FIC: Present and Unaccounted For, part 3 (sequel to Collateral Damage)
The sequel to Collateral Damage now has a title!
TITLE: Present and Unaccounted For
AUTHOR: Cindy
RATING: NC17 overall
SPOILERS: Through Chosen and Home
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: S/B, ensemble
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine, but Joss said I could play with them.
A/N: Thanks muchly once again to my beta for this story, mommanerd.
Previous parts can be found here in my memories.
Previously on Present and Unaccounted For:
Lutalo nodded. “Ah. The missing soul.”
“Yeah. His royal scaliness threw me out on my ear.”
“You are one of the lucky ones, then.”
“Don’t feel so lucky.”
Lutalo peered at him curiously. “I am very surprised you want your soul back. You were full of regret, before. Regret, and pain.”
Spike shrugged. "Yeah, I know. But it was taken without my permission, that's why I want it back. That, and...”
“And?” He smiled conspiratorially. “This is the part where we speak of the girl, yes?”
Spike ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t want to hurt her again.”
Lutalo contemplated his stake for a moment, rolling it between his palms. “My people, we have a saying: it is not what you are called, but what you answer to.”
The watcher's words took a moment to sink in. Then a slow grin slid across Spike’s face. Soul or not, he'd be what he damn well wanted to be. Or try his damndest, at least. After all, he’d never been what anyone expected. Why start now? Spike stuck his hand out, and Lutalo transferred the stake into his other hand before giving Spike a firm handshake.
“Nice to see you again, mate.” Spike stood up. “But it’s time for me to go." What would he answer to? It was time to find out.
“Thank you for not killing my slayer,” Lutalo said good naturedly. But he was waiting, Spike realized, for Spike to leave first. The watcher's trust only went so far. Smart man.
Spike could feel Lutalo's eyes on him as he strode off into the night.
“Omukisa omulungi,” Lutalo called out to him.
“Thanks mate,” Spike said. “Good luck to you, too.”
Present and Unaccounted For, part 3
She'd been so drawn in by the sound of his voice - a sound she'd missed more than she could say in the last few months - that she found herself disappointed when he stopped speaking. Apparently, she was supposed to say something now. Spike just sat there, waiting. Well, he wasn't just sitting there, exactly. He was fidgeting, Spike-like. And watching her with those stupid, hopeful, (pretty), eyes of his. Was she supposed to be impressed that he hadn't killed the African slayer, even without a soul or a chip? Okay, she was, but he didn't have to know that. He didn't deserve to know that. Not yet, at least. Not after what he'd put her through.
"Okay. So, you met your Obi Wan Swahili or whatever. What happened? Did you get lost somewhere between here and Africa?" Buffy hugged her pillow tighter and tried not to feel bad when his shoulders dropped in disappointment.
Spike shook his head. "Spent a few weeks in Greece, Spain. Needed some time to..."
"Oh, I get it. You spent the summer backpacking through Europe. Is there a slide show?"
He closed his eyes, and she could almost hear him counting to ten before he opened them again. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Wasn't exactly a vacation." She could hear the frustration in his voice. "Wasn't supposed to take so long, either."
"You just lost track of time? Is that it? Forgot people were wondering if you were, oh, dusty or alive?" She knew she was being harsh, but it was either that or collapse into tears. And that was so not going to happen. She stared defiantly into his eyes, waiting for the apologies to start. But instead, she saw his own eyes flash gold, like summer lightening across a blue sky.
That was the only warning she got before he grabbed the pillow out of her hands and threw it across the room, both his hands coming down on the back of the sofa on either side of her head, trapping her between his arms. He'd gone from a respectful distance to in her face in half a second, and she was suddenly reminded of what a dangerous man he could be. His face was so close to hers that she couldn't even focus on him properly. Buffy found herself shrinking back into the sofa cushions as he spoke.
"I've bloody well had enough of your attitude, pet," he said, speaking barely above a whisper. "You want me to think you were pining away for me here all this time? You say you looked for me, but you coulda found me if you'd really wanted to, and we both know it. Willow coulda snapped her fingers and located little ol' me in a heartbeat, yeah? And Rupert, with all his contacts, he woulda been able to track me down if you'd asked him. But I bet you didn't ask 'em to find me, did you?"
She tried to look away, but he took her chin in his hand and turned her head back toward him. "Yeah. That's what I thought. And I bet none of 'em volunteered, either. They were more than happy to let me stay lost. And so were you, pet."
Buffy pushed at his chest, hard, and he fell backwards, landing on his ass on the worn Oriental rug that she'd picked up in a little antique shop around the corner.
Because it reminded her of him.
She stood over him, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. He thought he knew so much. He didn't know anything. Spike looked at up at her from the floor and gave her a smirk, the kind that always made her want to wipe it right off his face.
"Fucking hell, Buffy. Even Angel found me."
***
Barcelona, six weeks earlier
The fight was taking too bloody long. He tried to get a look at the girl from the corner of his eye, but the vamp he was fighting was too good. Agile and quick. And not so dumb, apparently, as he took advantage of Spike's moment of distraction to plant his hard heeled boot into Spike's gut and send him flying. Hello, solar plexus. The pain radiated out from his stomach and into his limbs, and he couldn't move for a moment.
The vamp leapt lightly onto a fire escape, laughing at Spike, who was still on his ass in the filthy alleyway. Who had thought it a good idea to turn a sodding Flamenco dancer, that's what Spike wanted to know. And the bloke had died with his boots on, apparently. Well, let him get his giggles at ol' Spike's expense. He wasn't going to be around long to enjoy it. Spike didn't bother to get up, he just plucked a spare stake from inside his coat, rose to his knees and sent a missile toward the vamp's heart. "Save the last dance for me, amigo." The vamp's mouth opened in surprise, just before he exploded into dust.
"Doesn't pay to gloat," Spike said, struggling to his feet. "Trust me on that one."
"Huh. Seems you have learned something after all these years."
Spike turned to find Angel standing there at the mouth of the alley, backlit by a streetlamp and casting a long shadow on the dark and dirty pavement. Always with the fucking drama.
"Figures," Spike said, hurrying over to the girl. "Show up just when I don't need you." He placed his fingers against her wrist, already knowing it was too late. She lay pale and motionless, her white blouse soaked with blood and a vacant look in her eyes. Dancing vamp had turned her own stake against her.
"Fuck!" Spike kicked the dumpster he'd propped her up against. "Dammit to hell!"
"You can't save all of them."
"Just wanted to save this one, tonight."
"Sorry I didn't get here sooner." Angel stepped forward, looking down solemnly at the girl. "Slayer?"
"Yeah. Good one, too. Took out half a dozen 'fore she got it." Spike flipped open his phone and dialed 112 to report a murder, so someone would come and pick her up. He took one last look down at the body on the ground. "Sorry, love." Angel followed him as he headed out of the alley.
"Love? That why you haven't called Buffy?"
Spike shook his head. "Are you daft?"
Angel shrugged. "Just asking. You've been known to have a thing for slayers."
"An' I still do. One beautiful yet impossible blonde, currently residing in jolly ol' England." Spike stopped in front of a bar that he frequented. "You know I'm a one slayer vamp, mate," he said, before opening the door. The two of them walked down a few steps into the cool, dark, dank of the bar where they were met by a cloud of smoke and classic rock on the jukebox. Spike motioned to the bartender, who sat two whiskeys down in front of them.
"Last I checked this wasn't England. So what the fuck are you still doing here, Spike?"
Spike threw back his drink, and before his glass hit the scarred wood of the bar the bartender was there to fill it again.
"Thought I went over this last time you were here. Know you're a bit slow, but..."
"Yeah, I know. You're testing yourself. How long before you take the final?"
Spike shrugged. "Just wanna be sure."
"You're saving slayers - or trying to - instead of killing them. Seems like you've graduated, to me." Angel tossed back his own drink, pushing his glass forward for another. "And you know how much I hate to say that."
Spike chuckled. A compliment from Angel was rare indeed. "I'm almost ready. Just need a few more..."
Angel cut him off with a wave of his hand. "That's what you said last time." He stared straight ahead into the mirror behind the bar, where his whiskey glass floated in mid-air. "What is it, really?"
Spike finished off another shot. The whiskey burned in his throat and in his gut. "I miss it," he said, finally. "The soul. Know that seems odd to you, but I do. I can do this. Know I can. But I'm always going to be missing..." He pressed his fist against his chest. "This... piece. Can't help thinkin' she'll miss it, too. She'll try. We'll both try. But what if it's not the same? What if she can't love me the same? What if I can't love her the same?"
Angel swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, staring down into it like it held the secret to the universe. "You disappoint me, Spike."
"So what else is new?" Spike felt that familiar twinge in his chest that always came with Angel's disapproval.
Angel finished his drink, and turned his glass upside down on the bar. "No, you don't get it. I mean, when have you ever been afraid to take a chance? I seem to remember some ridiculous but impassioned speech about you being love's bitch, and proud of it. But here you are, hiding away from the person who means the most of you." He turned his head slowly to look at Spike. "Or does she?"
"Of course she does! You know that."
"Then stop being a fucking coward, Spike."
If Angel hadn't of been right, Spike would have staked him for that comment. As it was, he held a fistful of the pillock's expensive leather jacket in each hand as he ordered him to take it back.
Angel gazed at him mildly. "Prove to me you're not, and I will."
Spike released him and took his phone out of his coat pocket, dialing Buffy's number by heart. His fingers were shaking, but damn if he was going to let Angel be right about this. He got her machine, and was opening his mouth to leave a message when Angel reached over and snapped the phone shut.
Spike stared him incredulously. "What the bloody hell did you do that for?"
"There's one more thing. Had to make sure you were ready, first. Just in case it doesn't work out."
Spike fought the urge to smash his glass into Angel's ample forehead. "What in fuck's name are you on about?"
"You may want another drink, first."
"Angelus!"
Angel smiled. "Wesley found a way to get your soul back."
Part 4
TITLE: Present and Unaccounted For
AUTHOR: Cindy
RATING: NC17 overall
SPOILERS: Through Chosen and Home
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: S/B, ensemble
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine, but Joss said I could play with them.
A/N: Thanks muchly once again to my beta for this story, mommanerd.
Previous parts can be found here in my memories.
Previously on Present and Unaccounted For:
Lutalo nodded. “Ah. The missing soul.”
“Yeah. His royal scaliness threw me out on my ear.”
“You are one of the lucky ones, then.”
“Don’t feel so lucky.”
Lutalo peered at him curiously. “I am very surprised you want your soul back. You were full of regret, before. Regret, and pain.”
Spike shrugged. "Yeah, I know. But it was taken without my permission, that's why I want it back. That, and...”
“And?” He smiled conspiratorially. “This is the part where we speak of the girl, yes?”
Spike ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t want to hurt her again.”
Lutalo contemplated his stake for a moment, rolling it between his palms. “My people, we have a saying: it is not what you are called, but what you answer to.”
The watcher's words took a moment to sink in. Then a slow grin slid across Spike’s face. Soul or not, he'd be what he damn well wanted to be. Or try his damndest, at least. After all, he’d never been what anyone expected. Why start now? Spike stuck his hand out, and Lutalo transferred the stake into his other hand before giving Spike a firm handshake.
“Nice to see you again, mate.” Spike stood up. “But it’s time for me to go." What would he answer to? It was time to find out.
“Thank you for not killing my slayer,” Lutalo said good naturedly. But he was waiting, Spike realized, for Spike to leave first. The watcher's trust only went so far. Smart man.
Spike could feel Lutalo's eyes on him as he strode off into the night.
“Omukisa omulungi,” Lutalo called out to him.
“Thanks mate,” Spike said. “Good luck to you, too.”
Present and Unaccounted For, part 3
She'd been so drawn in by the sound of his voice - a sound she'd missed more than she could say in the last few months - that she found herself disappointed when he stopped speaking. Apparently, she was supposed to say something now. Spike just sat there, waiting. Well, he wasn't just sitting there, exactly. He was fidgeting, Spike-like. And watching her with those stupid, hopeful, (pretty), eyes of his. Was she supposed to be impressed that he hadn't killed the African slayer, even without a soul or a chip? Okay, she was, but he didn't have to know that. He didn't deserve to know that. Not yet, at least. Not after what he'd put her through.
"Okay. So, you met your Obi Wan Swahili or whatever. What happened? Did you get lost somewhere between here and Africa?" Buffy hugged her pillow tighter and tried not to feel bad when his shoulders dropped in disappointment.
Spike shook his head. "Spent a few weeks in Greece, Spain. Needed some time to..."
"Oh, I get it. You spent the summer backpacking through Europe. Is there a slide show?"
He closed his eyes, and she could almost hear him counting to ten before he opened them again. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Wasn't exactly a vacation." She could hear the frustration in his voice. "Wasn't supposed to take so long, either."
"You just lost track of time? Is that it? Forgot people were wondering if you were, oh, dusty or alive?" She knew she was being harsh, but it was either that or collapse into tears. And that was so not going to happen. She stared defiantly into his eyes, waiting for the apologies to start. But instead, she saw his own eyes flash gold, like summer lightening across a blue sky.
That was the only warning she got before he grabbed the pillow out of her hands and threw it across the room, both his hands coming down on the back of the sofa on either side of her head, trapping her between his arms. He'd gone from a respectful distance to in her face in half a second, and she was suddenly reminded of what a dangerous man he could be. His face was so close to hers that she couldn't even focus on him properly. Buffy found herself shrinking back into the sofa cushions as he spoke.
"I've bloody well had enough of your attitude, pet," he said, speaking barely above a whisper. "You want me to think you were pining away for me here all this time? You say you looked for me, but you coulda found me if you'd really wanted to, and we both know it. Willow coulda snapped her fingers and located little ol' me in a heartbeat, yeah? And Rupert, with all his contacts, he woulda been able to track me down if you'd asked him. But I bet you didn't ask 'em to find me, did you?"
She tried to look away, but he took her chin in his hand and turned her head back toward him. "Yeah. That's what I thought. And I bet none of 'em volunteered, either. They were more than happy to let me stay lost. And so were you, pet."
Buffy pushed at his chest, hard, and he fell backwards, landing on his ass on the worn Oriental rug that she'd picked up in a little antique shop around the corner.
Because it reminded her of him.
She stood over him, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. He thought he knew so much. He didn't know anything. Spike looked at up at her from the floor and gave her a smirk, the kind that always made her want to wipe it right off his face.
"Fucking hell, Buffy. Even Angel found me."
***
Barcelona, six weeks earlier
The fight was taking too bloody long. He tried to get a look at the girl from the corner of his eye, but the vamp he was fighting was too good. Agile and quick. And not so dumb, apparently, as he took advantage of Spike's moment of distraction to plant his hard heeled boot into Spike's gut and send him flying. Hello, solar plexus. The pain radiated out from his stomach and into his limbs, and he couldn't move for a moment.
The vamp leapt lightly onto a fire escape, laughing at Spike, who was still on his ass in the filthy alleyway. Who had thought it a good idea to turn a sodding Flamenco dancer, that's what Spike wanted to know. And the bloke had died with his boots on, apparently. Well, let him get his giggles at ol' Spike's expense. He wasn't going to be around long to enjoy it. Spike didn't bother to get up, he just plucked a spare stake from inside his coat, rose to his knees and sent a missile toward the vamp's heart. "Save the last dance for me, amigo." The vamp's mouth opened in surprise, just before he exploded into dust.
"Doesn't pay to gloat," Spike said, struggling to his feet. "Trust me on that one."
"Huh. Seems you have learned something after all these years."
Spike turned to find Angel standing there at the mouth of the alley, backlit by a streetlamp and casting a long shadow on the dark and dirty pavement. Always with the fucking drama.
"Figures," Spike said, hurrying over to the girl. "Show up just when I don't need you." He placed his fingers against her wrist, already knowing it was too late. She lay pale and motionless, her white blouse soaked with blood and a vacant look in her eyes. Dancing vamp had turned her own stake against her.
"Fuck!" Spike kicked the dumpster he'd propped her up against. "Dammit to hell!"
"You can't save all of them."
"Just wanted to save this one, tonight."
"Sorry I didn't get here sooner." Angel stepped forward, looking down solemnly at the girl. "Slayer?"
"Yeah. Good one, too. Took out half a dozen 'fore she got it." Spike flipped open his phone and dialed 112 to report a murder, so someone would come and pick her up. He took one last look down at the body on the ground. "Sorry, love." Angel followed him as he headed out of the alley.
"Love? That why you haven't called Buffy?"
Spike shook his head. "Are you daft?"
Angel shrugged. "Just asking. You've been known to have a thing for slayers."
"An' I still do. One beautiful yet impossible blonde, currently residing in jolly ol' England." Spike stopped in front of a bar that he frequented. "You know I'm a one slayer vamp, mate," he said, before opening the door. The two of them walked down a few steps into the cool, dark, dank of the bar where they were met by a cloud of smoke and classic rock on the jukebox. Spike motioned to the bartender, who sat two whiskeys down in front of them.
"Last I checked this wasn't England. So what the fuck are you still doing here, Spike?"
Spike threw back his drink, and before his glass hit the scarred wood of the bar the bartender was there to fill it again.
"Thought I went over this last time you were here. Know you're a bit slow, but..."
"Yeah, I know. You're testing yourself. How long before you take the final?"
Spike shrugged. "Just wanna be sure."
"You're saving slayers - or trying to - instead of killing them. Seems like you've graduated, to me." Angel tossed back his own drink, pushing his glass forward for another. "And you know how much I hate to say that."
Spike chuckled. A compliment from Angel was rare indeed. "I'm almost ready. Just need a few more..."
Angel cut him off with a wave of his hand. "That's what you said last time." He stared straight ahead into the mirror behind the bar, where his whiskey glass floated in mid-air. "What is it, really?"
Spike finished off another shot. The whiskey burned in his throat and in his gut. "I miss it," he said, finally. "The soul. Know that seems odd to you, but I do. I can do this. Know I can. But I'm always going to be missing..." He pressed his fist against his chest. "This... piece. Can't help thinkin' she'll miss it, too. She'll try. We'll both try. But what if it's not the same? What if she can't love me the same? What if I can't love her the same?"
Angel swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, staring down into it like it held the secret to the universe. "You disappoint me, Spike."
"So what else is new?" Spike felt that familiar twinge in his chest that always came with Angel's disapproval.
Angel finished his drink, and turned his glass upside down on the bar. "No, you don't get it. I mean, when have you ever been afraid to take a chance? I seem to remember some ridiculous but impassioned speech about you being love's bitch, and proud of it. But here you are, hiding away from the person who means the most of you." He turned his head slowly to look at Spike. "Or does she?"
"Of course she does! You know that."
"Then stop being a fucking coward, Spike."
If Angel hadn't of been right, Spike would have staked him for that comment. As it was, he held a fistful of the pillock's expensive leather jacket in each hand as he ordered him to take it back.
Angel gazed at him mildly. "Prove to me you're not, and I will."
Spike released him and took his phone out of his coat pocket, dialing Buffy's number by heart. His fingers were shaking, but damn if he was going to let Angel be right about this. He got her machine, and was opening his mouth to leave a message when Angel reached over and snapped the phone shut.
Spike stared him incredulously. "What the bloody hell did you do that for?"
"There's one more thing. Had to make sure you were ready, first. Just in case it doesn't work out."
Spike fought the urge to smash his glass into Angel's ample forehead. "What in fuck's name are you on about?"
"You may want another drink, first."
"Angelus!"
Angel smiled. "Wesley found a way to get your soul back."
Part 4