Fic: The Book
Title: The Book
Author: PricelessSpike
Era/season/setting: Post Season 12
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Spike and Buffy have ended their relationship and are living separate lives. They bump into each other in London, where Spike is on a mission. Some knowledge of the DH comics would be helpful.
I originally wrote this scene from Buffy's pov, and my lovely beta @Stoney helped knock it into some sort of shape. But then I realised that it should have been Spike's pov. So I have written two versions. Spike's section hasn't been beta'd so all mistakes are my own. Hope it's not too dull reading the same scene twice.
Once Buffy had placed the Vampyr Book into the safe, the two Council witches incanted their spells and placed talismanic stones at its four corners. Two Deepscan slayers, armed with stakes and Glocks, took up guard duty.
Buffy nodded her goodbyes as she and the witches left the room, the door quickly locked behind them. The witches immediately vanished to god knows where and Buffy was left to make her way onto the busy London street alone. It was cold and already getting dark, though it was only late afternoon. She wished, not for the first time, that the Mystical Council would agree to winter in the Caribbean. She may add that to the agenda of their next meeting she thought idly, pulling gloves, scarf and hat out of her oversized bag.
That was when she saw him. A flash of white hair. Hard to miss, even in the twilight. He was walking away from her on the other side of the street, but his hair, the set of his shoulders, the cigarette, it had to be him.
“Spike,” she called without thinking, watching him weave through rushing pedestrians. Self-consciously, she called again, louder this time. He turned, and before she knew it, he was skip hopping through the traffic to get to her. Horns blared, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Hey stranger,” she greeted, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him close. They hadn’t seen each other in months, and she was so happy to see him, she couldn’t help but tell him how much she’d missed him.
“Can you miss a stranger, pet?” he asked, doubtfully. There was a gloomy undertone to his voice and Buffy pulled away, a questioning look on her face. “Dammit Slayer, still as pretty as a picture,” he teased with a grin, quickly changing the mood, but not quickly enough.
“What’s wrong?” Buffy asked, knowing him too well to be taken in by a pleasing grin and easy flattery.
“We can’t talk here,” he said, as they were jostled by passing pedestrians.
“Freehouse. On the corner,” Buffy suggested. Spike nodded and she led the way. They walked quickly and without speaking.
Once ensconced at a corner table in the mostly empty pub, Buffy relaxed and watched Spike, as he made his way to the bar. She thought of how easy their relationship had once been, before she’d decided to make changes to her life, changes that hadn’t included him. They’d agreed it was a mutual decision, but inevitably regret had set in, though not soon enough to rescue their relationship and Spike had slowly slipped out of her life. She was now Head of the Mystical Council and led a mostly solitary life in London. And Spike?... Well, they barely kept in touch nowadays. Occasionally, slayers would report that he’d been spotted in some out of the way location, but no nefarious acts had been witnessed, so he’d been allowed to proceed unaccosted.
He returned to the table with a pint in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
“Talk,” she ordered, taking a steadying sip of the house red.
“It’s Fred and Illyria.”
This was the last thing Buffy had expected and she could only stare at Spike in confusion. The women had been missing for three years. They’d jumped through a portal into another dimension and were thought lost forever.
“Angel found them,” Spike continued. “He bought them back.”
“How did he do it?” Buffy asked, stunned by the news and wondering why Angel hadn’t let her know, or why none of the Watchers knew.
“Magic. Witches. Trials. The usual,” Spike replied, dismissively.
Buffy couldn’t help but roll her eyes at Spike’s disregard of Angel’s achievement. Some things never changed, including the pettiness of certain vampires.
“But they’re not right. It’s like they’ve been poisoned against each other, they can’t co-exist anymore. They’re dying, and I can’t let that happen, I have to do something.” Buffy could see he was trying to keep his emotions in check. She reached across the grubby table and put her hand over his, trying to comfort him.
“Oh god, I am so sorry,” she commiserated. “We’ll get Willow and the coven to help. And the Watchers, Giles will find something archaic-y. We’ll…”
“Haven’t you been listening, Slayer?” Spike pulled his hand away and Buffy tensed at his raised voice. “I’ve done that. Angel’s done that. He’s spoken to witches, prayed to gods, called on the bloody useless Powers That Be. Nothing works. Nothing will work. Don’t you understand?!”
The few scant patrons of the bar turned to stare at them, but Spike kept his eyes on Buffy. She stared back in growing disbelief, finally understanding what he was really asking of her. This was about The Vampyr Book. Spike wanted to change the rules of magic to save their friends.
“No,” she said, sounding calm but resolute. She finished her wine and rose to her feet. “No,” she repeated, less calmly, as Spike moved to block her exit. He grabbed her arm, making the table rock and the wine glass overturn. They both knew she could easily pull away, but she allowed him to force her back to her seat. With slow and silent deliberation, she righted the glass and pushed it purposefully to the centre of the table. She could see Spike watching her anxiously and she hoped he could see how disappointed she was.
“This is Illyria and Fred,” he said almost pleadingly. “They saved us all, saved the world, saved your future. They saved me over and over. Fred… she was the only one who… Please Buffy… think what they’ve done for us.” Buffy looked down at her hands, knowing how callous and cruel she must see, but she remained silent. “Fuck,” he hissed, “well then, think what they’ve done for Angel. How much they mean to him.”
Buffy raised her eyes at this verbal jab. “You think that would sway me? Angel’s finer feelings? Damn it Spike, I know how much I owe Illyria and Fred, how much they’ve done for me and for the people I care about. But I can’t change the rules of magic to save our friends. My duty is to the world.” She straightened her back then and became the unyielding slayer she had to be. “It would be corrupt Spike. It would be a betrayal of everything the slayers stand for. Please say you understand that?”
He lent across the table, a look of desperation on his face. “I’ll steal the book,” he threatened. “I’ll break into that Council building and steal the accursed thing.” A shadowy half-formed thought flitted across Buffy’s mind, why had Spike been outside the Mystical Council today? Did he know she would be there? Had he been watching the place?
“You’ll do no such thing,” she replied, keeping her voice low, not wanting to attract more attention from their fellow patrons. “That book is so well guarded, by magics and slayers, the whole nine yards. They’d sense you before you got to the front door. You’d be dust in seconds.” Spike threw himself morosely back into his chair, making it tip on to two legs then drop forward with a crack.
Buffy knew Spike was right, without Illyria there may not have been a slayer line and without her sacrifice the future could have been lost. Illyria had helped defeat Severin, helped to save Spike and Angel in the battle of Los Angeles… she knew the vastness of the debt she owed, not only to them, but to so many.
It was unsettling to see Spike so hopeless; it was so unlike him. She hated that they were sniping at each other, she’d been so happy to see him and now she just felt drained. She’d do all she could to help, that wasn’t even a question, but she had to make him understand she could never use the Vampyr book for selfish reasons.
“Spike,” she said gently, “if I could write in the Vampyr book, do you know what I’d write?”
He grabbed his beer, downed the dregs and carelessly dropped the empty glass on the table. He was still angry, but he wasn’t leaving, so Buffy tentatively continued.
“I’d write that my mom didn’t die.” Spike turned sharply towards her, his look one of surprised concern, she had to look away or she wouldn’t be able to continue. “I’d write that she lives a long and healthy life. That right now she’s in San Francisco, babysitting her grandkids.” Her throat burned and she had to swallow hard, it hurt to speak her most yearned for dreams out loud. “She’ll ring me tonight and we’ll just talk. She’ll ask if I’m eating enough and when was I coming home for a visit.”
She paused and forced herself to look at Spike. She saw only compassion in his face and she managed a shaky smile in return. She didn’t want either of them to feel sad anymore. “I’d write that Tara and Willow were blissfully happy together, travelling the universe, or just… I don’t know… re-painting the bathroom,” she let out a choked laugh. “I’d write that Anya was alive, even if it meant she went back to being a demon.”
“Anyanka’d be leader of the Justice Demons Union,” Spike added and they shared a sad smile.
Buffy thought of all those that had been lost, all the potentials and slayers that hadn’t survived, all the dead kids from Sunnydale High and UC Sunnydale… she’d write them all back into existence if she could. But she knew she couldn’t and now Spike knew it too.
“We’ve lost people, we’ve even lost each other,” Buffy said wistfully, “but we carried on, because we had to. It’s what we do. It’s hard… okay, sometimes it’s impossible, but we do it.”
“But we found each other,” Spike said. He glanced at her, almost shyly and she wanted to reach out and touch him, but was scared she’d break the spell that had been woven between them. “And I’m glad of that,” he said quietly, “because you’re my constant, even when you seem lost to me.”
Buffy wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she was never lost to him, not really. She had been lost to herself for a while and had set out on a wrong path, but now she desperately wanted to be as true to him as he believed her to be. Before she could gather the right words, Spike stood and said “Let’s get out of here. This place is bloody depressing.” He picked up the empty glasses and took them to the bar and the two of them walked out into a freezing evening.
The cool air roused Buffy from her dreamings and with a hand on Spike’s arm, she asked, “You aren’t going to steal the book are you?”
Spike seemed to think for a moment, “Nah, not with those talismans all over the place, those bloody things are dangerous.”
“Thank god,” she laughed with relief, and without letting go of his arm, “let’s go and see Giles. We can call Willow from his place. I know they’ll be able to help.”
. . . . .
Everyone knew where the Vampyr book was kept, it was an open secret in the demon world. It was moved occasionally, to show the Council could still play the game, but it always ended up back here. Cold, dank, dirty London, in January. He hated it. Who in their right mind actually liked rain? He preferred sunnier climes.
He stared at the grey and red brickwork, the averagely sized unadorned windows, the dull glass entry door, with fire exit off to one side. It was the epitome of nondescript. He imagined that no one walking past would suspect for one moment that this building contained one of the most precious things in this world or any other.
Then like some terrible cosmic joke, he saw the love of his undead life exiting that same nondescript Mystical Council building. Blonde. 5’2” on a good day. Right hook like a runaway train and the sexiest woman he’d ever had the pleasure and pain of knowing.
He turned and walked in the opposite direction, hoping she wouldn’t notice him, but he’d never been that lucky. The second time she called his name he stopped and turned towards her. She was smiling so broadly, it felt like seeing him had made her day. It was certainly going to ruin his, he was sure of that.
He hop skipped through the traffic, feeling like a right ponce, but putting on a show for his slayer. He may have even waved. A few drivers hit their horns and got a two fingered salute in response. That cheered him up a bit.
“Hey stranger,” she greeted, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him close. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against the top of her head. He could feel her warm breath against his neck and he shivered. He wasn’t a complete fool; he knew he was in deep trouble. He was smelling her hair, so things were already pretty desperate. He reminded himself he was on a mission and he could not be side tracked by Buffy Summers.
“Can you miss a stranger, pet?” he asked, pleased by this clever reply. Buffy must have heard a gloomy undertone because she gave him a questioning look and asked him what was wrong. He should have known she wouldn’t be so easily taken in by his skipping and waving and witty repartee.
“We can’t talk here,” he said, hoping she’d make her excuses, have places to be, boyfriends to shag …
“Freehouse. On the corner,” she suggested. Spike nodded and again cursed his appalling luck.
Once Buffy was ensconced at a corner table in the mostly empty pub, Spike made his way to the bar. One minute he was casing the Mystical Council building, the next he was having a cosy drink with the ex who’d *dumped him (*by mutual consent) and broke his heart. He ordered her a large red wine, hoping it’d go straight to her head.
In the four seconds it took from bar to table, Spike decided he would have to be, mostly, honest with the slayer. He had many talents, but he was not a great liar and she might even be persuaded that his plan had merit… okay, that was doubtful, but this unexpected meeting with Buffy felt … fated … so fuck it, he would put all his kittens in one basket.
“Talk,” she ordered, taking a sip of the house red and pulling a face. He didn’t hide his smirk.
“It’s Fred and Illyria.”
He could tell this was the last thing Buffy had expected to hear and she stared at him in confusion. He sympathised; the women had been missing for three years. They’d jumped through a portal into another dimension and were thought lost forever.
“Angel found them,” Spike continued. “He bought them back.”
“How did he do it?” Buffy asked, beautiful green eyes wide and expectant, as if he were going to delight her with the story of Angel’s heroics. Not happening in this lifetime sweetheart.
“Magic. Witches. Trials. The usual,” he replied, dismissively. Did she just roll her eyes at him? Slayers could be very petty.
“But they’re not right. It’s like they’ve been poisoned against each other, they can’t co-exist anymore, not in the one body. They’re dying and I can’t let that happen, I have to do something.” He didn’t want to tell Buffy the full horror, the screaming, the begging, the violent outbursts. Fred running a blade across her own throat, Angel driven half mad by their wailing. He didn’t want to tell Buffy any of these things, especially when she reached across the grubby table and put her little hand over his.
“Oh god, I am so sorry,” she commiserated in that sweet way of hers. “We’ll get Willow and the coven to help. And the Watchers, Giles will find something archaic-y. We’ll…”
“Haven’t you been listening, Slayer?” He pulled his hand away and Buffy tensed as he raised his voice. He hadn’t meant to shout, but she was being kind and he had a mission and he couldn’t let himself get distracted. “We’ve done that. Angel’s done that. He’s spoken to witches, prayed to gods, called on the bloody useless Powers That Be. Nothing works. Nothing will work. Don’t you understand?!”
The few scant patrons of the bar turned to stare at them, but Spike kept his eyes on Buffy. She stared back at him for a long moment and he could tell, by the widening of her eyes, that she finally understood what he was really asking of her. She was no fool, his slayer.
“No,” she said, sounding calm but resolute. She finished her wine and rose to her feet. “No,” she repeated, less calmly, as Spike moved to block her exit. He grabbed her arm, not knowing what else to do to make her stay. The table rocked and the wine glass overturned. They both knew she could easily have pushed him away, but she allowed him to force her back to her seat. With frighteningly slow deliberation, she righted the glass and pushed it purposefully to the centre of the table. Spike would have understood if she’d thrown it in his face.
“This is Illyria and Fred,” he said, hating how pathetic he sounded. “They saved us all, saved the world, saved your future. They saved me over and over. Fred… she was the only one who… Please Buffy… think what they’ve done for us.” Buffy looked down at her hands and said nothing. So cruel, this sweet girl, Spike wondered how he would ever stop loving her. “Fuck,” he hissed, and went all in. “Well then, think what they’ve done for Angel. How much they mean to him.”
Buffy glared at him and he couldn’t deny the pleasure he felt, when she was this angry, she vibrated with power ... “You think that would sway me? Angel’s finer feelings?” Well, yeah actually, he had, but it seemed he’d made another wrong call. “Damn it Spike, I know how much I owe Illyria and Fred, how much they’ve done for me and for the people I care about. But we can’t change the rules of magic to save our friends. My duty is to the world.” She straightened her back and suddenly looked nail hard. “It would be corrupt. It would be a betrayal of everything the slayers stand for. Please say you understand that?”
Bollocks, he should have run when he first saw her, too late now of course. She was looking at him with flinted eyes … no, he was not to be distracted by this damn woman. “I’ll steal the book,” he threatened. “I’ll break into that Council building and steal the accursed thing.” He sounded crazy even to himself.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she replied, keeping her voice low. “That book is so well guarded by magics and slayers, the whole nine yards. They’d sense you before you got to the front door. You’d be dust in seconds.” Spike threw himself morosely back into his chair, making it tip on to two legs then drop forward with a crack. You are well and truly fucked my lad, that’s what you are.
“Spike,” she said, surprising him with the sudden gentleness of her voice, “if I could write in the Vampyr book, do you know what I’d write?” Her eyes were downcast, but he could see the shimmer of tears. He’d wanted to save Illyria and Fred, to do a good thing, but all he’d actually done was make the woman he loved cry. “I’d write that my mom didn’t die,” she said quietly and he wondered if a vampire could dust from shame.
“I’d write that she lives a long and healthy life. That right now she’s in San Francisco, babysitting her grandkids. She’ll ring me tonight and we’ll talk. She’ll ask if I’m eating enough and when was I coming home for a visit.”
She paused and must have seen compassion in his face, because she gave him a shaky smile. “I’d write that Tara and Willow were blissfully happy together, travelling the universe, or just… I don’t know… re-painting the bathroom,” she let out a choked laugh. “I’d write that Anya was alive, even if it meant she went back to being a demon.”
“Anya Jenkins, leader of the Justice Demons Union,” Spike added, desperate to make her smile.
“We’ve lost people, we’ve even lost each other,” Buffy said wistfully, “but we carried on, because we had to. It’s what we do. It’s hard… okay, sometimes it’s impossible, but we do it.”
“But we found each other.” He glanced at her shyly, wishing that he could keep his bloody trap shut, but of course he couldn’t. “And I’m glad of that, because you’re my constant, even when you seem lost to me.”
She didn’t reply and Spike didn’t blame her. He was acting like a right namby-pamby slayers-boy. None of this was meant to be about them, he’d agreed on the sodding separation, he couldn’t be a cry-baby about it now. Christ, he needed a fag. “Let’s get out of here. This place is bloody depressing.”
They walked out into the cool evening and with a warming hand on Spike’s arm, Buffy asked, “You aren’t going to steal the book, are you?”
Spike hesitated for a moment, diverted by the slayers pretty pink-cheeked face, close enough to kiss. “Nah, not with those talismans all over the place, those things are bloody dangerous.”
“Thank god,” she laughed with relief. “Let’s go and see Giles. We can call Willow from his place. I know they’ll be able to help.”