Gift of the Mage; Spike, Ethan
Gift of the Mage
by spikeNdru
Written for Between the Seasons Ficathon.
For ruuger, who requested a Gen fic with Spike and Ethan. Spike goes to Ethan for something to numb the pain of Buffy's death. Story takes place between BtVS Seasons 5/6
Rating: PG-13
Length: 4004 words
Summary: Spike was devastated by Buffy’s death. How did he manage to pull it together to take care of Dawn and work with the Scoobies during the summer? Perhaps he had some help from a certain Chaos Mage?
Author's Note: Thanks so much to makd for the usual excellent beta.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike
Spike methodically smashed his fists into the wall of the cave over and over. Left. Right. Left. Right. The rhythm never varied. The copper-metallic scent of blood permeated his senses. He could feel the bones in his hands and wrists splintering, pulverizing, but he couldn't feel the physical pain-the emotional pain was too great. He'd failed! The one bloody thing she'd asked him to do, and he'd failed. “I'm counting on you to protect her.” “Till the end of the world.” But he hadn't done it. He hadn't protected her. He hadn't been fast enough, good enough, strong enough. He'd stood there like a sodding prat and let a tiny little grandpa demon swat him like a bug. He hadn't even gotten a lick in. He was supposed to be a street fighter-fists and fangs, balls to the wall-and he'd done nothing. How had that happened? What the bloody hell was wrong with him? She trusted him! She'd been counting on him to protect Dawn, and Gramps had blown right through him like he wasn't even there.
Spike's arms dropped to his sides, useless. His muscles were spasming and he couldn't force them to move any longer. Bloody useless, that's what he was! Guess I really am the slayer of Slayers.
He leaned against the blood-splattered wall and wiped a forearm across his eyes, leaving smears of blood. He blinked the blood out of his eyes and stared at his ruined hands. William the Bloody Useless, that's me. A high-pitched giggle burst from him, followed by wracking sobs. He wasn't at all sure that he could survive this pain-the pain of both her loss and his failure. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
He laughed again. Bloody hell! He thought it hurt when Drusilla left him. That was nothing-nothing-compared to this pain, gnawing at his guts, sapping his strength and his will. He was nothing. A feeling of light-headedness flowed through him and his knees buckled. His head smacked the floor with a curious hollow sound and the blesséd relief of unconsciousness claimed him.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike awakened, stiff and sore and covered in dried blood. The nerves in his hands were screaming-sending messages to his pain-receptors loudly enough to temporarily block out the greater pain. Spike welcomed the respite. He tried to get to his feet and inadvertently leaned on his right hand. His vision turned black with blinding flashes of red light and he somehow managed to turn his head to the side before he vomited.
He felt strangely detached. He should be worried about Dawn. The Little Bit had lost her mum and then just seen her big sis take a swan dive off the bloody tower in her place, but he just couldn't seem to care. This was quite unlike him-he generally cared too much. Oh, well . . . he'd worry about it tomorrow. Spike's eyes drifted closed as oblivion claimed him once more.
~*~*~*~*~*~
It took over a week for the bones in his hands to knit themselves back together and the torn ligaments and tendons to re-attach. He would have healed much faster with the frequent intake of blood, preferably human, but it seemed like too much trouble to have to go out to provide for his needs. So he stayed in the former Initiative caves and let nature take its course in its own sweet time. He grew thin and gaunt; he hadn't been in this bad shape since he was first chipped, and had no idea how to provide for himself while on the run from the soldier boys. Ah, but Buffy had come to his rescue then. She'd taken him in and given him a place to stay, albeit chained in a bath tub in the Watcher's flat, and provided him with fresh animal blood. He'd resented the hell out of her then; now, he'd give anything to be chained in that bath tub if it meant Buffy appearing to taunt and tease him.
After two weeks, he began having conversations with her. They were probably hallucinations-he was still sane enough to realize that. And the dreams . . . in the dreams he saved her. Every night he saved her. Waking brought knife-edged pain anew as he realized it had just been another dream.
He was getting weaker; he'd lost the will to live in a world without her in it, and he knew it. He spent more time sleeping-the dreams were better than his reality. Maybe one day he would go to sleep and not wake up. He smiled a bittersweet smile at the thought. But then a niggling thought teased at the corners of his mind. He was forgetting something. Something he had to do . . . Something important.
Dawn! He had forgotten about Dawn. He had given Buffy his promise to protect her and he couldn't do that from Dreamland. He'd sworn to protect her till the end of the world and the world hadn't ended; Buffy had made sure of that. It was only his world that had crumbled into ashes-the actual world was still out there, full of nasties that ate little girls for breakfast.
Spike sighed. He guessed he'd have to live . . . for her. For Dawn. He'd need to go back to his crypt and shower and then go buy blood. He'd need to get his strength back. He'd made a promise to a lady.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike managed to make his way to the back door of Willie's Place. He knew he'd need human blood to repair the damage he'd done to his own body. After he made the decision to go on, he'd dragged himself to his crypt, showered, changed and dug out his tin box, where he kept mementos and spare cash. He figured he had enough for three pints of the good stuff at Willie's and a supply of animal blood from the butcher. Willie came to the back door and didn't look at all happy to see him.
“Wha'd'ya want, Spike? There's always trouble when you come to my place.”
“No trouble tonight, Willie. Not lookin' for a fight; just want three pints of O neg to go.”
Willie brightened considerably. “Just got in a new shipment from the hospital. Wait right here.”
Willie returned in a few moments with a paper bag that he handed to Spike and accepted his cash in return. Spike had barely stepped back when Willie shut the door in his face.
“Guess I'm not the most popular bloke in Sunnyhell, at present,” Spike mumbled, tearing into the first bag of blood. He drank all three pints leaning against the side of the bar and felt marginally better. He might as well make the trip to the butcher's while he was out.
Spike ghosted down the alleys in the direction of the butcher shop, carefully avoiding the vicinity of the Magic Box. He wasn't ready to see anyone he knew-wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready. With the cessation of physical pain, the pain of Buffy's death struck him anew and he gasped. He leaned his forehead against the side of a building in an attempt to get his emotions under control. He felt a sense of dark power coming from the building he had randomly chosen.
The seductive dark desires-for forgetfulness, for oblivion-lurking far too close to the surface, were awakened by the magic Spike felt emanating from the building.
Spike's hand, seemingly of its own volition, reached for the doorknob and pulled. He encountered resistance and pulled harder. With a protesting screech of metal, the deadbolt tore through its housing and the door opened. The remnants of dark magicks, left over from previous spells, hit Spike like a fist, and he staggered.
He encountered no resistance at the threshold-the building's primary purpose as a place of business allowed him entrance. He could smell the sudden rush of fear and hear the accelerated heartbeat of the human in the back room in response to his breaking down the door, and suddenly couldn't remember why it had seemed so important to do so. He had been on his way to the butcher; why was he . . . here?
Spike looked around. A headless manikin lay on its side and remnants of costumes were scattered around the room. Hold on! The mage that had done the spell at Halloween that turned everyone into their costumes-this was his shop. But the shop reeked of magic-more recent than the long ago Halloween fun and games. There was something more . . .
Spike's mind was sluggish from pain and alcohol and lack of blood. He knew something more about this mage . . . Oh, right! This was the bloke who turned Rupert into a Fyarl demon-and hadn't that been bloody funny-and was then snatched up by the Initiative boys, courtesy of Captain Cardboard. What was his name now? Spike's brow furrowed as he thought. Rayne. Arthur Rayne? No. Ethan. Ethan Rayne. He'd turned the Slayer into a damsel in distress and Xander into a soldier. He'd turned Giles into a Fyarl. The git had power, give him that. The kind of power that would allow him to-not forget; he'd never forget the Slayer-but maybe do something about this pain that was eating him up inside until he really was no more than a cold, dead shell. Dawn needed more than a shell. Her whole family gone, and he'd promised the Slayer . . . he'd given his word. Spike decided to make Ethan Rayne's acquaintance. Maybe they could be of help to each other.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan
It was the constant, unremitting glare of the fluorescent lights that bothered him the most, Ethan decided. Well, that, and the constant, unremitting pain of Ripper's betrayal, of course. He'd been in this bloody facility for over a year, and he still couldn't quite believe that Ripper had turned him over to the sodding soldier boys without a qualm. That wasn't at all sporting of the old man. Turn him into a stink beetle or something-fine. That he could accept. That's how the game was played. Tit for tat. But to give him over to the bloody American secret ops or whatever the hell they called themselves, to be locked away without benefit of trial or counsel-left to rot in the middle of the bleeding desert . . . well. Ethan didn't have the words for that! After they'd had such a nice time reminiscing at the pub, too!
Initially, Ethan thought Rupert was teaching him a lesson. Putting the fear of-what? The American military might?-into him. He expected he'd be required to do penance for a fortnight or so-possibly as long as a month-before his release. But the months dragged on and Rupert never came. The Initiative complex had become a bloody oubliette. An oubliette with fluorescent lights. There was no longer any day or night-no quiet darkness in which a man could think and plan-there was only the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights illuminating every corner of his cell until Ethan thought he'd go mad.
When he finally accepted that he'd been forgotten-that no one was coming to save him-Ethan knew he'd have to save himself. He dredged up every spell he'd ever cast from the recesses of his mind and tinkered with them until he'd designed the one he needed. He had no ingredients, no candles, no accoutrements of any kind, no talismans or focal points. He had only himself-Ethan Rayne, Chaos mage. It would have to be enough.
He planned to fast for three days before attempting the spell. He'd need a specific destination-one he was familiar with. One that still resonated with the remnants of magicks he'd called in the past. One not too far away from his present location, as he was fairly sure he couldn't harness the power needed to return to England under these extremely limiting conditions.
Ethan planned and prepared until he was finally ready. He chose his time carefully. The hours between three and six in the morning were the low point in the human biorhythm schedule. More natural deaths occurred during that window of time than any other. Best not go there, old man. Concentrate on the positives! No matter how long one worked the 'graveyard shift', one's body never quite acclimated to the pre-dawn dip in alertness, energy and functioning. It was the lowest point of the cycle of Chi-the nadir of the life force. The guards would be less alert during that time period, less likely to be paying attention to individual cell monitors.
Of course, his own energies would also be at their lowest point. Overcoming his own mind and body's lethargy to pull off a major spell at that time was risky . . . but that's what made it worth doing. Escaping from a heavily guarded secret military facility using only the resources he carried in his own mind was challenging; using his indomitable will to overcome what should have been a weakness and turning it to a strength for him alone, elevated the undertaking from merely challenging to extraordinary. And he, Ethan Rayne, was going to pull it off.
The following two nights passed without incident in the Initiative complex in Nevada. On the third night, the fluorescent lights buzzed, as they were occasionally wont to do, and momentarily dimmed at 4:06 a.m. Their brightness was immediately restored seconds later, and the brief incident was not remarked. Thus, all evidence of Ethan's teleportation spell was lost. At 4:05:58, Ethan Rayne was sitting cross-legged on the thin, hard mattress on his assigned bunk in cell #234; at 4:06:04, he was gone. His disappearance was never solved.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan was cowering-Yes, cowering. Admit it, you prat!-in the back room of the defunct costume shop, as he had been doing for the past four days. He'd occasionally sneak out in the wee hours of the morning to the 24-Hour Grocery to stock up on needed supplies, but that was the sole extent of his forays from his hidey-hole.
Funny, that. He'd thought he'd be free when he escaped from the Initiative facility. He hadn't counted on the craven terror of being discovered and sent back. Oh, bollocks! The sodding soldier boys had managed to change him, after all. The brash, cocky, devil-may-care attitude that had been so much a part of Ethan Rayne for nearly forty years was nowhere to be found. It’s just subjugated, not lost, Ethan hastened to assure himself. He didn't think he could bear spending the rest of his life hiding in the dark, quivering in his boots like a nancy-boy . . . or like a helpless old man.
Ethan had always felt young and vital, no matter what the calendar said, but now he felt old. Old and frightened. Hell, he was as much a prisoner here as he'd been for the past year and a half! Just call me Number Six, he muttered.
Coming back to Sunnydale may have been a mistake. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Close enough that he'd felt reasonably certain he could work the teleportation spell, and he'd been here often enough that he knew the lay of the land, but he'd apparently forgotten that there was a branch of the Initiative here in Sunnydale. Giles didn't seem disposed to let bygones be bygones; he'd made no attempt to get Ethan released and hadn't even come to visit, so he couldn't go to Giles for help. Giles owned the local magic store, and he and his little band of merry boys and girls all knew Ethan on sight, which limited his options regarding supplies. To top it all off, after he'd turned Rupert into a Fyarl and the Slayer'd nearly killed him in demon form, Ethan had to assume the children would also be disinclined to help.
Ethan sighed, and then filled a pot with water and put it on the hotplate to boil. Perhaps everything would seem a bit less dire with the restorative properties of tea? One could only hope.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan and Spike
Ethan heard the screech of metal as the shop door was ripped open and was thankful he hadn't yet picked up the pot of boiling water to make the tea. If he had, he was certain that third degree burns would have been his lot, and he had quite enough problems without the addition of a physical disability, thank you very much! He heard someone moving around in the shop-only one person, so probably not the Initiative boys, but that left only one option. Ethan wiped his damp palms on the tea towel, and patted his forehead and upper lip to erase the signs of fear that sudden entrance had engendered. He squared his shoulders, pasted on his best cocky smirk, and flung back the length of heavy material that curtained off the back room.
“Hullo, Ripper. Happy to see me? Guess you just couldn't stay- Hang on! You're not Ripper!”
“No, 'm not. Don't believe I know any 'Ripper'-well, not since Jack, anyway, and he's long dust. Angelus did for 'im-said he was callin' too much attention to-”
“Who the bloody hell are you?”
“Spike. An' you're the bloke that bespelled the Halloween costumes an' turned Rupert Giles into a Fyarl, right?”
Ethan preened. “Heard of me, have you?”
“Could smell the magicks from this place a block away.”
“Erm . . . you're not one of those Initiative chaps, are you?”
“Fuck, no! They're the ones got me into this whole soddin' mess in the first place! If they hadn't put the bleedin' chip in m' head, I'd never have fallen for the Slayer an' I'd prob'ly be in South America with Dru right now, 'stead of here in bloody Sunnyhell weepin' m' guts out over her . . . ending.”
“Well, that's alright, then. I'm not too fond of the soldier boys myself, and would prefer to avoid them.”
“Not a problem. They closed down th' Initiative after their own personal Frankenstein monster ran amuck n' started a war between th' humans an' th' demons. Most o' the Initiative gits that survived were transferred elsewhere. Belize or some such place.”
“Well, that's a relief. I'd been a 'guest' of the Initiative for some time, finally got free, and don't fancy being locked up again. But if you're not here to take me in, what are you doing here? And you couldn't have knocked, rather than breaking down the bloody door?”
“Sorry. Wasn't thinkin' too clearly. That's always my trouble, innit? Follow m' blood 'stead of m' head. I sensed the magicks and thought maybe you could do a spell for me . . .”
“A spell? That might be arranged. Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea and tell me all about it. Maybe we can be of help to each other, hmm?”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan tapped his fingers on the wooden crate he was using as an end table and thought. He hadn't renounced Chaos by any means, and he was sure that when he'd managed to put enough distance between himself and the States, his natural joie de vivre would reassert itself, but for now, it was best to keep a low profile. The second pot of tea had finished steeping, and he poured fresh cups for Spike and himself. Ethan sipped his tea and decided to play it straight for once.
“You seem like a decent fellow, so I'll give you some advice, absolutely gratis. You don't want a forgetting spell. They're tricky things, and along with the pain, you'd be likely to forget all about your girl, probably your friends, and possibly who you are, in addition. I still can't quite believe I'm telling you this-in the past, I'd have done the spell and sat back to watch the damage and get a good laugh out of the whole thing. Guess I'm not quite as evil as some people think I am, hmm? No, the best remedy I know to dull the pain is a good single malt, at least twelve years old. You wouldn't happen to have any, would you?”
“No . . . but I might know where I can get some.”
“Well, well. Run along then, and we'll talk more over a glass or two.”
Twenty minutes later, Spike returned with a bottle of fifteen-year-old Lagavulin.
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “That's Rupert's brand.”
“Well . . . yeah. 's Rupert's whiskey. Knicked it from the Magic Box.”
Ethan laughed, opened the bottle and poured some for each of them. Halfway through the bottle, he looked closely at Spike. He was having a bit of trouble focusing and squinted in an attempt to read Spike's expression.
“What is it that you really want?”
Spike's voice was low and ragged. “I want things to be different. I want to be faster . . . stronger. I want to save the girl . . .”
Ethan's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. “You're talking about a temporal fold spell, and they never turn out like you think they're going to. You make one change and everything changes-are you willing to risk that? Are you willing to risk losing the sister who lived to save the one who died?”
Spike slowly shook his head. “No. She wouldn't want it like that. Everything she did was t' protect the Little Bit. Can't even imagine the kind of pain she'd be in if she lost Dawn. Wouldn't want to. Couldn't put her through that.”
“Well, then . . . the way I see it, you don't need a spell; you need a purpose. What would she want you to do?”
“Look out for Dawn, help the bloody Scoobies, be the kind of man-”
“Well, then-there's your answer.”
“You're right. 's what I need t' do. No more mopin' and whingin'-she's countin' on me an' m' not gonna let her down again.”
Spike leaned forward and put a hand on Ethan's knee. He looked deeply into Ethan's eyes. “Y'know, the Initiative changed me. Put a buggerin' chip in m' head. Made it so I couldn't hunt-couldn't kill-an' I thought it was the end of the world. Thought there was nothin' worth livin' for. And then I fell in love with th' - a girl. An' she treated me like a man, 'stead of a monster. After a bit, I wanted to become the man she thought I was. 'M just sayin'-maybe the Initiative did you a favor, too. Maybe this is your chance to become the kind of man Rupert could respect an' want to be friends with, if that's what you want.”
Ethan looked thoughtful. He'd been so sure the stuffy Watcher was a pose that he'd been concentrating all his energies into bringing back the old Ripper, but only ended up royally pissing off Rupert. Maybe Rupert had changed, and maybe he could, too. Oh, not that he'd ever be good; he enjoyed Chaos too much for that. But perhaps there was a middle ground-not good, but not really evil, either. Spike seemed to have found that middle ground, maybe he could, too. And then, maybe he and Rupert could be friends again. They'd both enjoyed the night at the pub, before he'd turned Rupert into a demon-he was sure of that. This astounding idea of Spike's would definitely bear further thought.
Spike withdrew a folder from an inner pocket of his duster and handed it to Ethan. “It's a bus ticket to LA. If we couldn't stop Glory, I had the idea t' send th' Platelet t' Angel. He may be a bloody great ponce, an' I never liked him, but he'd do right by th' Little Bit if Buffy an' I weren't . . . well. Don't need it now so here's your Get Out of Sunnydale Free card. Cheers! Well, better go. Got things t' do an' people t' see.”
Spike raised a hand to his brow and tipped a salute to Ethan, and then he was gone.
Ethan looked at the ticket in his hand and smiled.
The End
by spikeNdru
Written for Between the Seasons Ficathon.
For ruuger, who requested a Gen fic with Spike and Ethan. Spike goes to Ethan for something to numb the pain of Buffy's death. Story takes place between BtVS Seasons 5/6
Rating: PG-13
Length: 4004 words
Summary: Spike was devastated by Buffy’s death. How did he manage to pull it together to take care of Dawn and work with the Scoobies during the summer? Perhaps he had some help from a certain Chaos Mage?
Author's Note: Thanks so much to makd for the usual excellent beta.
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Spike
Spike methodically smashed his fists into the wall of the cave over and over. Left. Right. Left. Right. The rhythm never varied. The copper-metallic scent of blood permeated his senses. He could feel the bones in his hands and wrists splintering, pulverizing, but he couldn't feel the physical pain-the emotional pain was too great. He'd failed! The one bloody thing she'd asked him to do, and he'd failed. “I'm counting on you to protect her.” “Till the end of the world.” But he hadn't done it. He hadn't protected her. He hadn't been fast enough, good enough, strong enough. He'd stood there like a sodding prat and let a tiny little grandpa demon swat him like a bug. He hadn't even gotten a lick in. He was supposed to be a street fighter-fists and fangs, balls to the wall-and he'd done nothing. How had that happened? What the bloody hell was wrong with him? She trusted him! She'd been counting on him to protect Dawn, and Gramps had blown right through him like he wasn't even there.
Spike's arms dropped to his sides, useless. His muscles were spasming and he couldn't force them to move any longer. Bloody useless, that's what he was! Guess I really am the slayer of Slayers.
He leaned against the blood-splattered wall and wiped a forearm across his eyes, leaving smears of blood. He blinked the blood out of his eyes and stared at his ruined hands. William the Bloody Useless, that's me. A high-pitched giggle burst from him, followed by wracking sobs. He wasn't at all sure that he could survive this pain-the pain of both her loss and his failure. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
He laughed again. Bloody hell! He thought it hurt when Drusilla left him. That was nothing-nothing-compared to this pain, gnawing at his guts, sapping his strength and his will. He was nothing. A feeling of light-headedness flowed through him and his knees buckled. His head smacked the floor with a curious hollow sound and the blesséd relief of unconsciousness claimed him.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike awakened, stiff and sore and covered in dried blood. The nerves in his hands were screaming-sending messages to his pain-receptors loudly enough to temporarily block out the greater pain. Spike welcomed the respite. He tried to get to his feet and inadvertently leaned on his right hand. His vision turned black with blinding flashes of red light and he somehow managed to turn his head to the side before he vomited.
He felt strangely detached. He should be worried about Dawn. The Little Bit had lost her mum and then just seen her big sis take a swan dive off the bloody tower in her place, but he just couldn't seem to care. This was quite unlike him-he generally cared too much. Oh, well . . . he'd worry about it tomorrow. Spike's eyes drifted closed as oblivion claimed him once more.
~*~*~*~*~*~
It took over a week for the bones in his hands to knit themselves back together and the torn ligaments and tendons to re-attach. He would have healed much faster with the frequent intake of blood, preferably human, but it seemed like too much trouble to have to go out to provide for his needs. So he stayed in the former Initiative caves and let nature take its course in its own sweet time. He grew thin and gaunt; he hadn't been in this bad shape since he was first chipped, and had no idea how to provide for himself while on the run from the soldier boys. Ah, but Buffy had come to his rescue then. She'd taken him in and given him a place to stay, albeit chained in a bath tub in the Watcher's flat, and provided him with fresh animal blood. He'd resented the hell out of her then; now, he'd give anything to be chained in that bath tub if it meant Buffy appearing to taunt and tease him.
After two weeks, he began having conversations with her. They were probably hallucinations-he was still sane enough to realize that. And the dreams . . . in the dreams he saved her. Every night he saved her. Waking brought knife-edged pain anew as he realized it had just been another dream.
He was getting weaker; he'd lost the will to live in a world without her in it, and he knew it. He spent more time sleeping-the dreams were better than his reality. Maybe one day he would go to sleep and not wake up. He smiled a bittersweet smile at the thought. But then a niggling thought teased at the corners of his mind. He was forgetting something. Something he had to do . . . Something important.
Dawn! He had forgotten about Dawn. He had given Buffy his promise to protect her and he couldn't do that from Dreamland. He'd sworn to protect her till the end of the world and the world hadn't ended; Buffy had made sure of that. It was only his world that had crumbled into ashes-the actual world was still out there, full of nasties that ate little girls for breakfast.
Spike sighed. He guessed he'd have to live . . . for her. For Dawn. He'd need to go back to his crypt and shower and then go buy blood. He'd need to get his strength back. He'd made a promise to a lady.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike managed to make his way to the back door of Willie's Place. He knew he'd need human blood to repair the damage he'd done to his own body. After he made the decision to go on, he'd dragged himself to his crypt, showered, changed and dug out his tin box, where he kept mementos and spare cash. He figured he had enough for three pints of the good stuff at Willie's and a supply of animal blood from the butcher. Willie came to the back door and didn't look at all happy to see him.
“Wha'd'ya want, Spike? There's always trouble when you come to my place.”
“No trouble tonight, Willie. Not lookin' for a fight; just want three pints of O neg to go.”
Willie brightened considerably. “Just got in a new shipment from the hospital. Wait right here.”
Willie returned in a few moments with a paper bag that he handed to Spike and accepted his cash in return. Spike had barely stepped back when Willie shut the door in his face.
“Guess I'm not the most popular bloke in Sunnyhell, at present,” Spike mumbled, tearing into the first bag of blood. He drank all three pints leaning against the side of the bar and felt marginally better. He might as well make the trip to the butcher's while he was out.
Spike ghosted down the alleys in the direction of the butcher shop, carefully avoiding the vicinity of the Magic Box. He wasn't ready to see anyone he knew-wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready. With the cessation of physical pain, the pain of Buffy's death struck him anew and he gasped. He leaned his forehead against the side of a building in an attempt to get his emotions under control. He felt a sense of dark power coming from the building he had randomly chosen.
The seductive dark desires-for forgetfulness, for oblivion-lurking far too close to the surface, were awakened by the magic Spike felt emanating from the building.
Spike's hand, seemingly of its own volition, reached for the doorknob and pulled. He encountered resistance and pulled harder. With a protesting screech of metal, the deadbolt tore through its housing and the door opened. The remnants of dark magicks, left over from previous spells, hit Spike like a fist, and he staggered.
He encountered no resistance at the threshold-the building's primary purpose as a place of business allowed him entrance. He could smell the sudden rush of fear and hear the accelerated heartbeat of the human in the back room in response to his breaking down the door, and suddenly couldn't remember why it had seemed so important to do so. He had been on his way to the butcher; why was he . . . here?
Spike looked around. A headless manikin lay on its side and remnants of costumes were scattered around the room. Hold on! The mage that had done the spell at Halloween that turned everyone into their costumes-this was his shop. But the shop reeked of magic-more recent than the long ago Halloween fun and games. There was something more . . .
Spike's mind was sluggish from pain and alcohol and lack of blood. He knew something more about this mage . . . Oh, right! This was the bloke who turned Rupert into a Fyarl demon-and hadn't that been bloody funny-and was then snatched up by the Initiative boys, courtesy of Captain Cardboard. What was his name now? Spike's brow furrowed as he thought. Rayne. Arthur Rayne? No. Ethan. Ethan Rayne. He'd turned the Slayer into a damsel in distress and Xander into a soldier. He'd turned Giles into a Fyarl. The git had power, give him that. The kind of power that would allow him to-not forget; he'd never forget the Slayer-but maybe do something about this pain that was eating him up inside until he really was no more than a cold, dead shell. Dawn needed more than a shell. Her whole family gone, and he'd promised the Slayer . . . he'd given his word. Spike decided to make Ethan Rayne's acquaintance. Maybe they could be of help to each other.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan
It was the constant, unremitting glare of the fluorescent lights that bothered him the most, Ethan decided. Well, that, and the constant, unremitting pain of Ripper's betrayal, of course. He'd been in this bloody facility for over a year, and he still couldn't quite believe that Ripper had turned him over to the sodding soldier boys without a qualm. That wasn't at all sporting of the old man. Turn him into a stink beetle or something-fine. That he could accept. That's how the game was played. Tit for tat. But to give him over to the bloody American secret ops or whatever the hell they called themselves, to be locked away without benefit of trial or counsel-left to rot in the middle of the bleeding desert . . . well. Ethan didn't have the words for that! After they'd had such a nice time reminiscing at the pub, too!
Initially, Ethan thought Rupert was teaching him a lesson. Putting the fear of-what? The American military might?-into him. He expected he'd be required to do penance for a fortnight or so-possibly as long as a month-before his release. But the months dragged on and Rupert never came. The Initiative complex had become a bloody oubliette. An oubliette with fluorescent lights. There was no longer any day or night-no quiet darkness in which a man could think and plan-there was only the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights illuminating every corner of his cell until Ethan thought he'd go mad.
When he finally accepted that he'd been forgotten-that no one was coming to save him-Ethan knew he'd have to save himself. He dredged up every spell he'd ever cast from the recesses of his mind and tinkered with them until he'd designed the one he needed. He had no ingredients, no candles, no accoutrements of any kind, no talismans or focal points. He had only himself-Ethan Rayne, Chaos mage. It would have to be enough.
He planned to fast for three days before attempting the spell. He'd need a specific destination-one he was familiar with. One that still resonated with the remnants of magicks he'd called in the past. One not too far away from his present location, as he was fairly sure he couldn't harness the power needed to return to England under these extremely limiting conditions.
Ethan planned and prepared until he was finally ready. He chose his time carefully. The hours between three and six in the morning were the low point in the human biorhythm schedule. More natural deaths occurred during that window of time than any other. Best not go there, old man. Concentrate on the positives! No matter how long one worked the 'graveyard shift', one's body never quite acclimated to the pre-dawn dip in alertness, energy and functioning. It was the lowest point of the cycle of Chi-the nadir of the life force. The guards would be less alert during that time period, less likely to be paying attention to individual cell monitors.
Of course, his own energies would also be at their lowest point. Overcoming his own mind and body's lethargy to pull off a major spell at that time was risky . . . but that's what made it worth doing. Escaping from a heavily guarded secret military facility using only the resources he carried in his own mind was challenging; using his indomitable will to overcome what should have been a weakness and turning it to a strength for him alone, elevated the undertaking from merely challenging to extraordinary. And he, Ethan Rayne, was going to pull it off.
The following two nights passed without incident in the Initiative complex in Nevada. On the third night, the fluorescent lights buzzed, as they were occasionally wont to do, and momentarily dimmed at 4:06 a.m. Their brightness was immediately restored seconds later, and the brief incident was not remarked. Thus, all evidence of Ethan's teleportation spell was lost. At 4:05:58, Ethan Rayne was sitting cross-legged on the thin, hard mattress on his assigned bunk in cell #234; at 4:06:04, he was gone. His disappearance was never solved.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan was cowering-Yes, cowering. Admit it, you prat!-in the back room of the defunct costume shop, as he had been doing for the past four days. He'd occasionally sneak out in the wee hours of the morning to the 24-Hour Grocery to stock up on needed supplies, but that was the sole extent of his forays from his hidey-hole.
Funny, that. He'd thought he'd be free when he escaped from the Initiative facility. He hadn't counted on the craven terror of being discovered and sent back. Oh, bollocks! The sodding soldier boys had managed to change him, after all. The brash, cocky, devil-may-care attitude that had been so much a part of Ethan Rayne for nearly forty years was nowhere to be found. It’s just subjugated, not lost, Ethan hastened to assure himself. He didn't think he could bear spending the rest of his life hiding in the dark, quivering in his boots like a nancy-boy . . . or like a helpless old man.
Ethan had always felt young and vital, no matter what the calendar said, but now he felt old. Old and frightened. Hell, he was as much a prisoner here as he'd been for the past year and a half! Just call me Number Six, he muttered.
Coming back to Sunnydale may have been a mistake. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Close enough that he'd felt reasonably certain he could work the teleportation spell, and he'd been here often enough that he knew the lay of the land, but he'd apparently forgotten that there was a branch of the Initiative here in Sunnydale. Giles didn't seem disposed to let bygones be bygones; he'd made no attempt to get Ethan released and hadn't even come to visit, so he couldn't go to Giles for help. Giles owned the local magic store, and he and his little band of merry boys and girls all knew Ethan on sight, which limited his options regarding supplies. To top it all off, after he'd turned Rupert into a Fyarl and the Slayer'd nearly killed him in demon form, Ethan had to assume the children would also be disinclined to help.
Ethan sighed, and then filled a pot with water and put it on the hotplate to boil. Perhaps everything would seem a bit less dire with the restorative properties of tea? One could only hope.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan and Spike
Ethan heard the screech of metal as the shop door was ripped open and was thankful he hadn't yet picked up the pot of boiling water to make the tea. If he had, he was certain that third degree burns would have been his lot, and he had quite enough problems without the addition of a physical disability, thank you very much! He heard someone moving around in the shop-only one person, so probably not the Initiative boys, but that left only one option. Ethan wiped his damp palms on the tea towel, and patted his forehead and upper lip to erase the signs of fear that sudden entrance had engendered. He squared his shoulders, pasted on his best cocky smirk, and flung back the length of heavy material that curtained off the back room.
“Hullo, Ripper. Happy to see me? Guess you just couldn't stay- Hang on! You're not Ripper!”
“No, 'm not. Don't believe I know any 'Ripper'-well, not since Jack, anyway, and he's long dust. Angelus did for 'im-said he was callin' too much attention to-”
“Who the bloody hell are you?”
“Spike. An' you're the bloke that bespelled the Halloween costumes an' turned Rupert Giles into a Fyarl, right?”
Ethan preened. “Heard of me, have you?”
“Could smell the magicks from this place a block away.”
“Erm . . . you're not one of those Initiative chaps, are you?”
“Fuck, no! They're the ones got me into this whole soddin' mess in the first place! If they hadn't put the bleedin' chip in m' head, I'd never have fallen for the Slayer an' I'd prob'ly be in South America with Dru right now, 'stead of here in bloody Sunnyhell weepin' m' guts out over her . . . ending.”
“Well, that's alright, then. I'm not too fond of the soldier boys myself, and would prefer to avoid them.”
“Not a problem. They closed down th' Initiative after their own personal Frankenstein monster ran amuck n' started a war between th' humans an' th' demons. Most o' the Initiative gits that survived were transferred elsewhere. Belize or some such place.”
“Well, that's a relief. I'd been a 'guest' of the Initiative for some time, finally got free, and don't fancy being locked up again. But if you're not here to take me in, what are you doing here? And you couldn't have knocked, rather than breaking down the bloody door?”
“Sorry. Wasn't thinkin' too clearly. That's always my trouble, innit? Follow m' blood 'stead of m' head. I sensed the magicks and thought maybe you could do a spell for me . . .”
“A spell? That might be arranged. Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea and tell me all about it. Maybe we can be of help to each other, hmm?”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan tapped his fingers on the wooden crate he was using as an end table and thought. He hadn't renounced Chaos by any means, and he was sure that when he'd managed to put enough distance between himself and the States, his natural joie de vivre would reassert itself, but for now, it was best to keep a low profile. The second pot of tea had finished steeping, and he poured fresh cups for Spike and himself. Ethan sipped his tea and decided to play it straight for once.
“You seem like a decent fellow, so I'll give you some advice, absolutely gratis. You don't want a forgetting spell. They're tricky things, and along with the pain, you'd be likely to forget all about your girl, probably your friends, and possibly who you are, in addition. I still can't quite believe I'm telling you this-in the past, I'd have done the spell and sat back to watch the damage and get a good laugh out of the whole thing. Guess I'm not quite as evil as some people think I am, hmm? No, the best remedy I know to dull the pain is a good single malt, at least twelve years old. You wouldn't happen to have any, would you?”
“No . . . but I might know where I can get some.”
“Well, well. Run along then, and we'll talk more over a glass or two.”
Twenty minutes later, Spike returned with a bottle of fifteen-year-old Lagavulin.
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “That's Rupert's brand.”
“Well . . . yeah. 's Rupert's whiskey. Knicked it from the Magic Box.”
Ethan laughed, opened the bottle and poured some for each of them. Halfway through the bottle, he looked closely at Spike. He was having a bit of trouble focusing and squinted in an attempt to read Spike's expression.
“What is it that you really want?”
Spike's voice was low and ragged. “I want things to be different. I want to be faster . . . stronger. I want to save the girl . . .”
Ethan's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. “You're talking about a temporal fold spell, and they never turn out like you think they're going to. You make one change and everything changes-are you willing to risk that? Are you willing to risk losing the sister who lived to save the one who died?”
Spike slowly shook his head. “No. She wouldn't want it like that. Everything she did was t' protect the Little Bit. Can't even imagine the kind of pain she'd be in if she lost Dawn. Wouldn't want to. Couldn't put her through that.”
“Well, then . . . the way I see it, you don't need a spell; you need a purpose. What would she want you to do?”
“Look out for Dawn, help the bloody Scoobies, be the kind of man-”
“Well, then-there's your answer.”
“You're right. 's what I need t' do. No more mopin' and whingin'-she's countin' on me an' m' not gonna let her down again.”
Spike leaned forward and put a hand on Ethan's knee. He looked deeply into Ethan's eyes. “Y'know, the Initiative changed me. Put a buggerin' chip in m' head. Made it so I couldn't hunt-couldn't kill-an' I thought it was the end of the world. Thought there was nothin' worth livin' for. And then I fell in love with th' - a girl. An' she treated me like a man, 'stead of a monster. After a bit, I wanted to become the man she thought I was. 'M just sayin'-maybe the Initiative did you a favor, too. Maybe this is your chance to become the kind of man Rupert could respect an' want to be friends with, if that's what you want.”
Ethan looked thoughtful. He'd been so sure the stuffy Watcher was a pose that he'd been concentrating all his energies into bringing back the old Ripper, but only ended up royally pissing off Rupert. Maybe Rupert had changed, and maybe he could, too. Oh, not that he'd ever be good; he enjoyed Chaos too much for that. But perhaps there was a middle ground-not good, but not really evil, either. Spike seemed to have found that middle ground, maybe he could, too. And then, maybe he and Rupert could be friends again. They'd both enjoyed the night at the pub, before he'd turned Rupert into a demon-he was sure of that. This astounding idea of Spike's would definitely bear further thought.
Spike withdrew a folder from an inner pocket of his duster and handed it to Ethan. “It's a bus ticket to LA. If we couldn't stop Glory, I had the idea t' send th' Platelet t' Angel. He may be a bloody great ponce, an' I never liked him, but he'd do right by th' Little Bit if Buffy an' I weren't . . . well. Don't need it now so here's your Get Out of Sunnydale Free card. Cheers! Well, better go. Got things t' do an' people t' see.”
Spike raised a hand to his brow and tipped a salute to Ethan, and then he was gone.
Ethan looked at the ticket in his hand and smiled.
The End