Spike slid his hand into the pocket of his jeans. Looked down at the key in his hand. His fingers trembled. He stopped. Clenched his hand. Forced it to steady, before finally slipping the key into the slot, turning the knob, and opening the door into the darkness.
He ambled through, closing the door behind him.
“Honey,” Spike greeted listlessly. “I’m home.”
The empty apartment greeted him. Uncluttered. Bare walls empty of pictures. Spartan, heartless and cold.
He slid out of his duster awkwardly, gracelessly.
“Spike,” said Fred. The slender scientist pled with him as he had slipped into a gray tee-shirt and then struggled awkwardly to put on his duster. “I don’t think you should leave.”
Spike turned to face her in the hospital room. “You said there was nothing else you can do.”
She nodded. “Yes. You’re right. Everything can’t happen all at once” She laid a soft hand on his shoulder. “It’ll take time,” she said softly. “Time to get better. Time to heal.”
“Time that I bloody don’t have to spend here,” he said somewhat acidly. Spike hesitated and half-smiled kindly at the girl, heartfelt and awkward. “Fred, I’m sorry, but . . . I have to go. I’m just not the layabout kinda guy.”
Spike brushed past her.
She turned to watch him leave.
“Spike!” she said after him. “You don’t have to be alone.”
Spike opened the fridge, the bright light inside garish in the dimness of the apartment, and removed a bottle of beer. There were three of them on the top shelf, two not counting the one now in his hand. The rest of the ice chest was barren and empty. The door slipped closed, the room falling back into semi-darkness.
Spike wrapped his fingers around the top of the bottle and tried to untwist the top. His grip fumbled awkwardly.
“Bloody ‘ell!”
Spike stopped, watching himself make a loose fist and open it again, and waited for his hands to stop trembling. He took a deep, unnecessary breath. When his hands were steady he tried again. He fumbled so bad he almost dropped the bottle.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Desperation and despair fueled with anger. The vampire brought his arm around and chucked the bottle across the apartment. He overbalanced a little and stumbled back at step or two rather than fall, bumping into the wall. Placed a hand flat against the wall to hold himself steady. He wavered there, slumped, head bent over at the neck, his face in the deepest shadows.
Spike suddenly collapsed at the base of the wall and began to sob. Great heartrending sobs that tore at his throat.
The smoky, brown bottle, it’s neck broken off, laying on it’s side, poured its contents along the floor.
Buffy sat in a recliner, a blanket gathered up over her waist. The room was dark, lit faintly by the moonlight coming in through the french doors and the wispy ivory colored curtains, leaving pale gossamer patterns of light over the floor. A spot of bright light shining down from a lamp that sat just off to the side and over her shoulder illuminated the book she held in her lap. She looked down at the book sadly.
She reached up and wiped away a tear as it rolled down her cheek.
“I still don’t get while we couldn’t take our own private X-jet,” Andrew said as he strapped himself in his seat in the British Airlines Airbus.
Giles was in the seat beside him.
“Because that airplane is bloody expensive. Do you have any idea how much we spend on fuel alone? I almost had a coronary the first time I had to sign off on the checks. We bought that . . . monstrosity for Slayer business, for when we needed transport where none other was strictly feasible. Certainly not to tool around Europe.”
“Fine,” Andrew crossed his arms and slouched in his seat. “You’re ruining our image, you know. You don’t bring news of Gandalf’s remarkable return after getting off an Airbus, and certainly not after flying coach.”
“You do if you don’t wish to become broke in the long run. And stop referring to Spike as bloody Gandalf,” Giles snapped. “You’ve almost ruined Tolkien for me.”
“Fine. He’s not Gandalf the White,” Andrew conceded. Revelation played across the boy’s face. “He’s Bruce Banner who walked out of a Gamma explosion intact . . . except, you know, without the green skin and the Nick Nolte father that turned inexplicably into a cloud of light.”
Sighing, Giles hailed a stewardess. “Ma’am. Is there a chance you could get me a stiff drink?”
Wesley sat at a stool against the bar, a brown, long-necked beer bottle wrapped in his hand. A hint of shadow, cast by the people behind him and the position of the lights, played about his face. He hadn’t shaved, the line of his jaw rough because of it. He stared emptily out into the air behind the bar.
“Can I get myself another off the tap,” said a familiar voice softly from just a little down the bar. A hollow, emotionless voice laced with a British accent. “And another small plate of them hot wings if you could do that too, doll.”
“Sure,” the suddenly bright-eyed girl behind the bar smiled nervously at the man, who now winked at her teasingly. “I’ll be right back with that.”
“Spike!”
“Wesley,” Spike’s faux smile faltered. His voice had a brittle edge. “Are you following me? Did Angel set you up to this, ‘cause if he did . . .”
“No,” Wes said with certainty. “I didn’t exactly expect to see you here. Just in search of a quiet pint someplace I wouldn’t be noticed. Why are you, here I mean? Shouldn’t you be out fighting the good fight?” Wes smiled faintly, “Keeping the world safe for kittens and puppies and all that?”
“I will be. Soon as I heal.” He held up a hand and wiggled his fingers.
Wes was contrite, “Right.”
“Until then I’ll have to be content with the nightmare of Donkey Kong and pissy domestic beer.”
“Donkey Kong?”
“Don’t ask.” Spike snapped. The vampire sighed. “A guy needs to do something during the day,” Spike defended himself, “rather than sitting around thinking of new ways to bore himself to death. Not that that’s exactly a great choice. Bloody stupid gorilla and his rolling barrels of death. I’m telling you right now I’m gonna beat that bloody game if it kills me.”
Wesley laughed, “Actually . . . you can’t beat that game. It just goes on and on.”
“Well that’s bloody brilliant, ain’t it. Like someone went an’ invented a new level of hell. Now what am I gonna do?”
“So the First was controlling you?”
Wes asked the question and took a draw off his beer.
Spike circled the pool table, checking out the angle of his shot, before deciding how to do it.. “Yeah,” he admitted. “A real Puppet master kind of a deal. I was in here, though I didn’t exactly remember everything clearly afterwards, but the First was the one workin’ all the bloody strings.” Spike leaned over the table, carefully lining up. The tip of his stick connected with the cue ball, in turn sending the nine ball gently careening into one of the middle pockets. Spike straightened and stared down at the table. “I killed . . . even with a soul . . . but if I’m honest with myself, I realize that it wasn’t entirely my fault.” His eyes moved over toward Wesley. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
“Not all of us have the convenience of that excuse.” Wesley raised a hand to forestall the sudden faint hint of ire in Spike’s eyes, “That’s not what I meant.” He was silent long enough to take a breath. “I was . . . estranged . . . from my friends at Angel Inc . . . last year, and into the year before. Looking back, I’m not sure it was ever worth the price I paid. The reasons seem almost stupid now.”
Wes looked down at his beer with empty eyes.
“But you did what you thought was right, didn’t you?”
Wes spoke softly, “I thought I did.”
“Then that’s all that should matter.”
Wesley sat in his office, high up in Wolfram & Hart. The huge windows looked out over a spectacular view of the early morning landscape of Los Angeles. Wes sat behind the desk, holding the phone to his ear.
“Yes, Melina, is it?! Could you get a hold of the dialing code for Italy and bring it to me in my office. Yes, just be as quick as you can about it. Thank you.”
A few minutes later a young secretary came in and laid a single sheet of paper down on his desk. As if sensing his mood, she left again without a word.
Wes stared at the numbers on the paper for a long minute before he picked up the phone and began pressing buttons on the keypad.
He suddenly stopped.
He stared down at the headset wrapped in his fingers, saw the way his grip suddenly tightened a little.
He closed his eyes and took a breath.
Wes put his finger on the button, disconnecting the call. He laid the headset gently back down in the cradle.
He stayed there for a while, sitting wordlessly behind his desk at Wolfram & Hart and looking out at the landscape of the city.
Author's Note: we still don't quite have Spuffy, but we're obviously getting closer
On another note, for those of you who watched this week's episode of Angel, Donkey Kong is not available for Xbox so far as I know. It's owned by Nintendo. Whoops!