough of this..."
"Who are these other pictures of?"
"The ones around me old Mum? That's family mostly. Gang in LA. People we met after..." His voice caught for a moment. "Ones next Dru and Angelus, those are people we killed. Some sired. Some just hurt. Some murdered. After I...changed, Charley and Annie helped me track down the families, attempt to make amends. Which of course is impossible - Angel tried to tell me that. So'd that young whelp of his, Connor. Great kid Connor. Didn't listen. Charley also tried. No, had to find out for my own self. You can't change the past, Buffy. Can't go back. Can't undo things. And sometimes Sorry, it just don't count for much. Wood - he knew that. And maybe he had it right back in that garage of his - plastered with crosses...." He shrugged. "Sorry, you didn't come all the way up here to hear me chatter on so. Got some tea on if you want any."
Buffy nodded. She stared at the crosses again. Then back at the photos. Surprised to see a picture of Harmony amongst them. Not so surprised to see pictures of herself, her mother, and Dawn. He even had photos of Cordy, Giles, Wes, Faith, Wood, Xander, Tara, and Willow - which did surprise her. Since she didn't think he cared much for them. Some were placed amongst his family, most though, she noted, were placed amongst the photos he called his victims.
Will came back into the room carrying a tray, startling her from her reverie.
"It isn't much, just a few scones that Annie made. Charley brought them up. Along with a few other things. Shame couldn't convince him to stay longer, so you could get acquainted like. "
"Does he come up here often?"
Will shrugged. "Not really. Once or twice a month, sometimes more. Sometimes Liam tags along, or Annie. But mostly it's just Charley boy."
"No one else?"
He shook his head, pouring the tea into two cups. As he did so, she studied his hands, spotted with freckles no longer smooth and white as she remembered. The skin leathery, tanned, as if he'd spent a lot of time in the sun. "Cream?"
She shook her head. Taking the cup from his fingers, which felt warm and rough. Noticing a slight tremor in them, a nervousness. He pulled back his hand and quickly offered her a scone, which she accepted graciously. "So you are alone up here?"
"More or less. Have a couple of hawks in a nest out back and the occasional deer or raccoon. Saw a few badgers the other day. And once, a mountain lion - which is a rarity."
"But no people?"
"Outside of Charley? No not really." He averted his eyes as he spoke, studying his hands or the cup or the trees outside the windows.
"Sounds lonely."
"I suppose. But I like the quiet."
"Where'd you get the photos?" She tilted her head towards the wall of pictures. Not so much a shrine as what one might find in someone's home or on a photographer's wall.
"The newer ones - I took or one of the Gang did. The older ones...acquired over the years. Some snagged off you lot, when you weren't looking. Others..." He swallowed, then set his cup on the tray. Stood and approached them, studied the ones towards the windows, thumbs hooked loosely on his belt, swaying back and forth on his heels as he contemplated each in turn, occasionally lifting a finger to dust off something or other that marred the visage.
Sipping her tea, Buffy watched him, curious which of the photos he was focusing his attention on. The one of the attractive black woman in the long black leather duster that resembled his old one? She wondered what he’d done with it. If he even still owned it. The picture of orphans standing in front of a large building? Or the pictures of the students she vaguely remembered from her old high school, long dead and buried? Holden Webster? Sheila? Ford? Harmony? The pretty blond punk vampire she'd fought ages ago on the Sunnydale U campus, whose name, assuming it had a name, escaped her. One didn't think too much about the vampires one killed.
He backed away from the wall and pivoted towards the windows, digging his hands into his pockets as he did so. "You ever killed anyone Buffy?"
The question caught her off guard. "What do you mean?"
"Not vampires or demons or monsters, but people, a living person. Did you ever kill anyone?" His voice fell to a whisper, so soft she felt as if it was a mere echo.
She thought about the question for a moment. Had she? People had died during her watch, sure, that was inevitable - you couldn't save everyone. But somehow she doubted that was the same thing.
"Didn't think so. Heroes don't. Kill people that is." He shook his head and lifted a finger to touch the glass. "Up here, things are so simple, you have deer and you have wildcats. The wildcats eat the deer. Raccoons and others pick up the waste. Normal. Natural. Beautiful even in its symmetry. Killing for food. Simple. Necessary. Ever had deer meat?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Not bad. Sort of gamey, used to have it a lot back in the day, before I was turned, before I died. Course seemed a bit unseemly at times. Back then...so many things did. Remember thinking that fighting, even discussing fighting was unseemly, made much more sense to focus on things of beauty, flowers, pretty girls, poetry. Wanted nothing to do with fisticuffs or such stuff. Abhored the idea of it. Or so I thought. Thought of myself as a good man, right horrible poet, but a good man."
"And you are one, Spi-" Buffy caught herself, "sorry, I mean Will."
He laughed, soft bitter barely audible, more a snort than a laugh. "Am I? Was I ever?" He leaned his forehead against the sill.
She got up and tentatively approached him. Her hand light on his shoulder. "I thought the shanshu was supposed to wash you of this, give you fresh outlook on life?"
Another derisive snort as he brushed her hand away. "That what old Liam tell you?" He glanced at her. "Yeah, suppose it does in its way. I mean the pain is gone, no longer hear them screaming in my head like I once did and so's the guilt, don't feel it quite the same way as back then. But haven't forgotten either. Not that I want to." He glanced back at the photos. "Some of those people up there don't have anyone to remember them but me. All trace of them is gone. We did that - Angel, me, Dru, Darla, and others like us. Took their lives as ours were took. Some we changed, turned into something else. They were the end of their line, like we were. Best I can do for them is to remember. Remember what they were. What we all were once, before we became monsters." He sighed. "In nature - a rabid dog can go on for months without being taken down, spread its disease. Vampirism is sort of like that, except worse. Because you don't die. Not until someone dusts you. Rabies? You die. Nature's cleaner that way. There's life, death, and life again. Vampires? We just go on and on and on, staying young and pretty forever. Sucking the life out of everything around us in the process."
"Oh. Don't get me wrong, I'm not eaten up with it - not like the old man is. No good comes of that. But, I do...Sorry, Charley boy were here, he'd rip me a new one. Says I worry over what was done and gone too much - sounding like some namby-pamby Nancy boy. "
With a little initial awkwardness, Buffy turned the conversation to neutral issues such as the weather and current events. He regaled her with a story about a mountain lion stalking a deer and the hawks building their nest in one of the trees. The weather, itself, proved to be a dicier topic than she realized - since as a vampire he'd rarely had to deal with it. Oh he got cold at times, he told her and never much liked the damp. But it's not the same when you're human. Heat was different too, vamp's burned, sure, but didn't sweat not like humans did. Also there was the sun, brilliant in all its tones and shades, how it lit the sky, filtered through the leaves, touched things, soft, yet at the same time brutal. He had learned to be careful of it up here - after obtaining a wicked full body sunburn; suffice it to say there were some parts of the human body that were never meant to see that much sunshine. Buffy giggled.
The remains of their tea lying scattered on the table before them, they chatted about the variety of SPF lotions, Will preferring the natural organic variety - most lotions made him break out horridly. Charles and Annie apparently lived in one of the nearby towns - about a 3 hour bike ride away. Angel, she knew, lived further up north, in Seattle, near his son.
"See the old man once or twice a year, sometimes more. Depending on how nostalgic he gets. Those portraits over there - towards the hall? They're his. You'll see a few more scattered about. Quite the artist, Liam. Course he's only been at it for a 100 odd years."
Buffy nodded, remembering Angel's drawings. She still had a few of them. Not the ones he'd drawn while Angelus, but latter ones, ones he'd drawn that last year they were together, before he left for LA. Funny, how in her mind she still kept the two separate even though she knew they were one and the same. “You said you were a poet once? Do you still write?"
"Yeah. Better at it than I was then. Wasn't much of a poet then. Thought I was though. Fretted over every word back then. Thumbed through dictionaries hunting the right ones. Then would attempt to cram them into verse whether they fit or not." He set his cup down and smiled. "Mother just encouraged me. Telling me to read her one awful verse after another. Lines dripping with sentimentality - ever read Jonathan Seagul or those new age romantic poets or Barry Manilow? Well my stuff wasn't much different. Liam? Loved them though. He likes the sentimential stuff. Won't admit it, but the old man has a sentimental streak. Drives his kid batty. Now? It's actually decent. Sold a few as songs. And last year? Annie found me an agent, so we might get a book published. Nothing major. Just a few short ones mostly about the woods, a few about my Mum, and one or two about...the ladies."
Buffy hesitated, uncertain whether to ask to read them. "I'd like to see a few if you have any handy?"
He cast a sidelong glance at her, tilted his head. Reminding her of a cat, warily checking out a new visitor to its territory. "Perhaps later, don't really have it lying around."
She nodded and changed the topic quickly to current events, his house, tv shows and the outdoors. Feeling a bit as if they were doing an odd dance around themselves and their past, avoiding it, yet inevitably hitting on it at the same time.
Listening to him talk at times in short sarcastic bites, reminding her a bit of the Spike she'd known, others in long precise sentences, she realized how close he and Angel had become - how much they needed each other. Invariably he'd refer to Angel no matter what the topic. Reminded her a bit of how she felt about Faith - someone who got you on a level no one else did. Too much of Faith - drove her crazy of course, but every once and a while, she needed to touch base, make sure she was okay, see what Faith was up to. As a reality check if nothing else. It was odd, after all these years, to think that the person she felt the closest to and trusted the most had at one time been her worst enemy, had been someone she'd tried to kill. Of all her friends, Faith - she knew would always tell her the God's honest truth. No batting about. Direct. Blunt. To the Point. That was Faithy. Faith kept her honest and it was, oddly Faith, her sister in more ways than even Dawn could ever be, that had helped her reach the stage she was in now.
"You see much of the Bit? Bet she's grown into a right handsome lady," he said interrupting her thoughts.
"Who?"
"Dawn."
"Not that much. She's busy as am I. Also not that much in common any more, now that she's teaching archeology in Rome, full time. She's happy though. Spends her vacations on digs, and helps out in her spare time with Watcher Council."
"Surprised she didn't become a Watcher."
Buffy shrugged. "It wasn't her calling. Besides the role has changed a bit since...well the old days." Truth was she saw very little of Dawn. Much as she loved her, Dawn had spread her wings and flown her own way. They rarely saw each other outside of holidays and the occasional sisterly chat. Faith actually saw more of her sister than she did. Wasn't intentional, nor did she regret it, just happened. They had little in common outside of blood and their experiences in Sunnydale. In Rome they'd more or less begun to live separate lives.
While she blathered on about Faith, Dawn's research, her own work with the slayerettes, she felt rather than saw his attention waver from her towards the windows facing him. Not quite realizing she'd lost him until she asked if his relationship with Angel or Liam rather, a name she couldn't quite twist her mind around, was similar to hers with Faith.
In the awkward silence, she noticed for the first time how the fading sun cast its rays through his windows, bathing the right side of his face and upper body in light. He leaned towards rather than away from it, eyes unblinking, letting it blind him, caress his cheek, touch the rim of his ear, and spread across his shirt. She turned to follow his gaze outwards and watched the sun fall bit by bit beneath the trees.
"See how it falls beneath the leaves. The light filtering just so through them, bits of orange fading into lavender then pink...every night slightly different. Sometimes the orange is just a tad darker, richer in tone, others lighter, softer...the blue draining from the sky as ink drains from those old fountain pens turning darker at the bottom." His voice did not sound like Spike, it was wistful. Distant. And for a while she wondered if he'd spoken at all.
As the sun sunk, the shadows stretched across the floors and walls of his house, blending and blurring together in the twilight, until the light was soft hazy gray, no longer orange or pink or white. For a moment neither said a word, letting the silence stretch along with the shadows, comfortably. All she heard was his breathing and her own along with the soft creaking of the house around them.
"Never grow tired of those. Liam even painted one once, horrid - not his thing, portrait man, prefers people, landscapes are a struggle. I think Annie has it hanging in one of her bathrooms. Sorry, you were saying?"
"I..." she hesitated. "Did you miss sunsets as a vampire?"
He frowned, staring at the remains of their tea. "Miss? Didn't really think of them. Just lived in the moment, the rush. Didn't do much thinking as a vamp, more doing - more...taking, no just being. Always hunting the next thrill, next challenge, next obsession - craving, what have you. Next thing. Vamps? Bloody short attention spans, in case you haven't noticed. Except when they get fixiated on something - then well, they go bloody bonkers, but then you would know that better than anyone."
Like teenagers, Buffy thought having spent time with more than her fair share. She often wondered how Giles had tolerated her, Willow, Xander and the others. Vampires were in effect the unruly teens of the demon world.
"Right, should clear this away, fix us some grub, as Charley boy would say. May-hap light a few of the votives. House has natural lighting. But, old habits die hard. Any preferences grub wise?"
"Whatever is fine. Do you need any help?"
"Nope. I'm good," he said picking up the tray. "Be back in a few to light those candles. You fine until then?"
She nodded, listening to him meander down the hall towards what she assumed must be the kitchen. The sun was almost completely gone now, the light faint in its wake. She stared out at it, feeling surreal, past and present blurring. Remembering the last time she'd watched the sun fade from the sky while in Spike's company. Except they hadn't exactly been in each other's company then, had they? He'd been down in her cellar while she stood alone on her mother's front porch. Faith used to tease her about that. Never quite believing that all they did those last few nights was hold one another, no sex, no passionate smooching, or heavy breathing. Just cuddling, just being. It wasn't as if they talked about it or discussed it. Even that last night, their last one on earth or so they'd thought at the time, they had just held one another, slept comfortably in each other's arms. Saying little.
During the period she believed him to be dead and buried under the heap that had once been Sunnydale, California, she contemplated what it would have been like to have made love to him that night. How she would have gone about it. Or more to the point, how he would have responded. She never regretted what they did or did not do. But she did on the rare occasion flip over in her imagination what might have been.
TBC - in next post.
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squeee
Date: 2007-01-31 05:38 pm (UTC)Re: squeee
Date: 2007-01-31 09:02 pm (UTC)Re: squeee
Date: 2007-01-31 10:57 pm (UTC)Re: squeee
Date: 2007-01-31 11:15 pm (UTC)But, and he makes this point more than once, it wasn't a cliff-hanger, even if these guys survived, there would be another battle and they'd go out fighting. Sort of a metaphor for life - keeping in mind that the series had been cancelled and the creators saw themselves as continuing to fight the good fight against the corporate monstrosity wherever they may land.
Not a problem. Yep, Pan's is very violent and very sad, and not for the squeamish. But a good film. I'm thinking of running off and seeing Babel or Children of Men later in the week.
Glad you are enjoying it. I don't think many people did - it's a weird fanfic, no sex, no smut, and not full of action scenes. Also as a friend of mine pointed out when I first posted it - there isn't really any fantasy or science fiction elements in it. (Yes, I basically ignored all the rules of fanfic and did my own thing. LOL!)
no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-31 11:55 pm (UTC)I liked Will's distraction at the sunset, and his poetic comments on what he felt, what he was seeing. Just lovely.
The quiet tone of this piece is deeply compelling. I'm off to read more. Excellent work. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-02-01 04:41 am (UTC)I am fascinated by the idea of Spike shan-shuing. How would he deal with being human again? Would he embrace it? Hate it? And how would he deal with Buffy ten years later? For that matter, how would Buffy deal with Spike or who Spike had become? Most people found Spike the vampire more interesting, but William fascinates me as well. I like the duality. The contradiction. It is, I think, brilliant - most people would have made the man who became Spike, a working class street kid or punk - but Whedon made him a young struggling upper middle class poet who was devoted to his mother, and hated violence.
Thank you for your comments. ;-)