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Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, Joss Whedon, ME and David Greenwalt do. I own nothing but the plot.
Thanks to my beta EnigmaticBlues for the handholding during a story which is very different than I usually pen.
Aphrodite and the Lost Scribe

Cold late night so long ago
When I was not so strong you know.
A pretty man came to me.
Never seen eyes so blue.
It seemed like he knew me
He looked right through me.
-Heart
-Magic Man

Chapter 1- The Magic Man

18 months Previous

When a man loves a woman,
Deep down in his soul
She can bring him such misery.
- Percy Sledge
-When a Man Loves a Woman

The thin dark woman pulled the suitcase from the closet floor, placed it in the middle of the bed and snapped open the locks. She turned to an oak chest, pulled out the middle drawer and began piling clothes into the open suitcase.

A blonde man leaned against the wall watching her. Running his hand through his hair, he searched her face. An anguished expression crossing his face, he asked, “Why now Dru? You must know that I really don't care about the other men. Everything I've ever done has always been for you.”

Drusilla resolutely continued to pack. “I'm sorry Spike, but I just don't love you anymore. I haven't really in a long, long time.”

“Do you love him?”

She completed the packing and snapped the suitcase shut. “It's not about him, this is about us.” She looked directly at him for the first time. “He was merely a diversion.”

His eyes filled with unshed tears. “Please reconsider, Dru. You're throwing away twelve years here.” He started to reach for her, stopped and dropped his hand to his side. “I love you more than life. You're my dark princess.”

She picked up the suitcase and walked to the bedroom door. She paused at the doorway without looking back. “Unfortunately, Spike, you are not my prince,” she said before continuing out of the room.

Spike slid down the wall, clasping his arms around his bent knees as tears coursed down his face. He could hear her soft tread on the stairs, then the click of her high heels on the foyer tile. He waited with his heart pounding in his chest for the sound of the front door opening. When it closed he realized that Dru was not coming back. He laid his head on his knees and sobbed.

12 months Previous

Hey you're now thirsty.
Walking in the desert all alone
Hey you're now searching
Lost in isolation from your soul
-Cold Play
-Listen

“She's really not coming back, Lindsey. I've tried everything and I still miss her.” Spike took a swallow from the glass of Jack Daniels he was waving around to punctuate his words. The voice on the other end of the cell phone conversation broke up unintelligibly. “I can't understand you. Where in hell are you, anyway? What?” He moved closer to the window trying to improve the signal.

Lindsey's voice became clearer. “I said you need to face reality, it's been six months. Get out of that museum you call home and find someone else.”

Spike took another swallow. “I'm out meeting other women. In fact I'm going to another party in a couple hours.” The sun from the window sparkled on the glass in his hand. He rolled it around in his palm, making kaleidoscopic patterns on the wall.

Lindsey's voice hesitated. “That's not what I meant. You need someone decent to hang with, not one of those skinny whores you're always around. Have you even started writing anything new yet?”

Spike swallowed the last of his drink. Bitterly he replied. “Dru was a decent girl.”

He paused as the loss of her once again threatened to overtake him. Gathering his wits about him he answered Lindsey's question. “No I haven't been writing lately, just haven't had the time.”

Spike could tell Lindsey was about to make a comment about just how much time he really did have, so he rushed to cut him off. “It's getting late. I'll talk to you later.”

No time, that's a laugh, all you've got is time. Spike, old man, you've become a walking cliché. The writer with the classic case of writer's block, and the drinking problem to boot. All you need is a beard and they can all start calling you Papa.

Feeling frustrated with the tone of his own thoughts, he threw the high ball glass against the wall. The sun slanting in the window glinted brightly on the shards.

6 months previous

Well, you can tell everyone
I'm a down disgrace
Drag my name all over the place.
I don't care anymore.
-Genesis
-Don't Care Anymore

The insistent buzzing finally penetrated Spike's slumber. He opened one bleary eye, saw 9:00 a.m. flashing on the alarm clock and slammed one hand down to stop the noise. The buzzing continued-Shit, it's the damn door.- He almost yelled for Maria to answer it and then remembered. Maria had quit 2 weeks ago.

He opened both eyes and noticed the indentation on the other side of the bed. Sherrie? Sharon? Cheryl? Must have already decamped. He smirked to himself. Only thing I do remember is she was a natural redhead.

Then he sighed and rebuked himself. That's pretty pathetic Spike. He suddenly wondered if he'd at least fed her dinner. The buzzing continued unabated. Jesus my head hurts. He groaned out loud, stood up very carefully and looked around for his pants.

He opened the front door still buttoning his jeans and was shocked to see his older brother standing on the porch. “Mickey? What the hell are you doing in the States? Is Sybil with you?” He fumbled with the door and opened it wider.

Mickey shook his head. “No, doctor won't let her fly anymore. The baby's due any day. She's staying at her Mum's in London.”

He moved through the doorway and Spike realized there were two other people standing behind him. “Lindsey? I just spoke to you on the phone, man. You were in Italy.” Spike couldn't wrap his head around why his brother and his best friend weren't in Europe where they belonged.

Lindsey shook his head. “Spike, that was over a month ago. I've been up in Maine on a book tour for the past week.” To Lindsey, Spike's confusion was proof positive that they were doing the right thing.

Lila, his agent, completed the trio. “Lilah, I'm sorry, did we have a meeting or something? I don't have any new work to show you.” Spike said as he self-consciously rubbed the back of his head.

“I'm well aware of your recent failure to produce anything resembling legible writing.”

She looked around the room and shuddered. “My God Spike, this place is a pigpen.” She was shocked at the complete de-evolution of a man she had worked with for years.

Making an executive decision, she snapped open her cell phone and punched a number. “Wes? I need a cleaning service over here. Offer to pay them double their rate if they can do it today.”

Her eyes flicked over to the plate of Spaghetti spilled all over the carpet. “Wes, get a carpet cleaning service that specializes in Aubussons out here, too.”

The doorbell buzzed again causing Spike to visibly flinch. Lilah looked up from her call. “Mickey, will you get that? It's Dr. Walsh.”

Lindsey took Spike by the hand and steered him toward the kitchen. “Come on, you need coffee, lots and lots of coffee.” Lindsey refrained from mentioning that he also felt Spike needed a shower, a haircut, a shave and to detox.

As Lindsey searched the cabinets for a filter, Spike slumped against the counter and lit a cigarette. “Lindsey, what the hell is going on? Why are you people even here?”

Lindsey's face flickered between pity and amusement. “Spike, Bro, we're all tired of watching you royally fuck up, especially after that titanic mess in the news recently.” He placed the last filter in the coffee maker and pushed the button. The coffee maker started to gurgle.

“This, my old friend, is an intervention.” And as far as Lindsey was concerned, it was about damn time.


Present Day

I pulled into Nazareth
I was feelin' about half past dead.
I just need some place
where I can lay my head.
-The Band
-The Weight

The black vintage Austin- Healey convertible rocketed down the interstate highway in the early spring California sunshine. The driver, peroxide blond hair whipped by the wind, smoked a cigarette and tapped his hands against the steering wheel. Music blared from his stereo.

As the car raced past a sign alerting all drivers that the town of Sunnydale was exactly 36 miles from this particular mile marker, the cell phone in his pocket chirped.

“'Lo”

“Spike, where are you? Have you arrived yet?”

A soccer mom in a blue Volvo glided by, bumper sticker proudly proclaiming the intelligence of her offspring and shot him an appreciative look.

He grinned and winked at her.

“No Lila, I'm about 25 minutes out.” He rolled his eyes. “I told you I'd call when I arrived. You're my agent, not my babysitter, pet. And remember, for this trip I'm registered as William, not Spike.”

He could just see Lilah Morgan sitting in the glass high rise, impeccably dressed in vintage Chanel, Manolo Blanik's discretely crossed under her enormous mahogany desk. Her Mocha Cappuccino-with foam, brought in every morning at precisely 8:00 a.m. by her assistant- held in her manicured hand. Telephone cradled gently to her ear-she despised earpieces-; staring smugly out the window of her corner office; the small frown line between her eyes becoming more pronounced. He knew that line intimately, having been the cause of it more than once.

Spike snapped back to the conversation to hear her say “well, most of the time I've known you, you haven't needed a babysitter, but then recent events have led me to believe that you really need that super nanny person.

That's not why I'm calling though, I've got good news. The publishing company has agreed to extend the deadline for the new book. They decided, with my help I might add, that you're worth the wait. I guess it pays to be the New York Times consistently number one selling author with the world's best agent.”

Could she sound any more smug? Nah, not possible, but that is good news.

William "Spike" Jamison, said author, lit another cigarette. “Thanks Lilah. I owe you one. Listen pet, I'm coming up to the exit, so I'll call you tomorrow or the next day after I get settled.”

“Okay. Spike? Oh, I almost forgot. William. Don't mess this up. He could hear the hint of warning through the phone. " My reputation's on the line here, too. If you don't get over that block, and soon, we're both screwed.”

Don't you think I know this? Before he could assure the agent that he knew how important it was to meet the new deadline, she had hung up.

Spike signaled and moved across the lane toward the Sunnydale exit slowing the powerful car in preparation for the ramp's curve. He really did need this break and Lilah knew it, too. It had been a rough eighteen months.

Sunnydale California, a small beach town, a two hour drive from Los Angeles, looked like the perfect place to get his head together. The pictures he'd seen during his internet search reminded him in some small way of his childhood along the English coast. His search had located an advertisement for some small, private cottages on the beach and he'd registered online using his real name. He needed this time to distance himself from bad boy Spike and get reacquainted with William. He's almost forgotten who that was and he desperately needed to know if William was still inside somewhere.

He hoped that the secluded location would make it less likely that anyone would recognize him from his book jackets, the myriad talk and cable shows he'd been on in the past few years or most recently, the tabloids.

He'd been labeled by the press as the "big bad genius of the publishing world.” They'd had a field day when Spike had totaled a Porsche belonging to an heiress by driving it into her yacht club's private swimming pool on a bet. That had been the final straw, the reason for the intervention.

Nothing like an intervention by your nearest and dearest to make you realize what a screwed up mess you've made of your life.

In the high pressure world he inhabited, you were only as good as your next project and everyone was waiting to see what was next for Spike. He was waiting too, feeling the pressure, and he was very, very worried.

He's been trying to write, with Lilah's vocal encouragement; ever since he'd entered rehab and there was still nothing on paper. He had serious writer's block and he was petrified that it was permanent. He'd lost his muse and he needed and wanted it back. He had a laptop with a blank folder marked "new story ideas" and now, a looming deadline.

This was only his second week out of rehab. Everyone had agreed that this vacation would be just what he needed to put the previous eighteen months behind him.

Spike needed to get away from all temptations, relax, and hopefully find that love of writing he'd never been without since his first journal entry in the third grade. He just prayed it would work.

****
“Buffy, I don't think that looks like the picture at all. Shouldn't the pipe have a bend in it?” Dawn Summers held the self help handyman guide so that her older sister could see it from her position under the sink. Buffy blew a stray lock of blond hair out of the way, squinting her eyes in concentration. She followed the diagram detailing the plumbing anatomy of a bathroom sink and then looked at the piece currently in her hand. It was different.

“Oh, I forgot to attach the thingy that hooks on the end. Hand me that monkey wrench.” Dawn put the book down and handed her the wrench and the missing piece. After some muttered curses and a bit of strong twisting, the pipe was in the correct spot with the correct bend and the water once again flowed without spilling all over the bottom shelf of the vanity.

Buffy pulled herself from under the sink, dusted off her hands and smiled at Dawn. “I think this calls for a celebration, don't you? I see cookie dough fudge mint chip ice cream for both of us hard working plumbers.” Dawn cheerfully agreed and followed her sister out of the rental cottage and through the trees to their home.

It had been a risk to purchase the property, especially when neither sister had experience at owning or operating a business, much less repairing old cottages, but they'd both fallen in love with the location. Situated on several hilly acres of land among large shade trees, each eight two-story cottage had both privacy and an incredible view of the private beach below. The separate office and caretaker cottage had clinched the deal.

They had used the remainder of their inheritance to update the forty- five year old cottages by paying the local handyman to replace the roofs and wiring. The fledgling business's day to day expenses were being covered by money Buffy had saved.

Dawn, a recent graduate of Sunnydale High School, had taken several business courses and had offered to be in charge of the piles of paperwork and reservations. Buffy, six years older, didn't have a head for numbers, but she loved the outdoors and had volunteered to be the caretaker and maid. The recent plumbing repair meant that they now had four cottages available for rental, one of which was currently occupied, with another reserved through the website that Buffy's friend Willow had set up for them. With a lot of hard work and fingers crossed, they hoped to have all of them operational by the summer rush.

Putting her spoon down in the empty bowl on the little table in their breakfast nook, Buffy pushed back her chair and looked over at Dawn. “When is that internet guy supposed to be here?”

Dawn snickered. “I don't think Mr. Jamison is going to appreciate being known as 'the internet guy'. He said he'd be here sometime late morning in his email. I can't wait to meet him. I want to quiz him on our website. Find out what he liked and didn't like, since he's our first customer to reserve a cottage through it.”

Buffy stretched and stood up. “Well, I better go set up the cottage for him or it won't matter whether he liked the site or not. He'll be upset with the actual accommodations.”

She walked to the large closet, pulled out sheets and towels and headed for the door. “I'll catch up with you later.”





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