banner by gillo.
A lone figure walked tentatively down the darkened, wet alleyway, last-second raindrops echoing in long-formed puddles around him. Somewhere nearby, a car backfired, and he jumped momentarily to attention, balanced on the balls of his feet, fists at the alert. Shaking his head in self-criticism as the source of the noise registered, he continued to walk down the alleyway, hands shoved firmly into deep leather pockets.
Following directions seemingly known only to him, he stopped near the end of the alley and faced a dark, brick wall. He ran a hand through his shock of blonde hair and sighed, effortlessly relaxing in an often-practiced tradition, feeling as the muscles of his face reformed into that of another.
Hate these places, his mind grumbled as his sharp, amber eyes darted around the wall, looking for the switch that would activate the door. Always make it so bloody difficult to get in.
His complaints meant nothing, really; he of all creatures understood the need for discretion, for secrecy; it was a practice he’d become increasingly better at during the past few months. No one -- not even his sweet Bit -- was to know of his plans. They would have stopped him. Called him crazy, obsessive, and thrust a stake through his heart, and he had lived for too long at the point where he wasn’t entirely certain he would even attempt to stop them.
But as long as there was still a chance that she could come back, he would continue to walk, to search.
Would cross the fires of Hell itself for her, he mused as his hand drifted over another section of brick. Should be able to handle the sodding Underground.
His confidence was not as firmly-rooted as he would have liked. He had heard tale of the Underground, dating back as far as his early days as a fledgling, and the concept had both intrigued him and frightened him into submission. The Slayer wasn’t the only horror story demons told their young in order to enforce good behavior; the Underground played the role of the bogeyman often enough.
The Underground. A court of motley demons who ruled the realm of those who weren’t entirely human. A sort of demonic mafia, just shy of a secret society. The Underground was known, but not by many, and to his knowledge, was unheard of outside of the demon world. He was certain that Anya knew of its existence; he briefly wondered why she never told any of the other white hats. Perhaps it was out of respect for the tacit agreement that no human should know of the Underground’s existence. Especially anyone involved with the Slayer.
Bet the Watcher would love to know about this, he thought wryly as his nicotine-stained fingers traced another section of brick, searching for the knot that would gain him entry. The weight in his right duster pocket shifted as he pressed closer against the wall but he paid no notice, so dedicated to his search.
Sodding cloaking spell woulda done it, he thought, grumbling incoherently as he did. But no. Had to go for somethin’ more impressive. Secret entry an’ all.
His fingertips traced the brick wall for a seeming eternity – and for all he knew, it could have been, for time held no real meaning for creatures such as he – before his touch finally ghosted across the tiny chink of misaligned brick and he pressed in, murmuring the instructed words under his breath, and stood back as the wall began to fade away, revealing little more than a nondescript door.
“Feel like I’m in a bloody Harry Potter book,” Spike grumbled as he opened the door and stepped inside.
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Under any other circumstances, he wouldn’t have left. He’d made a promise to a lady, and while the William part of him had always kept his promises, this time his demon had agreed as well. He’d promised Buffy that he’d watch over Dawn, and even now, his Bit needed him.
He would not have left were it not for the dream.
He’d had it only once, but it had proven enough, shaking him to his very core. She was surrounded by heat, flames licking at soft skin he’d gladly dust just to touch. Her golden tresses, which never failed to set his skin tingling from its mere proximity, curling and singeing before bursting into flame. Her eyes, pleading to anyone who would listen, and – perhaps more horrifying – increasingly resigned. Her lips parted, crying out with a voice which refused to sound.
Spike had awoken from the dream, trembling, inattentive to the tears loosing from his aching eyes. Under any sort of normal circumstances, he would have paid his dreams little mind, blaming them on a drink of bad blood, or perhaps an undercooked onion blossom. But this dream…this one was different. Felt different. Shook him to his very core, and he’d immediately shot out of bed, scheming ever since.
It had taken weeks. Weeks of talking to – and threatening – various local demons, of beating up Willy, of filling the rest of his time patrolling and looking after his Bit. He’d almost given up hope, until the near-dawn appearance of a nervous and trembling fledgling at the door of his crypt, stuttering out a name and a location before succumbing to dust at the tip of Spike’s stake.
It wasn’t that Spike wasn’t grateful, but no one could know of his plans.
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He was greeted with a face-full of smoke, the sound of low grumbling, and the distinct smell of whiskey. Spike bit back a chuckle at the realization that for all its secrecy and protection, the headquarters of the much-feared Underground resembled little more than a dark and seedy pub. It was almost comical in appearance: splintered wooden tables were filled with various notoriously dangerous demons – he recognized more than a few as mercenaries – but it was the odd one out, sitting at his own small table, that caught his eye.
Sauntering over to the table, Spike pulled out the free chair and sat purposefully, waiting for the man to meet his eyes.
“You Ethan Rayne?” he asked, his eyes darting around the room, keeping track of the various demons who seemed to take an interest in the newcomer’s presence.
The man before him smirked and reached across the table to grab his drink, pulling the glass to his lips. “I am,” he confirmed. “But you seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, whereas I--”
“--rather like it that way,” Spike interrupted. “Always nice to have one up on a sorcerer.” Ignoring the drink placed in front of him by a rather battered-looking chaos demon, he instead drew the familiar weight from his right duster pocket and slammed it decisively onto the table. “Five thousand dollars,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “An’ another five when you finish the job.”
Running a slender finger across the bundle of cash, Ethan raised an eyebrow and responded, “I’m listening.”
Leaning across the table, voice low, Spike stated, “Need you to bring someone back.”
The eyebrow stayed risen, and a smirk pulled at the man’s lips. Spike wanted nothing more than to punch the look from the sorcerer’s face, headache and consequences be damned. “You want me to resurrect someone? Can’t be done.”
“Maybe officially,” Spike replied with a sneer, “but blokes like you an’ me…we know better.”
The smirk grew wider, and it was all Spike could do to keep his hands planted firmly on the table. “Indeed we do,” Ethan noted. “But even I can’t restore vampires to life. I need a body.”
“There’s a body,” Spike replied, hesitating for the second bit. “…She’s human.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting,” he mused. “A vampire wanting to resurrect a mortal. Did you perhaps miss your chance to turn her?”
“Nothin’ like that,” Spike responded. “I jus’…” He shook his head. “Not the point. Ten thousand dollars.”
Pursing his lips, Ethan’s fingers tightened around the cash. “It’s going to take some doing,” he noted. “But I’ll do it. Who knows; could be fun.”
“Don’ want fun,” Spike hissed. “Don’ want tricks. Don’ want her comin’ back as anything but her.” His eyes flashed amber as he growled, “Don’ fuck around with this.”
There was barely-restrained mirth in Ethan’s eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied. Picking up the money and tucking it as best he could into the inside pocket of his coat, he said, “Come back here tomorrow night. I should be ready by then, and you can take me to your…friend.”
Spike nodded, for the first time feeling the knot in his stomach beginning to slowly unravel. This man could bring Buffy back. And maybe the memory of his dream would finally go away, before it drove him mad.
Rising from the table, Spike gave a departing nod to the sorcerer before turning heel and leaving the Underground’s headquarters, intent on finding a nearby motel and waiting for the following evening’s sunset.
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He waited for three days before learning that Ethan Rayne had fled that very night, taking Spike’s money with him. The day before the third night – the night he decided to pursue Rayne – Spike had the dream again, and every evening thereafter woke up trembling and sobbing.
And unbeknownst to him, in Sunnydale, California, an entombed, blonde Slayer opened her eyes and screamed.
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A/N: This is kind of an awkward fic. It fulfills one of spuffy_haven’s Art Before Fic challenge requirements (namely, Spike tries to resurrect Buffy, and there’s a dream sequence), but halfway through writing it, I realized I could tie it in with the OTHER banner I had claimed for the same challenge. Unfortunately, the focus is too different from the focus from my other banner, and therefore necessitated two different fics. So think of this as a one-shot prologue to my upcoming, still-untitled fic, putting certain characters where they need to be, and providing background information that I can’t convincingly put into the other. Please accept my apologies in advance: until this single fic, I’ve always written fics that are entirely self-contained.
And a plea to all of my British readers: I need fifteen people to fill out a 10-minute email survey on fame desire and media usage for my master’s thesis. If you are willing, or just want more information on it, please PLEASE email me (my email address is on my user info page). A huge thank you in advance!
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