I’ve never attempted fanfic before, so please excuse me if this is not very good. Thought I’d have a go and see if it was any fun. This tale is set in the aftermath of the final Angel episode and while it might reference a bit of what happened in the comics after, it will only be vaguely. Never read them myself. The story is centered around spike, but will likely venture into a Spike/Buffy thing down the road. Hope you enjoy :)
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Heaven And Hell
Chapter 9 What Once Was
Rupert Giles, an experienced and learned man in every respect, found himself slumping into a chair in his London home staring at the now dead phone in his hands and completely unsure of what to do next. His conversation with Tara had been troubling and emotional. The simple fact that she was alive stunned him. But it was her message that left him feeling uneasy instead of rejoicing at her rebirth.
I’m so sorry, Mr. Giles, she’d said and he’d known she was crying. I wanted to let everyone know, but I couldn’t. I still can’t.
He’d tried to assure her, to let her know that he was overjoyed to know she was alive again but even to him his words had sounded hollow. Such things only happened with great repercussions. The Powers That Be did not return a person to the material plane on a whim. If they’d sent her, she had a great purpose. And he had no idea what it might be.
The emotional upheaval was another matter entirely. How would Willow, who had always been delicate in matters of the heart, react to this? Would it weaken her resolve?
Then there was the matter of Spike. Giles had known of Spike’s return since that trouble in Los Angeles, of course. Once the new Watcher Council had established contact with Angel during that madness, the realities of Spikes involvement had come out quickly enough. Reactions had been varied and extreme in some cases. Disturbingly extreme in some cases.
Spike had chosen not to contact them, though. Giles distinctly remembered the day they’d discovered the apartment complex full of refugees that Spike had apparently spent months protecting. Spike and a young woman who he now knew to be Tara. He remembered the confused reactions, the uncertain way his charges had wondered at their former ally/enemy’s motives. A few days later they’d received word that the platinum haired vampire had slipped out of town without a word to them and Giles had been privately relieved even though he hated to see the quiet, hidden pain in his Slayers eyes. She hadn’t said a word about it, nor had she cried as she had when word they’d first learned of his miraculous return, but the hurt in her was obvious if one was looking for signs of it.
“Nothing good can come of this,” he sighed, staring at the phone as if seeking answers in its reflective black surface.
He knew in his heart that this was a door best left closed. Buffy had moved on. She’d left Spike in the past. His reentry into her life would only cause her pain. Whatever else Spike had done, he’d always brought pain to Buffy.
I can’t explain everything, Tara had said. but it’s really important that Spike be okay. He has something he absolutely has to do. Please, you have to help him. He has to be okay.
There was the rub of it all. Tara believed what she’d told him and he couldn’t argue the point considering where she’d been. The Powers had a plan for the vagrant vampire. Dismissing that would be incredibly dangerous. But how to manage it while keeping Spike safely out of their lives?
He sighed again and got up to pack. He had to go to Las Vegas.
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The city was different in the wake of his death. London. He’d always loved the city. His home. Alive with the bustling activity of millions of souls all congregated for safety and companionship, thick with activity at all times. Busy people moving about leading important lives. Every one of them harboring secret fears and ambitions, each of them knowing love and pain. A million stories, each unique and yet strangely similar. Humans. A human city.
It wasn’t his city anymore. He walked among them basking in the freedom of it all. His new family was of indulging in their vicious whims. They thought he was back at the house they’d claimed. They thought he was safely tucked away, too uncertain of his place to challenge their orders. They thought he wasn’t ready. They thought a simple order was enough to stop him.
No, London wasn’t his anymore. People noticed him now. They made way when their paths crossed his. Avoided his eyes and prayed he took no notice of them. On some instinctual level they knew there was a predator among them. The half buried fear, the uncertain worry, it lingered in the air. Intoxicating. Heady.
He inhaled slowly, taking it in, letting that fear flow through him and tease the demon lurking inside. The hunger. God help him, it was sweet. Nothing a human could feel would match this. He was dead, but he was alive. He’d never felt so alive, so powerful.
“Sad little William,” he had to smile at the memory of what he’d been. It felt distant now, the memories were spotty. No matter that it had been only a few days. He wasn’t the victim anymore. He wasn’t the weakling.
His meandering journey had no direction. Walking was enough for the moment. Indeed, the very notion of walking without having to be somewhere was a good one. He was free. Could do anything he wanted. No more obligations and chains of responsibility holding him to a life that had forced him into being an ineffectual nothing.
He was a hunter. A killer. That first night, he’d unleashed the demon inside. Murdered for the simple sake of murdering with his dark goddess at his side. Released the demon inside and allowed it to consume him. He knew what he’d done. He couldn’t quite remember the details of it, though. That was strange. How did one forget that sort of thing?
Drusilla, his savior, who had delivered him from mediocrity and insignificance, had treated him oddly since that night. She brought his meals to him, men and women already half dead and completely unaware. Of course he’d fed. The hunger would not allow any other outcome. Each feeding had left him unsatisfied though. Something was missing. Something important. In light of his new existence, of the power and fury he felt coursing through his blackened veins, he somehow knew that feeding was meant to be more than sating the hunger. It wasn’t enough to drink the blood. He had to take it.
A flash of color at the corner of his vision distracted him from his thoughts and his steps paused. A prostitute wrapped in a crimson dress that had long since seen better days. Clearly unhealthy, frail and weak. She leaned against tiredly, staring at the men and women passing her with empty, lost eyes.
Not the challenge he’d been seeking, but something made him pause. For the barest second, he felt something, a dark twinge of some emotion that left him uncomfortable. Pity? The young woman was so broken. Killing her would be a mercy.
No. his expression hardened against the foreign sensation worming its way inside his thoughts. Vampire. Murderer. He did not feel pity. The girl was meat. Nothing more. There was no mercy, no sympathy in Drusilla. Not in the other two either, that strange couple that she insisted on calling mommy and daddy. Vampires. He was one of them.
He was standing before her a second later, standing close and staring down into her surprised eyes. Leaning in, he inhaled her scent, a sickening mixture of unwashed flesh, old sex and cheap wine. Nauseating but he couldn’t deny the arousal that hit him even as his stomach turned. So weak. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.
Hope in her eyes as she stared up at him. By his appearance, even days after his death he was a man of some wealth. Even a bed for the night would be a comfort for the girl. Plus… he laughed softly, leaning in closer when he caught scent of her heat. She was aroused.
His hand claimed hers and he smiled at her. Not the insipidly gentle smile of what he’d been but the lazy leer of what he was. It felt… good. Right. He had to embrace it, truly allow himself to become it. It felt too right to deny it.
She was pressed flat against the wall staring at him with a mixture of longing, hopelessness and fear. Her breathing was short and ragged. Pressed against her as he was, his lean body pinning her to the wall, he could feel her weak heart pounding. She was a victim. Had spent her life as a victim. Small. Weak.
She’s someone’s daughter. Somewhere, someone loves her.
The thought came to him, unbidden and unwelcome. It was easy to suppress though. A weak voice in the very back of his mind, it was easy to push it aside and bury it in the rightness of the moment, lose it in the overpowering sensations that the demon inside was spilling over with.
He’d intended to take her elsewhere. Bring her somewhere private and secure. That’s how it was done, they’d said. Discretion.
Something about the moment made him hesitate to lead her away though. People were watching them. The moment was pure and that sort of thing drew attention. He couldn’t do it here. People would see. He’d… what? Why couldn’t he? Was he really free if he simply adopted a new set of rules to replace the old? He was powerful. Who was to stop him from making his own rules?
A laugh escaped him and the young woman smiled up at him, hiding her confusion with a hopeful invitation that he didn’t bother to hear. No one. No one could stop him.
Her throat. That vein was throbbing. Inviting. So very inviting.
His head lowered and the girl flinched at the sudden pain. The flinch quickly became a gasp and her hands tightened on his shoulders, clenching what had been a very expensive coat. Skin ruined by neglect and hardship yet still welcoming and hot under his tongue. He licked her once, to taste her, before his fangs descended into her flesh and his world became a searing explosion of perfection as the blood came.
His knees weakened at the onslaught of power, of fulfillment, even joy crashed through him ad soared through his dead insides, filling his body once more with the essential ingredient of life. Nothing life it. Alive. This was pure. It was beautiful.
Screaming. There was screaming all around him. He was on a street corner. Humans were there, watching him. Women were screaming.
This should bother me, he realized. But it didn’t. in the wake of that perfection, what could bother him?
He was free. The screaming struck him as funny and he had to laugh as he turned to the other humans, his chin and lips crimson from his sloppy feast. The prostitute, his first as his own vampire, slumped to the uncaring, filthy street. He’d already forgotten her though. Niggling doubts aside, this is what he was and he would embrace it.
The screams. Funny how quickly horrified screams could turn into agonized shrieks.
Dru was going to be so proud.
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“Tara!”
The young witch look up tiredly at the insistent call from one of the twins. She’d been hovering over a spell book much as she had for the previous six hours since she’d hung up with Mr. Giles. Her eyes ached but she needed to push on. Something in one of the books might help her friend.
“What is it, Jesse?” she asked slowly.
“There’s something… look, he went all game face.” the Slayer pointed at the still form of Spike. Though he had not stirred or moved in the slightest, he had indeed shifted into his demonic appearance. Laying there like a corpse, he somehow managed to look threatening all the same.
Tara got up and walked over, looking down at her friend with concern. She could feel him, feel his presence in the room, but there was something wrong. Some kind of barrier around him that she couldn’t put her finger on. A hand reached out as she sat on the bed beside him and she touched his face gently. Then she paused.
A dull red bruise formed on his cheek where a second before there had been nothing but that scar he’d picked up in Los Angeles. Like something had struck him. Already the bruise was swelling.
She and the Slayer shared an uncertain look and Tara gave a frustrated sigh. “We’d better restrain him for now,” she said reluctantly “Until we get some answers, anyway.”
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He was naked. Chained to the wall in some dungeon, naked and weak from lack of feeding. A cell, or what had been a cell before the current occupants had come. Now it was a playroom. A room he’d enjoyed and utilized himself on occasion. Torture wasn’t his favored pass-time but sometimes the moment simply called for it.
They were there. His beloved family, lean and dangerous and predatory. Watching him with hard eyes. Angelus, pouf that he was, was livid and ranting about staking him again. Darla, that cold bitch, seemed inclined to agree. Whatever reservations she had about killing a family member seemed to be defeated by the outright contempt she had for him.
Dru was begging for him in her own way, wheedling at the two elder vampires as she tried to convince them to let her keep her favorite toy. She looked delicious, he realized. Half dressed, blood dripping from various places. They’d interrupted her playtime. He couldn’t help but grin at her when she met his eyes. Delight flashed in the dark mysteries of her eyes at his smile and she clapped happily.
“My Spike’s been a naughty boy,” she crooned, swaying as she spoke “Little toy soldiers all lined up in a pretty row. Marching marching marching. They lost their heads and they can’t find Heaven now.”
“Shut up,” Angelus snapped, scowling at Spike “You had to do it again, didn’t you? Dead soldiers get noticed, you idiot!’
Spike laughed in his face. There was something sweet about the fear that Angelus inspired. It had been a long time since Spike had been afraid of anything. In truth, he wasn’t afraid at that moment, even with the aged vampire promising death. He knew Angelus was stronger. Knew that the big nancy could kill him without much trouble. And that little seed of uncertainty was what made Spike so giddy. Fear was something he could confront. Something he could master. Fear made him feel.
He was honest enough to know that feeling something, anything, was vital. He wouldn’t let himself become like them. It was all too precious to give up. He didn’t want to be dead inside. He wanted to feel it all, experience it all.
“What’s it like being you, eh?” he forced himself through the fear and leered at Angelus “All that strength and still you hide in the shadows like a fucking Mary. The soddin hell are you so scared of, mate? You have any idea how embarrassing it is to have a grandsire that’s such a wanker? I can barely show my --”
He was cut off when Angelus moved on him, a powerful hand closing on his throat. Cold dark eyes met amused blue and the two killer found themselves deadlocked. Frustration lit the normally controlled, stoic elder and Spike found himself experiencing a thrill of danger at the thought that he might have finally pushed too far. It was delicious. He was still free. Alive.
“Little Willy needs a reminder of his place in the grand scheme,” Angelus murmured after a long second.
Somewhere in back of Spikes mind there was a screaming instant of disappointment, as if part of him wanted it to end. A shockingly powerful sense of bitter rage that left the vampire shaken. He hissed and forced that sensation away, back to the screaming darkness that he kept it locked in. It had been years since he’d felt that presence. He’d thought it dead or gone.
To cover the moment of weakness, he slammed his forehead into Angelus’ hovering face and barked a long laugh at the curse that brought forth. “You think you have the stones to teach me?” he demanded, a direct challenge to his elder.
This was going to hurt.
He watched as a seething Angelus went to the brazier roasting cheerfully in the center of the room and set an iron poker on the burning coals. Drusilla wandered over as well, she liked to see iron turn white hot. Her eyes lifted to meet his once more and a languid, contented smile lit up her haunting features. He knew that she was… not concerned, but close to it. Worried that he might not survive this. He winked at her and licked his lips.
Pain could be good too.
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“What’s wrong with him!?”
Jesse’s shocked shout brought everyone out of the involved, heated argument they’d been having. Concern over Spike had left all five of them, Gate included, in a tense place. The fight had started not three minutes after the Slayers’ Watcher, Jessica, had suggested they start brainstorming for ideas on how to revive him.
The heated debate ended when Jesse, the more vocal of the two Slayers, had decided to check on Spike. Her shocked shout brought the lot of them running.
Spike lay on the bed as he had before, his arms and legs restrained with chains. Unmoving and unresponsive. No change there. No, the change lay in his condition. Blistering lings of angry red skin were forming up and down his chest, arms and neck. One by one, the scorched marks formed on previously unmarred alabaster skin. Five. Ten. Twenty. The burn scars kept coming.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Like he didn’t even feel them. They all knew, sensed, that he was feeling every second of the torture though.
They stared at him in silence, none of them quite certain what to say or do. Helplessness dominated their emotions. Finally Gate grunted and spoke. He looked worried, which was not something Tara had seen from him before.
“Tara, think you might be able to adapt a healing spell to work on a vampire?” he was frowning at Spike but his eyes were far away, distracted.
“I.. I.. I can try,” she paused a second then shook her head firmly “I’ll work something out.”
“Good,” Gate nodded “The rest of us will get you whatever you need.”
“How long until Mr. Giles arrives?” this from the resident Watcher. She seemed uncertain how to react to the notion of a visit from the man who was heading her order.
“I don’t know, he just said he’d been here soon,” Tara looked at Spike again “I hope he hurries.”
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It was one of those treasured moments, one of those all too rare moments where the unyielding distractions of who and what the were, the things they’d done to each other and the gap that always existed between them were set aside, if only for a brief while.
They were in her kitchen. He was sitting on the counter watching her dig through her freezer in a hunt for the ice cream that she was sure someone had hidden. It was relaxed, comfortable. Quiet. They weren’t vampire and Slayer. They weren’t mortal enemies. They weren’t friends, not really. But close.
“That’s insane, pet!’ he looked at her incredulously “You can’t honestly stand there and tell me you that you found that movie to be anything but soddin’ drivel.”
“It was sweet!” she shot back, pausing in her ice cream hunt to shoot him a huffy look “They loved each other. He died for her. It was romantic. But then, I wouldn’t expect you to understand that sort of sacrifice.”
“Oi!” he protested “It’s not the dying for his bird part that I object to. It was just a poncy movie. Hardly worth watching at all. Needed a spot more violence.”
“Hah!” she proudly retrieved the ice cream container that had been artfully camouflaged behind many bags of frozen peas “Score one for the Slayer.”
She moved to the claim a large spoon and set to her sinful little feast, only pausing after helping herself to a healthy spoonful. As she swallowed, she flashed him an amused look, even smiled at him.
“More violence? Everyone died, Spike.”
“A bloody iceberg hit them!” he snorted “Death by popsicle does not scream epic tale to me, Slayer.” His tone might have been a bit indignant at that because she actually giggled before she realized what she was doing and sent a glare his way to make up for her mistake. There was no heat behind the glare though, so he ignored it and continued on.
“If a bloke’s going to die for his bit, I’m all for it. Can’t really imagine a better way to go. But seriously, sacrificing yourself to save your true love from a giant ice cube? Argh. No dignity in that.”
Buffy gave him a strange look at that, a bit confused and a bit something else. Those deep green eyes, eyes that haunted him, were considering. She shook her head as the lure of rocky road ice cream distracted her though.
“You’re so weird,” she said around a mouthful “above and beyond the whole vampire thing and the obsession with bleaching your hair, you are just odd. You know that, right?”
He shrugged, then smirked at her, “Heard it once or twice.”
She nodded pertly, still focused on her meal, “As long as you know.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a moment, with her eating and him leaning back against the cupboards watching her. It was a good moment, one that he treasured. She was relaxed, seemed at ease with herself. That all too present tension was gone, leaving her as nothing more than a young woman chatting about some stupid movie.
I could stay here. Right here with her. She looks happy. She’s so beautiful.
That was a strange thought, deep in the back of his mind. A distant memory seemed to stir, but he lost it as soon as he tried to recall what it was that was bothering him. Why was he thinking about staying? It wasn’t possible. She’d never…
But a part of him wanted to. Wanted to be there, with her. Stay in a moment when she wasn’t looking at him like something she needed to wipe off her shoe. Would it be so wrong?
Yes. It would be wrong. This isn’t real. It’s a memory. This isn’t real.
She smiled at him after a moment then waved to the counter, where a stack of movies waited. “Tell you what, Spike, you pick the next one. And don’t say I never do anything for you.”
He wanted to. God, he wanted to. There was something inviting in the way she smiled at him just then. A hint of a glimmer of… Was it possible? His fingers itched to clam the movies and pick one that might continue to keep her mood light and relaxed. She was smiling at him again, encouraging.
This isn’t right. This isn’t how it happened.
It hurt to do it, but the sense of wrongness was too much to ignore. Buffy didn’t smile at him like that. She never would. She was too smart for the likes of him. He shook his head and hopped off the counter, wincing a bit as her smile faltered.
“Sorry luv,” he said, forcing his tone to remain light for fear that she would know that he was hurting “One crappy movie is my quota for the night. I’ll see you around, Goldilocks.”
And with that he was gone, walking out the back door and trying to ignore the hurt in her expression. It hadn’t happened like this. Nothing made sense.
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Tara sat on the bed beside the comatose Spike, one of his hands clasped between both of hers. Crystals had been placed on his skin from head to toe and surrounding him as well. They were working, to a degree. The wounds had begun closing but very slowly. Whatever it was that was causing him these injuries seemed to be resisting her attempts to heal him.
That wasn’t the worst of her worries though. She held his hand because she felt she had to. Somewhere, he had to know that there was physical contact with his body. He just had to.
The young witch stared at his still face, which had only just reverted to human appearance again. She could swear she saw pain there even if she knew that his placid expression never changed.
Something had to be done quickly. She was certain of what he was sensing from him now. He was still there, somewhere. She could feel the essence of him there on the bed.
But what really worried her was the nagging feeling that the sensation of his presence was growing dimmer, fainter. He was slowly fading away. He was losing whatever fight he was going through.