Spikeid X
Back into the swing of the endgame now, where perhaps unsurprisingly I find myself getting a bit more wordy than before, so this book clocks in at ~4600 words (~580 lines). Still Spuffy (though Spike&Gunn + Spike&Illyria are probably more relevant labels here), still PG-13, still warnings generally for death and denied agency, though they only vaguely come up in this book. Big thanks to brutti_ma_buoni, who betas like a trooper and slapped my wrist in all the right places. Not in a weird way. Um.
Spike and the others return to the upper world.
[IX]
X
It’s later, in the evening, when Spike stands
With cigarette, back on the roof again -
The one that’s so familiar, where he
Escaped from rain and war and ruined streets.
Of course, this tarmac’s now just like the road,
With black-stained blood, congealed despite the rain:
The demon bodies haven’t washed away
And he can’t look, can’t stare at their dead eyes
And smell their rotting flesh - needs acrid smoke
While Buffy and the others get the spell
Set up. Distracted by the night, he breathes
And wonders what is wrong with him that he
Can’t yet be happy with things as they are.
He’s not sure what is wrong with him, that she
Can break down crying in his arms, but then
Wake up and take the new day fresh, sleep out
The next night restful at his side, and then
Fill up his heart with careful words, like they’re
Not tumbling to hell. When he glanced back
Before, he saw her smiling with the other girls,
The slayer-witches with their sand and quartz:
She gestured with her doll-like arms, her sleeves
Too long on that daft plastic anorak,
The navy pulled in tight around her face
As she peeked out from underneath the hood.
He watched the rhythmic patter of the rain
And knew that he was glad to have her there.
Mouth curving in a smile, his arms both itched
To snatch her close to him and feel her warmth
(Despite the rain), spin them around, pull free
The toggles tucked in closely by her chin
And nuzzle in the softness of her hair -
But then the feeling faded; all his thoughts
Crept back to everything that could go wrong.
He turned away, back to their hollow town.
He understands their differences, he thinks:
She always drew her energy from goals,
From final fights. When she saw how to win,
She used to go all out, take any chance -
Accept a truce from him, pull up her friends
And everyone to make them watch her lead -
Put everything aside as long as there
Was hope. While on the other hand there’s him,
Who, looking out into the night, is now
Not sure that he can say the same. He used
To love and all-out fight right to the edge,
Thought cheating death was how you knew you lived.
But he was young. He said that once, he thinks,
And knows it now. These constant ends of days,
They fill him full with dread, too much of it,
Since Buffy died, since Angel disappeared
(His grey-brown ash gone lost in rain
Two seconds after it had scattered loose -
No matter that the prophecies had said
That he would see the end of this sincere
Apocalypse, regain humanity,
Whatever else they promised too), since Spike
Himself put on that amulet and thought
That he would die. It felt right at the time,
But he’s not sure he has the strength to go
Again. No matter that he volunteered
When Angel set this up, no matter that
He knows that he exists on borrowed time
And this last year has been one long, damned fluke.
When Spike looks from the rooftop, all he sees
Is city, wide and grey and blue with night,
And looking at it, this feels like the end.
“You know we’re gonna make it, actually.”
The words come from his right and Spike turns round,
Completely startled to find Gunn is there,
Umbrella in his hands they took from some
Hotel. Spike stoops and joins him underneath,
Not bothered by the rain particularly,
But wanting more to hear what Gunn just said.
“What’s that?” he asks as he takes over hold
Of the umbrella, lifting it up more
So he can stand beside Gunn’s chair and talk.
The man nods to the city down below:
“We’ll be OK,” he says, “LA and us.
We’re gonna get through this and carry on,
The way we have so many times before.”
Gunn looks content with all the empty streets;
He scans their paths below and then explains,
“There’s people down there, must be still,
But we’ll fix things up here, and then Rondell
And Anne can catch it up with them; they’re good
At that.” Spike shakes his head, can’t quite believe.
“Yeah, right,” he says, not sure, “Could work.
And Buffy said the same so maybe it’s
All obvious… But how d’you know? I’ve not
Had much experience with fixing towns -
Spent too long trashing them, I s’pose -
But how does anyone come back from this?”
He gestures out again, ahead of them,
To all the hollow buildings, empty shells
Of brick and concrete, mirrored glass that used
To look alive with coloured lights, but now
Lies cold and empty, pelted slick with rain.
“Two answers,” Gunn replies, “The first of those?
Is money. That’ll fix the most parts we
Can see up here; the corporates have enough,
And they’ll all want the city looking how
It did before, no sweat it’s not their home.
They’ll be OK - they’ll probably get streets
Named after them. And everybody else?
Well, that’s the second answer that I’ve got.”
He smiles, all the secrets on his face.
“Not many people really realise
How little you don’t need to make it here,
But, right, I’ve lived down there on lightless streets
With nothing to my name but my old crew,
And even fighting demons I got by.
Rondell lived out the same, and Anne’s done good;
There’s people who’ll come back for cheaper rents
And they’ll all make it, like we did before.
I mean, it might not be so pretty but
We’ll be OK. We get this done, we’ll be.”
Gunn looks convinced, nods certainly at Spike
Despite the way his arms are crossed against
The cold. Spike wishes he could feel that way -
“This feels too much like it is ending how
It always would,” he tries explaining it.
“My whole world gone tits up, that’s just about
What every year has been for far too long,
And getting shitter every time till it
Has brought me here. And, if I’m honest, now
It makes no sense that things will be all right,
That we’ll get back to how it was before.
Not after everything’s been buggered up.”
“Well, hey,” Gunn interjects, adjusting where
His wheelchair’s settled on the roof, the move
Not that unpointed, “good thing that the world
Don’t only turn round your bad vampire self.”
Spike laughs and shuts his eyes as he rolls round
The tall umbrella in his hands, feels how
The forces twist and push against his thumbs:
It’s like a sword, but much more use in rain.
“Good thing,” he then agrees, his eyes on Gunn
Again. “Good thing.” And yeah, it really is,
Although he doesn’t know what else to say.
But thankfully Gunn’s still amused by him.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “looks like you are not
Alone with thinking that the city’s pain
Is yours.” He nods towards another edge,
A little further down from where they are
To where Illyria is standing like
A Batman villain in the lonely night,
Her stiff-straight silhouette just visible
As she looks out across the city, perched
Old hawk devoid of prey. Spike hopes that he
Did not look as ridiculous as that.
“You go and talk to her blue majesty,”
Gunn says, his hand held up and beckoning
To take the brolly back. “I get too much
Of her sometimes, don’t really need to be
Reminded of her now, before we go.”
Spike nods, agreeing tacitly that this
They have to sort; you can’t have Blue upset
Before she maybe has to fight - or, worse than that,
Before she has to keep a stranglehold
Against her temper as they chat this out.
Gunn nods and leaves, so Spike is free to go.
“All right, Illyria?” he asks, back out
In rain, the cool, quick pinpricks on his head.
“You’re not about to jump, are you?” Of course,
She doesn’t get the implication there,
Just turns her head and looks at him, eyes wide
As though they see and will see everything,
Blue streaks of hair in clumps around her chin,
The curling tendrils dark like clinging weeds
Encroaching on her flawless, ancient face.
She’s Nike from a shipwreck’s broken bow,
If not his Weltschmertz made personified.
“You dare presume to speak to me?” she says,
Quite jarringly, her anger short and sharp.
The accusation shocks him out of gloom
To somewhere new as she goes on, “This shell
Is mere inconsequential trapping, yet
You all presume address, consider not
That I am greater than your very best
Of thoughts, than all your life that breathes in breath.
What makes you dare with them?” “Well, actually,”
He’s not sure where this conversation’s gone,
But he has one reply, “I ‘talk’ to you
Because you’ve been OK with it for months.
One lowly vamp, here - can’t expect I’ll read
Your mind.” He wants to say a little more,
In case she didn’t get the sarcasm,
But then she interrupts: “Exactly, yes.
A lowly vampire. You are nothing, not
When standing bathed in my great light of grace.”
Now, if it weren’t that she had shaking hands,
Those hands in impotent, tight fists beside
Her hips, Spike wouldn’t let this carry on.
But as it is he’s had experience
With people telling him he’s nothing just
Because they’re feeling insecure, and so
He doesn’t say a word, but waits instead.
Maybe she’ll tell him what exactly’s wrong?
Or not: she spits on acidly at him,
“Yes, you are nothing, not like me. And I
Am not like you, no lowly vampire.”
She steps in one step closer; he retreats,
Unnerved and not sure what she means to say.
“You feed,” she says, the accusation clear,
“Filth - you are always feeding, gulping blood
In need of sustenance and life, although
You do not grow or breed or live or change.
You take more than is necessary, more
Than any magic should require to fix
Your image as it was, to hold your corpse
Beyond decay.” Spike’s not sure what she means.
All right, he understands, perhaps they don’t
Quite follow physics’ laws, not vampires,
Consuming endless lives when theirs are fixed,
When they don’t grow; he’s never felt the lack
For having daily pig pints rather than
A tough guy and his date behind a pub
(Apart from the impressive dearth of taste),
But then can you expect your demons all
To fit exactly with the natural laws?
And what’s it to her if they don’t, at that?
He’s not quite sure - and more than that he can’t
See how Illyria thinks she is not
The same. “Hang on,” he tells her, shuts her up -
It serves her right for all the ‘filths’ she’s said -
“Exactly how is that you are not like me?”
The more he thinks on it the more it’s clear.
“The basic principle of you and me
Is all the same - you took a body as
A host. Fred’s body. You killed her to live.”
She has shut up, but he goes on some more -
He won’t let her escape this, can’t forget,
“The same way I got born or what you say
When Dru delivered me from who I was
Alive, that’s just the same was what you did.
And yeah, so maybe I had memories,
But you have Fred’s as well, don’t you? I’ll bet.”
She does, he sees it as she steps away.
“You think they’re separate from what you’ve become,
But then, I reckon, sometimes you can feel
Them bleeding in. Like when you grieve for Wes.
You ever grieved for anyone before,
Illyria? You ever wished someone
Would notice you, the way you did with him?
I saw you hang on every word he said,
And I don’t think that’s how you were before.”
He came to cheer her up, but he has had
Enough of this, enough of her belief
That she is something greater and enough
Of letting everything and everyone
Make him feel like stale shit. “You’re sounding like
Near every demon on this earth, convinced
That vampires are fifty rungs below,
But you’ve got no excuse, no separate life.
You, you’re a parasite like me, no more.”
It’s wounding her, he sees it as she turns
To duck her head, he hears it as she sneers
Low, violent mutterings. “You must be wrong;
“I cannot be a vampire, not I,
Not doomed to walk eternity in hell,
I cannot be like you -” Then words break off,
Her voice quite ragged now; she shakes her head
But still looks down, becoming lost
In honest desperation, begging him,
“How can I be like you, so weak with love,
So weak in offering your power up
To aid these humans whom you do not know?”
Now Spike can feel dark pity creeping back.
“You feed on blood and fill yourself with them,
Of course they’d take you. I am not the same,
I cannot be infected by this plague,
Not I - humanity… I know it, but -
I am not part of it, not so like this…”
And then, in one short moment, she stops still.
The trembling in her limbs has vanished now
And she looks up to stare at him, aware.
“Why are you watching me?” she asks, voice loud
And carrying, her syllables acute.
“Your place is not to watch me, vermin; leave.”
Against the force of it he cannot speak;
He turns to go, not sure what he thought he
Could manage with her highness anyway,
Since clearly cheering up Illyria
Is nothing more than some old mug’s game - but
That’s when they’re called across to where
The witches have assembled everything.
Her grudging feet are moving, he can hear
That she is following, and then he can’t
Resist the words that come… “You know what, Blue?”
He pauses, spins and snaps his coat to glare,
“There’s nothing wrong with maybe letting in
Humanity. It’s not like you’re the first
Big demon name to say I’m lowly muck
Who feels too much or cares too much; I’ve heard
That tune before.” Of course she stops
And stares at him, once more incensed by his
Presumption. “See, the thing is, in the end,
I couldn’t give a toss,” he says. “This world?
We might be higher on the food chain, but
The humans rule it, ocean, land and air;
It’s only demon pride that scoffs at that.
You try to be the baddest all you want,
But that is not what gets you power here.
There’s no shame saving them and, fuck it, that
Is what we’re gonna do and bugger me
If you are getting cold feet ‘bout it now.”
With that it crystallises in his mind,
What he is there for, what they’re meant to do;
Not letting Blue reply he sniffs and grins,
Turns back and seeks his favourite Slayer’s face,
Determination and a grim, straight smile
(Perhaps she isn’t quite as cheery as
He thought). “Aww, Spike,” she comments all the same,
“Who knew you loved humanity?” He laughs
And picks her up, brings both his frigid arms
Around her waist and hauls, sneaks in a kiss
As she comes down again. ‘Cause, yeah, he knows:
She didn’t want to go out ill at ease
With him, uncertain what they were - and Spike?
Now that he thinks about it he is sure
He needs a good apotropaic snog
Before the off. In public, where the world
Can see.
When they’ve pulled back, his Buffy looks
Like she can understand him perfectly.
“You like your PDAs medicinal?”
She asks (and he remembers she does not).
“I like this world,” he doesn’t answer, shrugs
Instead. “It’s nice to be reminded why.”
Unhesitating then, she hugs him close
So he can feel how frangibly she’s made,
Glass bottle, stoppered tightly, filled with grief.
His hold is careful as she whispers, soft,
“Remember that it likes you too, OK?”
He nods, now certain that he means to try.
Eventually they’re sitting where they should
And everyone’s aligned precisely so
To let the spell work how they mean it to:
It’s mostly like before, but there’s more quartz
And Gunn has joined them, sitting opposite
A kneeling Willow at the head of their
New cross. Spike gears himself for kick off, nods
Acknowledgement so that Gurpreet nods back;
It’s all about to start - when Sadie says,
“Wait, no, hang on; Elise, you have got
To be with Buffy, over here.” She’s up,
Is Sadie, then immediately stood
And everyone looks baffled, probably
Illyria the most of all as she’s
Been partnered with Elise since last time
(And up to now’s been sulking like a pro).
“I thought you did the spell this way before?”
Says Willow, frowning with befuddlement,
But Sadie shakes her head, now walking round
The outer ring of witches, by Gurpreet.
“It was,” comes her unyielding reply,
“But it’s not meant to be the same this time.”
Elise shrugs, stands up and swaps her place
So Sadie sits with Blue; and even though
He doesn’t want to guess or think about
The reasons why their partners need to change
(He wouldn’t have a clue in any case),
Spike watches as the girl sits carefully
To ground Illyria and wonders if
That’s really the arrangement Sadie knows
They have to have.
Without a hitch, the spell
Goes off and feels the way it felt before,
At least as they climb slowly up towards
The portal’s height. It’s not just bodies now,
However, Spike remembers, but they’re meant
To see things like they would at home on earth -
That’s how it was explained to him, but then
He’s not sure what that really means. At first
It feels the same, the churning spiralling,
The pressure on his skin as they approach
Where their dimensions intersect, the light
That’s like a burning, flashing on his eyes…
But then they’re through, and he can see at last
The way the world works in their terms.
Or not
Exactly their terms, but just his alone.
He realises this the moment when
They land and he has found himself inside
A memory. He thinks that Willow’s spell’s
Projecting it, he thinks she said something
Would work like that - that they would see this world
As through a lens their mind could comprehend,
With all the buildings built and people placed
To fit in with a structure they recall
And understand, can navigate with ease.
It didn’t sound so bad, but now he’s here
It’s strange. It’s really - he is not at ease.
It’s - Christ, it’s really what he thinks it is:
It’s his old college chapel, pews and dais,
Where they are standing, with the portal set
Behind, in place of where the altarpiece
Should sit, all brightly shifting rainbows with
The darker stitches round the edge… But they
Are being seen to by some mason boys,
The people here transformed to look like they
Have scaffolding and chisels, chipping rock
As if to break each big black portal stitch
From where they’re crawling up the organ loft
And out across the floor. Spike looks around,
Then realises that everyone who’s come
Has been refigured so they fit this place -
Gunn looks like someone who came up with him,
Familiar although Spike can’t recall his name,
While Buffy and Illyria are both
Made into Ladies Who Take Lectures, though
That leaves them both still somewhat out of place
Unchaperoned on his old chapel dais.
(And, bloody hell, he’s never thought before,
But now he knows that he must think of Blue
As being female, for his brain to make
Her image into this. He isn’t sure
He likes that realisation very much.)
The only calming sight he has is that,
When he looks down, he sees he’s dressed the same
As he was when they left. No gown for him.
Thank God. Relief’s enough to let him speak.
“I don’t know what you lot are seeing, but
I think we need to head outside,” he says,
Dismissing the illusions and his thoughts,
Or trying to at least consider them
An issue less important than the one
They came up to this world to fix. If this
Is a refiguration of the world
The leader here, he thinks, is probably played
By his old head of college, wotsisface:
They’ll need to find the old git’s Master’s Lodge
If they want answers and someone in charge.
“You mean we aren’t all in the lunch room back
At Hemery?” That must be Buffy, he
Assumes, although her voice is English, clipped
And very prim. “With you the guy two years
Above my class who kinda looked like Zack
From Saved by the Bell?” There would have been a smirk
With that, he thinks, if any woman smirked
In high society, but as it is
All Buffy looks is stern. Still, all the same,
There’s something in that, isn’t there? Was Zack
The one that twitty tween-birds fancied? He
Remembers once he saw repeats with Dawn…
“And we are focusing”,” Gunn intervenes,
His image walking on - peculiar
For being English, able-bodied, white.
Spike doesn’t like this spell that Willow’s done,
It only takes a moment to decide,
Because he cannot feel the trust that he
Should have for these three people here with him.
But still, they have to carry on and fix
This situation, he supposes, so
He falls in step with Gunn and follows as
He leaves the portal down the steps and aisle,
Across the black and white square tiles with all
The masons, journeymen, apprentices,
Ignoring them as they walk slowly out.
They leave the chapel, coming to the court,
And Spike remembers where to go from here -
Through past the hall and then eventually
Look left - but naturally they can’t just get
That done. Outside the doorway, underneath
The cloister, yellow-coloured stone, they’re met
By someone Spike does not remember, who
Stops short and asks them, “Hang on, who are you?”
He doesn’t fit in with the memory, Spike
Starts realising: from one perspective he’s
Another undergraduate with gown -
All right - but then just in the corner of
Spike’s eye the gown goes darker, looks like wings;
As if the spell can’t quite adapt to him,
His face grows pointed and his hair goes slick.
Unnerved and feeling that first fighting itch,
Spike wants to ask him who he is to ask.
“We’re from the other world,” Gunn intervenes.
“We come with alms of peace and hope to be
Received.” The stranger looks at them again,
His gaze now fixing squarely on Spike’s eyes.
“It’s you, the white-haired one. You’ve come, it’s you;
The reason why I’m now deaf, dumb and blind.”
“Who are you?” Spike replies, unsure what he
Should say. “And what exactly do you mean?
You’re talking to us now, aren’t you, with words?”
The not-quite-man then snorts, a little like
A beast, a little like he’s desperate
To air his grudge. He says, “What you call speech,
Perhaps I have that now, but I am still
Cut off from everyone to whom I’d wish
To speak. Their minds are closed to me, and you
Made sure of that.” The spell is still enough
To make him sound quite unassuming, one
Disgruntled Englishman, no matter that
By turns he sounds more like a violent threat.
But still he’s speaking, and Spike realises
That everyone around them, the masons and
The students scurrying down paths, they must
Be talking too - though none of them can hear -
Communicating with their minds, the way
He felt them screaming when he came before,
Made silent now to fit in with the world.
The man cut off continues, blasting Spike,
“You stood there, shut my mouth and both my ears.
I thought I might survive should I return,
But even here I find myself reduced
To nobody, incapable of life.”
But even catching on, Spike’s doesn’t know
Who this could be, if he knows him at all -
It’s Buffy who works out, “No, wait, you’re you!
Gurpreet’s friend Mr. Dragon, from the street.”
“I do not understand exactly what
A ‘dragon’ is, nor what you’d have me be,”
Comes his reply, affronted but calmed down.
“Do you remember,” Buffy asks, “when you
Were flying, maybe, down the street and saw
A group of people making their way home -
A big group, maybe twenty, more than us? -
And you thought we had been attacking you,
So you blew up some cars and stuff, and thought
Maybe you’d burn us up as well? But then
You had a girl inside your head who thought,
Maybe, that we were scared of you and thought
That you were trying to attack our world
And that the portal didn’t lead to here,
But somewhere worse where everyone is bad?”
The stranger looks confused, his stick-like arms
Now straight as he draws in his elbows, gown
And sleeves towards his side, less threatening.
“That presence came from you?” he asks, disarmed.
“The same as then destroyed me? Can it be?
I thought that was another force, who wished
To act in peace, unlike your violent aims.”
He’s spitting that at Spike, who’s had enough.
“Oi, look,” he interrupts, “we come in peace,
All right? I’m getting pretty bloody sick
Of all this implication that I meant
To harm this world right from the get-go. I
Am no one’s Genghis Khan, and there have been
Some nasty, violent sorties made on both
Our sides.” He doesn’t say they started it;
He’s good. “That girl whose mind you met, she means
As well as any of us do, that’s that.
And, yeah, all right, we’re sorry that when we
Prevented you from killing us that had
Knock on effects for how you live back here,
But that’s what happens when you’re fighting to
Survive.” The stranger looks quite angry now,
But Gunn leaps in before they start a fight.
“We don’t want any trouble anymore,”
He claims, concise, now clearly sorting through
His memory for how they should proceed.
“We want to pay respects to the, uh, queen.”
The queen? Spike wonders, though he’s said his piece
(At least, he has when Gunn sends him a glare),
Is that the person whom they need to see?
This world will do his head in, he’s quite sure,
But still he follows as their dragon friend
Demurs and leads them briskly from the court
The way Spike thought they’d walk before, along
The path to Ivy Court and then the Lodge.
But as they come towards the hall, they stop
To wait as yet another figure comes
To them - and it’s the college Master, old,
(If not as old as batface Heinrich Nest,
Whose title always was a lot more daft)
And frowning like he did in seventy-six.
He’s clearly dressed for chapel, gown folds stiff
And billowing as he approaches, though
Spike’s sure he’s someone different here, not him.
“Dear queen,” the stranger-undergraduate
Has bowed his head and speaks as though this queen
Might be the only one who’ll talk to him.
The queen nods graciously, then says to them,
“We saw that you had come and came so we
Might speak to you; shall we return
To where the subject of our talk awaits?”
She gestures to the chapel, where they were,
The queen of here in aged master’s form,
And no one has a problem going back.
Not even Blue, who’s still throwing a strop.
[XI]
[There are
comments on Dreamwidth!]
Spike and the others return to the upper world.
[IX]
X
It’s later, in the evening, when Spike stands
With cigarette, back on the roof again -
The one that’s so familiar, where he
Escaped from rain and war and ruined streets.
Of course, this tarmac’s now just like the road,
With black-stained blood, congealed despite the rain:
The demon bodies haven’t washed away
And he can’t look, can’t stare at their dead eyes
And smell their rotting flesh - needs acrid smoke
While Buffy and the others get the spell
Set up. Distracted by the night, he breathes
And wonders what is wrong with him that he
Can’t yet be happy with things as they are.
He’s not sure what is wrong with him, that she
Can break down crying in his arms, but then
Wake up and take the new day fresh, sleep out
The next night restful at his side, and then
Fill up his heart with careful words, like they’re
Not tumbling to hell. When he glanced back
Before, he saw her smiling with the other girls,
The slayer-witches with their sand and quartz:
She gestured with her doll-like arms, her sleeves
Too long on that daft plastic anorak,
The navy pulled in tight around her face
As she peeked out from underneath the hood.
He watched the rhythmic patter of the rain
And knew that he was glad to have her there.
Mouth curving in a smile, his arms both itched
To snatch her close to him and feel her warmth
(Despite the rain), spin them around, pull free
The toggles tucked in closely by her chin
And nuzzle in the softness of her hair -
But then the feeling faded; all his thoughts
Crept back to everything that could go wrong.
He turned away, back to their hollow town.
He understands their differences, he thinks:
She always drew her energy from goals,
From final fights. When she saw how to win,
She used to go all out, take any chance -
Accept a truce from him, pull up her friends
And everyone to make them watch her lead -
Put everything aside as long as there
Was hope. While on the other hand there’s him,
Who, looking out into the night, is now
Not sure that he can say the same. He used
To love and all-out fight right to the edge,
Thought cheating death was how you knew you lived.
But he was young. He said that once, he thinks,
And knows it now. These constant ends of days,
They fill him full with dread, too much of it,
Since Buffy died, since Angel disappeared
(His grey-brown ash gone lost in rain
Two seconds after it had scattered loose -
No matter that the prophecies had said
That he would see the end of this sincere
Apocalypse, regain humanity,
Whatever else they promised too), since Spike
Himself put on that amulet and thought
That he would die. It felt right at the time,
But he’s not sure he has the strength to go
Again. No matter that he volunteered
When Angel set this up, no matter that
He knows that he exists on borrowed time
And this last year has been one long, damned fluke.
When Spike looks from the rooftop, all he sees
Is city, wide and grey and blue with night,
And looking at it, this feels like the end.
“You know we’re gonna make it, actually.”
The words come from his right and Spike turns round,
Completely startled to find Gunn is there,
Umbrella in his hands they took from some
Hotel. Spike stoops and joins him underneath,
Not bothered by the rain particularly,
But wanting more to hear what Gunn just said.
“What’s that?” he asks as he takes over hold
Of the umbrella, lifting it up more
So he can stand beside Gunn’s chair and talk.
The man nods to the city down below:
“We’ll be OK,” he says, “LA and us.
We’re gonna get through this and carry on,
The way we have so many times before.”
Gunn looks content with all the empty streets;
He scans their paths below and then explains,
“There’s people down there, must be still,
But we’ll fix things up here, and then Rondell
And Anne can catch it up with them; they’re good
At that.” Spike shakes his head, can’t quite believe.
“Yeah, right,” he says, not sure, “Could work.
And Buffy said the same so maybe it’s
All obvious… But how d’you know? I’ve not
Had much experience with fixing towns -
Spent too long trashing them, I s’pose -
But how does anyone come back from this?”
He gestures out again, ahead of them,
To all the hollow buildings, empty shells
Of brick and concrete, mirrored glass that used
To look alive with coloured lights, but now
Lies cold and empty, pelted slick with rain.
“Two answers,” Gunn replies, “The first of those?
Is money. That’ll fix the most parts we
Can see up here; the corporates have enough,
And they’ll all want the city looking how
It did before, no sweat it’s not their home.
They’ll be OK - they’ll probably get streets
Named after them. And everybody else?
Well, that’s the second answer that I’ve got.”
He smiles, all the secrets on his face.
“Not many people really realise
How little you don’t need to make it here,
But, right, I’ve lived down there on lightless streets
With nothing to my name but my old crew,
And even fighting demons I got by.
Rondell lived out the same, and Anne’s done good;
There’s people who’ll come back for cheaper rents
And they’ll all make it, like we did before.
I mean, it might not be so pretty but
We’ll be OK. We get this done, we’ll be.”
Gunn looks convinced, nods certainly at Spike
Despite the way his arms are crossed against
The cold. Spike wishes he could feel that way -
“This feels too much like it is ending how
It always would,” he tries explaining it.
“My whole world gone tits up, that’s just about
What every year has been for far too long,
And getting shitter every time till it
Has brought me here. And, if I’m honest, now
It makes no sense that things will be all right,
That we’ll get back to how it was before.
Not after everything’s been buggered up.”
“Well, hey,” Gunn interjects, adjusting where
His wheelchair’s settled on the roof, the move
Not that unpointed, “good thing that the world
Don’t only turn round your bad vampire self.”
Spike laughs and shuts his eyes as he rolls round
The tall umbrella in his hands, feels how
The forces twist and push against his thumbs:
It’s like a sword, but much more use in rain.
“Good thing,” he then agrees, his eyes on Gunn
Again. “Good thing.” And yeah, it really is,
Although he doesn’t know what else to say.
But thankfully Gunn’s still amused by him.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “looks like you are not
Alone with thinking that the city’s pain
Is yours.” He nods towards another edge,
A little further down from where they are
To where Illyria is standing like
A Batman villain in the lonely night,
Her stiff-straight silhouette just visible
As she looks out across the city, perched
Old hawk devoid of prey. Spike hopes that he
Did not look as ridiculous as that.
“You go and talk to her blue majesty,”
Gunn says, his hand held up and beckoning
To take the brolly back. “I get too much
Of her sometimes, don’t really need to be
Reminded of her now, before we go.”
Spike nods, agreeing tacitly that this
They have to sort; you can’t have Blue upset
Before she maybe has to fight - or, worse than that,
Before she has to keep a stranglehold
Against her temper as they chat this out.
Gunn nods and leaves, so Spike is free to go.
“All right, Illyria?” he asks, back out
In rain, the cool, quick pinpricks on his head.
“You’re not about to jump, are you?” Of course,
She doesn’t get the implication there,
Just turns her head and looks at him, eyes wide
As though they see and will see everything,
Blue streaks of hair in clumps around her chin,
The curling tendrils dark like clinging weeds
Encroaching on her flawless, ancient face.
She’s Nike from a shipwreck’s broken bow,
If not his Weltschmertz made personified.
“You dare presume to speak to me?” she says,
Quite jarringly, her anger short and sharp.
The accusation shocks him out of gloom
To somewhere new as she goes on, “This shell
Is mere inconsequential trapping, yet
You all presume address, consider not
That I am greater than your very best
Of thoughts, than all your life that breathes in breath.
What makes you dare with them?” “Well, actually,”
He’s not sure where this conversation’s gone,
But he has one reply, “I ‘talk’ to you
Because you’ve been OK with it for months.
One lowly vamp, here - can’t expect I’ll read
Your mind.” He wants to say a little more,
In case she didn’t get the sarcasm,
But then she interrupts: “Exactly, yes.
A lowly vampire. You are nothing, not
When standing bathed in my great light of grace.”
Now, if it weren’t that she had shaking hands,
Those hands in impotent, tight fists beside
Her hips, Spike wouldn’t let this carry on.
But as it is he’s had experience
With people telling him he’s nothing just
Because they’re feeling insecure, and so
He doesn’t say a word, but waits instead.
Maybe she’ll tell him what exactly’s wrong?
Or not: she spits on acidly at him,
“Yes, you are nothing, not like me. And I
Am not like you, no lowly vampire.”
She steps in one step closer; he retreats,
Unnerved and not sure what she means to say.
“You feed,” she says, the accusation clear,
“Filth - you are always feeding, gulping blood
In need of sustenance and life, although
You do not grow or breed or live or change.
You take more than is necessary, more
Than any magic should require to fix
Your image as it was, to hold your corpse
Beyond decay.” Spike’s not sure what she means.
All right, he understands, perhaps they don’t
Quite follow physics’ laws, not vampires,
Consuming endless lives when theirs are fixed,
When they don’t grow; he’s never felt the lack
For having daily pig pints rather than
A tough guy and his date behind a pub
(Apart from the impressive dearth of taste),
But then can you expect your demons all
To fit exactly with the natural laws?
And what’s it to her if they don’t, at that?
He’s not quite sure - and more than that he can’t
See how Illyria thinks she is not
The same. “Hang on,” he tells her, shuts her up -
It serves her right for all the ‘filths’ she’s said -
“Exactly how is that you are not like me?”
The more he thinks on it the more it’s clear.
“The basic principle of you and me
Is all the same - you took a body as
A host. Fred’s body. You killed her to live.”
She has shut up, but he goes on some more -
He won’t let her escape this, can’t forget,
“The same way I got born or what you say
When Dru delivered me from who I was
Alive, that’s just the same was what you did.
And yeah, so maybe I had memories,
But you have Fred’s as well, don’t you? I’ll bet.”
She does, he sees it as she steps away.
“You think they’re separate from what you’ve become,
But then, I reckon, sometimes you can feel
Them bleeding in. Like when you grieve for Wes.
You ever grieved for anyone before,
Illyria? You ever wished someone
Would notice you, the way you did with him?
I saw you hang on every word he said,
And I don’t think that’s how you were before.”
He came to cheer her up, but he has had
Enough of this, enough of her belief
That she is something greater and enough
Of letting everything and everyone
Make him feel like stale shit. “You’re sounding like
Near every demon on this earth, convinced
That vampires are fifty rungs below,
But you’ve got no excuse, no separate life.
You, you’re a parasite like me, no more.”
It’s wounding her, he sees it as she turns
To duck her head, he hears it as she sneers
Low, violent mutterings. “You must be wrong;
“I cannot be a vampire, not I,
Not doomed to walk eternity in hell,
I cannot be like you -” Then words break off,
Her voice quite ragged now; she shakes her head
But still looks down, becoming lost
In honest desperation, begging him,
“How can I be like you, so weak with love,
So weak in offering your power up
To aid these humans whom you do not know?”
Now Spike can feel dark pity creeping back.
“You feed on blood and fill yourself with them,
Of course they’d take you. I am not the same,
I cannot be infected by this plague,
Not I - humanity… I know it, but -
I am not part of it, not so like this…”
And then, in one short moment, she stops still.
The trembling in her limbs has vanished now
And she looks up to stare at him, aware.
“Why are you watching me?” she asks, voice loud
And carrying, her syllables acute.
“Your place is not to watch me, vermin; leave.”
Against the force of it he cannot speak;
He turns to go, not sure what he thought he
Could manage with her highness anyway,
Since clearly cheering up Illyria
Is nothing more than some old mug’s game - but
That’s when they’re called across to where
The witches have assembled everything.
Her grudging feet are moving, he can hear
That she is following, and then he can’t
Resist the words that come… “You know what, Blue?”
He pauses, spins and snaps his coat to glare,
“There’s nothing wrong with maybe letting in
Humanity. It’s not like you’re the first
Big demon name to say I’m lowly muck
Who feels too much or cares too much; I’ve heard
That tune before.” Of course she stops
And stares at him, once more incensed by his
Presumption. “See, the thing is, in the end,
I couldn’t give a toss,” he says. “This world?
We might be higher on the food chain, but
The humans rule it, ocean, land and air;
It’s only demon pride that scoffs at that.
You try to be the baddest all you want,
But that is not what gets you power here.
There’s no shame saving them and, fuck it, that
Is what we’re gonna do and bugger me
If you are getting cold feet ‘bout it now.”
With that it crystallises in his mind,
What he is there for, what they’re meant to do;
Not letting Blue reply he sniffs and grins,
Turns back and seeks his favourite Slayer’s face,
Determination and a grim, straight smile
(Perhaps she isn’t quite as cheery as
He thought). “Aww, Spike,” she comments all the same,
“Who knew you loved humanity?” He laughs
And picks her up, brings both his frigid arms
Around her waist and hauls, sneaks in a kiss
As she comes down again. ‘Cause, yeah, he knows:
She didn’t want to go out ill at ease
With him, uncertain what they were - and Spike?
Now that he thinks about it he is sure
He needs a good apotropaic snog
Before the off. In public, where the world
Can see.
When they’ve pulled back, his Buffy looks
Like she can understand him perfectly.
“You like your PDAs medicinal?”
She asks (and he remembers she does not).
“I like this world,” he doesn’t answer, shrugs
Instead. “It’s nice to be reminded why.”
Unhesitating then, she hugs him close
So he can feel how frangibly she’s made,
Glass bottle, stoppered tightly, filled with grief.
His hold is careful as she whispers, soft,
“Remember that it likes you too, OK?”
He nods, now certain that he means to try.
Eventually they’re sitting where they should
And everyone’s aligned precisely so
To let the spell work how they mean it to:
It’s mostly like before, but there’s more quartz
And Gunn has joined them, sitting opposite
A kneeling Willow at the head of their
New cross. Spike gears himself for kick off, nods
Acknowledgement so that Gurpreet nods back;
It’s all about to start - when Sadie says,
“Wait, no, hang on; Elise, you have got
To be with Buffy, over here.” She’s up,
Is Sadie, then immediately stood
And everyone looks baffled, probably
Illyria the most of all as she’s
Been partnered with Elise since last time
(And up to now’s been sulking like a pro).
“I thought you did the spell this way before?”
Says Willow, frowning with befuddlement,
But Sadie shakes her head, now walking round
The outer ring of witches, by Gurpreet.
“It was,” comes her unyielding reply,
“But it’s not meant to be the same this time.”
Elise shrugs, stands up and swaps her place
So Sadie sits with Blue; and even though
He doesn’t want to guess or think about
The reasons why their partners need to change
(He wouldn’t have a clue in any case),
Spike watches as the girl sits carefully
To ground Illyria and wonders if
That’s really the arrangement Sadie knows
They have to have.
Without a hitch, the spell
Goes off and feels the way it felt before,
At least as they climb slowly up towards
The portal’s height. It’s not just bodies now,
However, Spike remembers, but they’re meant
To see things like they would at home on earth -
That’s how it was explained to him, but then
He’s not sure what that really means. At first
It feels the same, the churning spiralling,
The pressure on his skin as they approach
Where their dimensions intersect, the light
That’s like a burning, flashing on his eyes…
But then they’re through, and he can see at last
The way the world works in their terms.
Or not
Exactly their terms, but just his alone.
He realises this the moment when
They land and he has found himself inside
A memory. He thinks that Willow’s spell’s
Projecting it, he thinks she said something
Would work like that - that they would see this world
As through a lens their mind could comprehend,
With all the buildings built and people placed
To fit in with a structure they recall
And understand, can navigate with ease.
It didn’t sound so bad, but now he’s here
It’s strange. It’s really - he is not at ease.
It’s - Christ, it’s really what he thinks it is:
It’s his old college chapel, pews and dais,
Where they are standing, with the portal set
Behind, in place of where the altarpiece
Should sit, all brightly shifting rainbows with
The darker stitches round the edge… But they
Are being seen to by some mason boys,
The people here transformed to look like they
Have scaffolding and chisels, chipping rock
As if to break each big black portal stitch
From where they’re crawling up the organ loft
And out across the floor. Spike looks around,
Then realises that everyone who’s come
Has been refigured so they fit this place -
Gunn looks like someone who came up with him,
Familiar although Spike can’t recall his name,
While Buffy and Illyria are both
Made into Ladies Who Take Lectures, though
That leaves them both still somewhat out of place
Unchaperoned on his old chapel dais.
(And, bloody hell, he’s never thought before,
But now he knows that he must think of Blue
As being female, for his brain to make
Her image into this. He isn’t sure
He likes that realisation very much.)
The only calming sight he has is that,
When he looks down, he sees he’s dressed the same
As he was when they left. No gown for him.
Thank God. Relief’s enough to let him speak.
“I don’t know what you lot are seeing, but
I think we need to head outside,” he says,
Dismissing the illusions and his thoughts,
Or trying to at least consider them
An issue less important than the one
They came up to this world to fix. If this
Is a refiguration of the world
The leader here, he thinks, is probably played
By his old head of college, wotsisface:
They’ll need to find the old git’s Master’s Lodge
If they want answers and someone in charge.
“You mean we aren’t all in the lunch room back
At Hemery?” That must be Buffy, he
Assumes, although her voice is English, clipped
And very prim. “With you the guy two years
Above my class who kinda looked like Zack
From Saved by the Bell?” There would have been a smirk
With that, he thinks, if any woman smirked
In high society, but as it is
All Buffy looks is stern. Still, all the same,
There’s something in that, isn’t there? Was Zack
The one that twitty tween-birds fancied? He
Remembers once he saw repeats with Dawn…
“And we are focusing”,” Gunn intervenes,
His image walking on - peculiar
For being English, able-bodied, white.
Spike doesn’t like this spell that Willow’s done,
It only takes a moment to decide,
Because he cannot feel the trust that he
Should have for these three people here with him.
But still, they have to carry on and fix
This situation, he supposes, so
He falls in step with Gunn and follows as
He leaves the portal down the steps and aisle,
Across the black and white square tiles with all
The masons, journeymen, apprentices,
Ignoring them as they walk slowly out.
They leave the chapel, coming to the court,
And Spike remembers where to go from here -
Through past the hall and then eventually
Look left - but naturally they can’t just get
That done. Outside the doorway, underneath
The cloister, yellow-coloured stone, they’re met
By someone Spike does not remember, who
Stops short and asks them, “Hang on, who are you?”
He doesn’t fit in with the memory, Spike
Starts realising: from one perspective he’s
Another undergraduate with gown -
All right - but then just in the corner of
Spike’s eye the gown goes darker, looks like wings;
As if the spell can’t quite adapt to him,
His face grows pointed and his hair goes slick.
Unnerved and feeling that first fighting itch,
Spike wants to ask him who he is to ask.
“We’re from the other world,” Gunn intervenes.
“We come with alms of peace and hope to be
Received.” The stranger looks at them again,
His gaze now fixing squarely on Spike’s eyes.
“It’s you, the white-haired one. You’ve come, it’s you;
The reason why I’m now deaf, dumb and blind.”
“Who are you?” Spike replies, unsure what he
Should say. “And what exactly do you mean?
You’re talking to us now, aren’t you, with words?”
The not-quite-man then snorts, a little like
A beast, a little like he’s desperate
To air his grudge. He says, “What you call speech,
Perhaps I have that now, but I am still
Cut off from everyone to whom I’d wish
To speak. Their minds are closed to me, and you
Made sure of that.” The spell is still enough
To make him sound quite unassuming, one
Disgruntled Englishman, no matter that
By turns he sounds more like a violent threat.
But still he’s speaking, and Spike realises
That everyone around them, the masons and
The students scurrying down paths, they must
Be talking too - though none of them can hear -
Communicating with their minds, the way
He felt them screaming when he came before,
Made silent now to fit in with the world.
The man cut off continues, blasting Spike,
“You stood there, shut my mouth and both my ears.
I thought I might survive should I return,
But even here I find myself reduced
To nobody, incapable of life.”
But even catching on, Spike’s doesn’t know
Who this could be, if he knows him at all -
It’s Buffy who works out, “No, wait, you’re you!
Gurpreet’s friend Mr. Dragon, from the street.”
“I do not understand exactly what
A ‘dragon’ is, nor what you’d have me be,”
Comes his reply, affronted but calmed down.
“Do you remember,” Buffy asks, “when you
Were flying, maybe, down the street and saw
A group of people making their way home -
A big group, maybe twenty, more than us? -
And you thought we had been attacking you,
So you blew up some cars and stuff, and thought
Maybe you’d burn us up as well? But then
You had a girl inside your head who thought,
Maybe, that we were scared of you and thought
That you were trying to attack our world
And that the portal didn’t lead to here,
But somewhere worse where everyone is bad?”
The stranger looks confused, his stick-like arms
Now straight as he draws in his elbows, gown
And sleeves towards his side, less threatening.
“That presence came from you?” he asks, disarmed.
“The same as then destroyed me? Can it be?
I thought that was another force, who wished
To act in peace, unlike your violent aims.”
He’s spitting that at Spike, who’s had enough.
“Oi, look,” he interrupts, “we come in peace,
All right? I’m getting pretty bloody sick
Of all this implication that I meant
To harm this world right from the get-go. I
Am no one’s Genghis Khan, and there have been
Some nasty, violent sorties made on both
Our sides.” He doesn’t say they started it;
He’s good. “That girl whose mind you met, she means
As well as any of us do, that’s that.
And, yeah, all right, we’re sorry that when we
Prevented you from killing us that had
Knock on effects for how you live back here,
But that’s what happens when you’re fighting to
Survive.” The stranger looks quite angry now,
But Gunn leaps in before they start a fight.
“We don’t want any trouble anymore,”
He claims, concise, now clearly sorting through
His memory for how they should proceed.
“We want to pay respects to the, uh, queen.”
The queen? Spike wonders, though he’s said his piece
(At least, he has when Gunn sends him a glare),
Is that the person whom they need to see?
This world will do his head in, he’s quite sure,
But still he follows as their dragon friend
Demurs and leads them briskly from the court
The way Spike thought they’d walk before, along
The path to Ivy Court and then the Lodge.
But as they come towards the hall, they stop
To wait as yet another figure comes
To them - and it’s the college Master, old,
(If not as old as batface Heinrich Nest,
Whose title always was a lot more daft)
And frowning like he did in seventy-six.
He’s clearly dressed for chapel, gown folds stiff
And billowing as he approaches, though
Spike’s sure he’s someone different here, not him.
“Dear queen,” the stranger-undergraduate
Has bowed his head and speaks as though this queen
Might be the only one who’ll talk to him.
The queen nods graciously, then says to them,
“We saw that you had come and came so we
Might speak to you; shall we return
To where the subject of our talk awaits?”
She gestures to the chapel, where they were,
The queen of here in aged master’s form,
And no one has a problem going back.
Not even Blue, who’s still throwing a strop.
[XI]
[There are
comments on Dreamwidth!]