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Betad by dawnofme and seapealsh - amazing ladies that I'm proud to call friends.
Chapter Three


Spike held onto the basin and stared at himself in the mirror. He still looked like shite. A bleach job and a haircut couldn’t work miracles. The colourist had advised him against having it as white as it had been before and he’d just agreed with her in the hope that it would mean he wouldn’t be there for too long. So now his hair was highlighted, white blond mixed in with his own sandy brown, but even that drew the colour from his pale face. He grimaced. His complexion was grey and his eyes looked dull.


“Oh, Christ. I can’t do this,” he muttered.


He pushed himself away from the basin and striding quickly out of the public toilets. Once outside of them, he turned the opposite way to where he should be headed, kept his head down and walked towards the exit.


“Spike!” A hand grabbed his shoulder. “Where are you going?”


Spike groaned and raised his eyes to Oz’s face. “Not to L.A.,” he said quietly but firmly. He began to walk once more.


Oz ran in front of him. “No way, man. You’re getting on that plane with me.”


Spike shook his head. “I can’t, Oz.” His expression was pained. “Please…just let me go. Tell the label they can buy all of the songs if you like. But tell them I’m finished.”


He tried to sidestep around his friend but Oz was too quick. “So that’s it?” snapped Oz, getting right in Spike’s face. “Game over? You’re twenty-four years old and you’ve given up? I never figured you for such a freaking coward.”


“Oz…please.” It was little more than a whisper.


“No,” replied Oz. “Come to L.A. Tell them yourself about your songs and not wanting a contract with them if you like, but come and stay with me for a few weeks. You can’t carry on like this, man, you really can’t.”


Spike shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his eyes glancing at the doors. If he just ran out there, he could be back in his studio apartment within the hour. But then what? Oz was right. He couldn’t keep on like he had, but the alternative was almost too hard to face. He’d have to accept that Buffy was gone for good. Could he do that? Could he move on?


“Spike?” Oz put a hand gently on Spike’s arm. “They’re calling the flight. We’ve got to go.” He let his hand fall away and stepped back from Spike. His friend had to make this decision on his own. He couldn’t force him to come, even if it was the best thing for him.


With a last lingering look at the doors, Spike took a deep breath and met Oz’s eye. “Okay,” he mumbled. “But I’ll sort out selling my songs and then I’ll come back.” He couldn’t bring himself to call his dingy apartment ‘home’.


“Okay,” said Oz, resisting the urge to whoop at the fact that Spike was going to get on the plane. “We’d better go to the boarding gate.”


The two of them jogged to where their aircraft was waiting. Spike raised his eyebrows when they were guided into business class section. Oz grinned. “They’re paying, not me. Cool, huh?”


Spike smiled weakly as he settled himself in his spacious seat. It was a lot more comfortable than when he’d flown before.


Halfway into the flight and Spike was asleep, curled up on his side in the reclined chair, looking like a child. Oz watched him as he moved restlessly. He could imagine what he was dreaming of. Or rather who he was dreaming of. Oz wondered idly whether he’d be able to get Spike to agree to go for a session of therapy. God knows his friend was in desperate need of it.


As the aircraft began its descent into LAX Spike’s stomach began to churn. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and wondered what the bleeding hell he was doing there. Just being with Oz reminded him of Buffy – of all the times they’d hung out at the apartment. Hell, who was he kidding? He didn’t need Oz to remind him of Buffy. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. It wasn’t normal, was it? To still feel like this after so long?


The attendant walked by, checking that seats were upright and seatbelts were fastened. She’d flirted with Spike to no avail. He hadn’t even noticed her. “Are you all right, sir?” she asked, pausing at his side.


“Huh?” He blinked and looked up at her vaguely.


“I asked if you were all right,” she repeated. “You look a little unwell.”


“No, I’m okay,” he said unconvincingly. He was worried that he’d throw up. He tried a smile. “Just not the best flyer, that’s all. Thanks.” Then he went back to staring at his knees and trying to control his breathing.


She shrugged slightly and walked on to take her seat prior to landing.


Oz and Spike were the last in their section to get off. Spike had seemed rooted to his seat until Oz gave him a hard nudge.


“If we stay here any longer, we’ll be going back to London,” he said.


And that would be bad because… Spike pulled himself together and got up, grabbing his bag from the overhead locker and passing Oz his.


Spike paused as he stepped out of the airport and into the bright California sun. It seemed like a different world. He tried to remember how excited he’d been when he’d arrived here the first time around, hoping to make it with his music. Now here he was, about to turn down the very recording contract that he’d dreamed about for so long.


“It’s for the best,” he muttered as he walked to a waiting cab with Oz.


“What?” asked Oz. “I missed that.”


He shook his head. “Nothing.”


Spike was silent for the duration of the journey. He was glad that Oz had moved into a different apartment. There was no way that he could have faced sleeping in the bedroom that he’d shared with Buffy.


He followed Oz into the apartment and his jaw dropped.


“Wow! This is amazing,” he said, staring wide-eyed around the spacious living room. He flushed thinking of the studio apartment that Oz had seen. “How long have you been here?”


Oz put his bag down and threw his keys in a bowl on a table near the door. “A couple of months.” He grinned. “Awesome, huh?”


“Did you win the lottery or something?”


“Nope. Got headhunted. A rival firm made me an offer I couldn’t refuse and one of the things they tempted me with was this place at a rental price less than the old one. Here – I’ll give you the tour.”


Spike followed Oz around the apartment feeling more like a pathetic wanker the more he saw of the place. It was huge. And clean. Really, really, clean and tidy. He closed his eyes at the image of Oz perched on the wonky stool next to the overflowing trash can.


“This is your room,” said Oz, showing him the larger of the two guestrooms. It was bigger than the whole of Spike’s apartment.


“Um…thanks. It’s great.”


“That door there leads to your own bathroom.”


Spike looked at it and nodded. “Great. Um…I think I’ll take a shower then, if that’s okay?”


Oz gave him a friendly shove. “You don’t need to ask. Just treat it like your home…well…maybe keep it a bit neater, eh?” He laughed at Spike’s discomfort. “Just chill out a bit. You’re in sunny California now – relax!”


“Thanks, Oz,” said Spike, looking meaningfully at his friend.


Oz nodded, acknowledging what Spike was thanking him for. “We’ll order some food when you come out. Don’t know about you but I’m starving.”


~*~*~*~


After spending Sunday with Oz, Spike was now alone. Oz had left for work and he was due at the record label’s offices to discuss the deal that they were offering in a couple of hours’ time. Spike had wandered restlessly about the apartment before snatching up his jacket and going down to the street.


He walked slowly, not really taking much notice of where he was going, and so it was with surprise that he found himself standing on the corner where he used to meet Buffy. He closed his eyes and groaned.


“Oh, Spike,” he muttered, clenching his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into his skin.


A glance at his watch told him that still had an hour to kill. The office was only a few blocks away and so he decided he may as well get a coffee to pass the time. He ordered and took his drink to a table in the window of the café. Sipping his coffee absently, he watched the people walking by. He took his wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open and stared at the photograph in there. His heart clenched. Each time he looked at it he was struck anew by her beauty. Why had she ever bothered with him at all? Stifling a moan, Spike rammed it back in his pocket. It was time to go and sell his songs.


He hesitated as his hand touched the door handle. It would be so much easier just to call them but he sighed and walked into the large bright foyer. Spike glanced around, spotted the reception desk and made his way to it.


“Good morning, sir,” said the pretty brunette receptionist. “How may I help you?”


“Um…I’ve got an appointment to see…” He ran a hand through his hair. Shit! What was the name? Spike felt his face heat up. “Erm…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten his name.”


The brunette’s smile didn’t dim. “Can you remember your name, sir?” she asked with a theatrical wink.


Spike couldn’t help but smile back. “Yeah. I can remember that. It’s Spike.” A thought struck him as she inputted his name into the computer. “It might be under…William…William Pratt.” He had no idea what name Oz given.


The receptionist giggled. “So you’re not sure of your name after all?”


“I guess not,” replied Spike ruefully.


“Ah! There you are. It’s under Spike…”


“Thank God for that,” muttered Spike.


“And it’s with Mr. Bullen. His office is on the eighth floor and is the second right. I’ll let his secretary know that you’re on your way up.”


“Thanks.”


Spike went to the elevators and pushed the button. The doors opened almost immediately and he walked inside, grimacing at the fact its walls consisted of full length mirrors.


All I bloody need. He scowled at his reflection. By the time the lift stopped and the doors pinged open, Spike was feeling as bad as he looked. Good job I’m here to flog the bloody songs and not to try for a contract. I’d scare them off, for sure. He ran a hand over his chin. At least he had managed to bother to shave that morning. Maybe I should have dressed up a bit? But hey, his jeans were clean and his t-shirt was a vintage Clash one.


A prim looking woman eyed him suspiciously as he approached. He opened his mouth to speak…


“Spike, I presume?” She managed to sneer yet be polite at the same time. Spike decided it was a hell of a thing to be able to do.


“That’s right.” He found that he couldn’t hold her stare and so dropped his gaze to his extremely unpolished boots. Shite.


“Please take a seat. Mr. Bullen will see you shortly.”


Spike sat obediently in the chair she indicated. He found his heart was pounding with the same dread that it had when he was a kid and sent to the headmaster’s office for being in trouble at school.


He started when the polished mahogany door was opened and an immaculately attired man walked towards him with his hand outstretched.


“Spike,” he said warmly. “I’m Greg Bullen. I can’t say how delighted I am that you have decided to come back to L.A.” He shook Spike’s hand. “Come into my office.” He glanced at his secretary. “Margaret, can you bring some refreshments in, please?” Greg looked at Spike. “What would you like? Coffee? Tea?”


“Um…coffee’s fine, thanks,” said Spike, following the man inside.


The room was lavishly furnished and huge. It exuded success and intimidated Spike even more than its occupant did.


Greg waved a hand to a large leather chair opposite the glass and walnut desk. “Please take a seat.”


Spike sank into its softly upholstered surface and tried not to gawk at the surroundings. He knew the label was one of the major players in the industry but this was wealth on a ridiculously over the top scale.


Greg made small talk, pulling monosyllabic answers from Spike with the practiced ease of an expert negotiator. He waited until Margaret had brought the drinks and left again before he leaned forwards in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk.


“So, Spike. We’d like to get you into the recording studio as soon as possible. You have almost enough songs for an album and I’d like to have it out by Christmas. That gives us six months – it’s tight but not impossible.”


“Um…look, Mr. Bullen—”


“Greg.”


Spike smiled lopsidedly. “Greg, I haven’t come here to record the songs. I-I’ve come to sell them to you.” He looked towards the window. “That’s if you still want them? If not, I’ll stop wasting your time.” He stood up and backed up a couple of steps. “You’re a busy man and well…” Spike knew that he was babbling but he couldn’t stop. “You don’t need—”


“Spike,” said Greg, a touch sharply.


Spike reluctantly looked at him.


“Sit down, please. You’re not wasting my time. I have plenty of time for you, whatever the outcome of this meeting.” He stood up and walked around the desk.


Spike hesitated.


“Please,” said Greg, indicating a couple of chairs near the window. “We’ll sit there and have a talk, shall we?”


Spike shrugged. “Okay,” he said quietly.


Greg waited until they were both settled before talking. “Mr. Osborne told me of your loss, and you have my heartfelt sympathies.”


Spike suddenly found his feet very interesting. How pathetic am I that Oz had to lie about why I’m in this state? “Don’t want to talk about it,” he managed to mumble.


“Of course not,” replied Greg smoothly. “But do you not think that the most fitting tribute would be to release an album of the songs that you so lovingly wrote?”


Spike had to hand it to the fella, he was good, but he shook his head all the same. “There’s no point.” He raised a hand to quiet Greg’s protest. “When I dreamed of getting my stuff released I never planned on just one album.”


This time Greg did butt in. “We want to sign you for three.”


Glancing at him, Spike gave a small sigh. “And therein lies the problem.”


“I’m sorry?” Greg’s brows furrowed as he leaned forward in his seat.


“I can’t write anymore,” whispered Spike, blushing as his voice broke slightly.


Greg sat back in his chair. “You need more time – you’ve got it.”


Spike ran a hand wearily over his face. “I just don’t know whether there’ll ever be enough time.” He turned to stare out of the window once more. “I’ve tried. I’ve picked up my guitar a couple of times but…nothing. It’s gone.” He turned to Greg, his expression tortured, pain showing clearly in his eyes. “Whatever I had – it’s left me. I can’t sign up and then not produce new songs – what would be the point of that?”


“So your main worry is that you won’t give us new material?” asked Greg.


Spike looked at him sideways. “Yeah.”


“Right, so here’s the deal. We’ll pay you a wage – a retainer as it were – until you write some new songs or the year’s out. If you feel the same after that then we’ll buy current songs and find a different singer to record them. How does that sound?”


“Seems a bit odd that you’ll pay me when I’ve just told you I can’t write. Why not just buy the songs now?”


“Because, what I really want is the songs and you, and I’m prepared to risk a few thousand dollars in the hope that I’ll get it.” Greg grinned and added. “Plus, I’ll drive a really hard bargain for the songs if you decide to walk away.” He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”


“Um…what about the Christmas release?”


“Look, Spike. If we get you signed up I don’t care when we get your album out. So? Deal?”


Spike hesitated before stretching out his and saying quietly, “Deal.”


“Excellent!” Greg pumped his hand up and down with delight.


Spike’s stomach churned. Stop stressing, he told himself firmly. Can still sell the sodding songs.


Greg went over some paperwork before Spike left but he hadn’t really taken it in apart from when his eyes had widened at the figure they were going to pay him per month for essentially doing nothing. He left the office in a daze.


*~*~*~*


Spike’s life now had a new routine. He no longer laid listlessly in bed in a dingy studio apartment in London. He got up and sat listlessly on the balcony of a plush L.A. apartment instead. The end result was that he was beginning to lose the pasty, ill appearance that had shocked Oz when he’d first seen him.


One morning, he sighed as he glanced at his still un-played guitar. He couldn’t stand being in the same room with it for any longer. It was a stark reminder of how he hadn’t only lost his soul mate but had lost the other love of his life – his music. Spike got up and went down to the street. He wandered along and ended up, inevitably it seemed, at the corner where he used to meet Buffy.


He leant against the wall and watched the people walking by. He wondered idly where they were all dashing to. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry except him. He felt like his life was moving in slow-motion and he had no idea how to make it get up to normal speed again. A couple of coins dropped at his feet and, startled, he looked up.


“There you go, buddy. Get yourself a hot drink and something to eat.”


“What?” asked Spike, when the well-dressed man spoke.


The business suited man inclined his head to the coins on the floor. “Help yourself to something to eat – you look like you need it.”


Spike blushed scarlet. “But I’m not—”


“Just take it, man. We’ve all had bad times.”


Spike stared after him as he strode away, then he glanced down at himself. The faded Levis with ripped out knees. The scuffed boots. The old t-shirt.


Oh shite! He thought I was begging! He bent down and picked up the coins. I’m not broke – I’m just broken hearted. Sighing deeply, he crossed the street to the café. Better use it for what it was intended.


He bought a newspaper from a nearby stand and walked inside the café. The smell of coffee was inviting and he bought a latte and a chocolate covered donut before taking a seat in the window. He flicked through the paper but found his attention wandered back to people watching instead. When Spike became aware that the place was filling up and he was getting a few dirty looks for nursing such a small order for so long, he ordered another coffee and a sandwich.


When he pulled out his wallet to pay for them his heart skipped at the sight of Buffy’s face smiling up at him. He couldn’t take his eyes away from it for what seemed like an age. Finally, with a grimace, he put his wallet back in his pocket and walked out of the café, leaving the newspaper on the table along with the half drunk coffee and untouched sandwich. He wandered back to the apartment.


Oz kept trying to get Spike to go out and socialise but had never managed it. He felt bad leaving his friend behind when he went out in the evening, but he couldn’t just stay in all the time with Spike. He wished whole-heartedly that Spike would shake off the depression that was blighting his life but shuddered when he recalled the time he’d tried to give Spike the number of a good therapist. What was it with English people and their aversion to therapy?


When Spike told him that he’d been out that morning, Oz was delighted. Did this mean that things were going to get better for him?


*~*~*~*


A month later and Spike’s routine had changed. He got up a little earlier. Dressed a little tidier. And went to the café for a little longer. The staff knew him by now and as soon as he walked in the door his coffee and donut was ready for him. He sat at the same table, pretending to read the paper but really mostly staring out of the window, scanning the passing people for the one face that he longed to see again – Buffy. He knew that it was stupid. She no longer lived in L.A. and despite both his and Oz’s best efforts, he had no clue as to where she’d gone.


He had no idea that for the past two weeks that he’d been watched as carefully as he’d watched the crowds outside.


A chair scraped on the floor and he glanced up to see a tall brunette was pulling out the chair next to his.


“Do you mind if I sit here?” she asked with a hundred watt smile.


Spike glanced around the café. It was still half empty with several vacant tables. “Um, sorry, but I’d rather you didn’t. There are other chairs that are free,” he replied bluntly.


“I like this one,” she said brightly, ignoring Spike’s request and sitting next to him.


He groaned softly and shifted further away from her, before beginning to rise. She put a hand on his arm.


“Please don’t leave.”


“Look. I just want to be alone, all right? ‘M not looking for any conversation.”


“Are you looking for her?” The woman held out his wallet, that had been on the table, opened revealing Buffy’s photograph.


Spike snatched it from the woman’s hand. “None of your bleeding business, lady,” he hissed.


He shrugged off her hand and stood up. She did also. “I’m sorry. I’ll go. I didn’t mean to upset you.” The brunette turned and quickly walked out of the café.


Spike sat down slowly and put his head in his hands. Sod it. He knew he’d been rude but he hadn’t been able to prevent it. Like he’d said – it was none of her business.


*~*~*~*


Cordelia Chase strolled slowly along the street. Her thoughts were with the blond man in the café. Without fail, he’d been there each day for at least the last three weeks. That was when she’d first spotted him, sitting alone in the window, toying with the pastries that he bought but rarely ate. The sorrow around him was tangible. The only time before today that she’d heard him speak, was when he was paying for his order and politely thanking the staff.


It was his voice that had made her notice him initially. The accent stood out against the others in there, but it was the inflection in it that had made her prick up her ears. He sounded so sad; his voice a weary monotone. When she’d glanced up from her laptop she’d been expecting to see a much older man than the twenty something that was making his way to a table in the window.


She’d been surprised to see him still there when she’d finished emailing her copy to the magazine. As far as she could see, he hadn’t touched his drink, his donut or even turned the pages of his newspaper. He appeared to be alternately staring at something in his hands and out the window. Occasionally he tensed and then seemed to slump in his seat.


The sigh that he gave when he’d finally gotten up from his seat and walked out of the café tugged at her heartstrings and made her certain that there was a story in there somewhere. Why was a handsome guy like that so alone and so obviously miserable? She resolved to find out and just hoped that she hadn’t screwed everything up today. She was desperate to hear what he had to say.


TBC


Chapter End Notes:
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