Two days later I was driving myself to the airport. I was taking a private jet provided by the Watcher’s Council. I told Giles that I had some personal business to take care of and I needed an aircraft and a pilot. I know he wanted to pry, maybe even argue, but to his credit, he didn’t. He just asked when I would be back, and I told him that I couldn’t answer him. He stared at me a long time before finally agreeing to provide what I required. He also allowed me hotel room for as long as I needed it, plus an expense account. The only thing he wanted form me was to stay for an emergency meeting before I shoved off for home across the pond.
Even though Giles was the head of the council, when it came to doling out orders, all eyes fell to me. At first, it had bothered me. I was tired of being in charge. But the sad truth was, although Giles was head in name, the watchers and the girls looked to me as the authority in all things Slayer. Sometimes it made me wish that Faith had come to London with us. I mean, I know that Cleveland has an abnormal amount of demonic activity and she needed the alone time with Robin, but the help would have been nice here.
Early on my day of departure, the two top watchers had been dispatched to L.A. at the request of Wolfram and Hart to retrieve a slayer. A mentally disturbed slayer. Deadly combo. I had gone to the briefing, as per Giles’ request, otherwise I would have left much earlier. But as it was, I had to give the two watchers the orders they would be following during their stay. I had also given them a small contingent of slayers to help out if needed. They would get there about an hour before I did. Hopefully, they wouldn’t realize I was in Los Angelus at all. I didn’t want to undertake a mission while I was there.
He drowns in his dreams
An exquisite extreme I know
He’s as damned as he seems
And more heaven than a heart could hold
And if I try to save him
My whole world could cave in
It just ain’t right
It just ain’t right
I didn’t know what kind of girly radio station Dawn had on from the last time she drove the car. Funny, I used to listen to things like this, but my tastes had run much darker of late. As I reached out to turn off the radio, the words hit my brain, and I put my hand down.
Oh when I don’t know
I don’t know what he’s after
But he’s so beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
He’s magic and myth
As strong as what I believe
A tragedy with
More damage than a soul should see
But do I try to change him?
So hard not to blame him
Hold me tight
Baby, Hold me tight
Tears began to roll down my cheeks. It seemed as if the lyrics had been written for Spike and me. All I could think about was the last time I had seen him.
Oh and I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he's so beautiful
He's such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
Illuminated in all that light, he was so beautiful. So brave. I could remember everything we had said. I had replayed those last moments in my head so many times; it was engrained on my memory and my heart. I had laced my fingers through his and blinked past my tears to look in his eyes. Our hands burst into flames.
“I love you.” I had said.
“No, you don’t, but thanks for saying it.”
I'm longing for love and the logical
But he's only happy hysterical
I'm searching for some kind of miracle
Waited so long
Waited so long
The only kicker was, I had meant it. I still meant it. Hell, I was flying halfway around the world because of it.
He's soft to the touch
But frayed at the end he breaks
He's never enough
And still he's more than I can take
Oh and I don't know
I don't know what he's after
But he's so beautiful
He's such a beautiful disaster
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster
I just wanted to hold him. I wanted to feel him in my arms and then I would feel complete again. I would feel like this huge hole in my life was filled. I pulled into the Heathrow airport and parked my car. A few deep breaths later and I was ready to get my suitcases from the trunk.
Although it was winter in London, Los Angelus has no discernable seasons. It was wonderful to pack for; I got out all the clothes I hadn’t been able to wear because of the chilling cold. I had brought two suitcases, although I could have easily brought more.
To tell the truth though, I had no clue what the outcome of this trip might be or how long I would be there. I mean, it’s not like Spike and I had been together in a long time. After all I had done to him, I doubted we could be together now. I wasn’t expecting him to forgive me, but I owed it to him and myself to tell him the truth about my feelings. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe he had no desire to be with me anymore. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t notified when he hopped out of an amulet in L.A. Maybe he didn’t love me anymore. Even if he did, what would he think of me now, anyway? When I saw him, would he be disappointed with me? Would he look upon me with my tattoo and my haunted eyes and not want me anymore? Would I be less beautiful to him, now that I was so damaged?
I sat down in my seat. As the plane took off, I covered my face with my hands. I had never liked flying. Actually, it was a fear Spike and I both shared. The night before our final battle, we sat in the basement and talked about things we would do when the fight was over. Of course we talked about rebuilding a Watcher’s Council and job related stuff, but then it had turned personal. I told him I had always wanted to see Europe, and he had reached out and touched my cheek.
“I’d love to take you there, kitten. Off to London, Venice, Paris,” he had said with a shy smile.
I had leaned into his caress of and gazed into his eyes. He pulled back his hand like I had burned him, a look of terror on his face.
“You should go there with someone who can take you into the sun,” he had said as he turned away from me. I changed the subject to how terrified I would be for the whole plane trip there. He had chuckled at me and began to tell me of his own irrational plane fear. We laughed together, all awkwardness forgotten. I figured I would have time to explain to him how my feelings had changed. After the battle, we could sit down and I could tell him that I loved him. He had looked so shocked when I asked him if I could share his cot so we could hold each other while we slept.
I reached into my purse to pull out a small leather bound book of poetry. I had found it in Spike’s crypt after he had left for Africa to win back his soul. I spent a lot of time there with Clem those next few months, just hoping that Spike would return. I had read the diminutive tome countless times since I had lifted it from the room below the crypt.
I opened the book on my lap to study the title page. Hand written in tidy script was one line.
Abashed the Devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely, saw, and pined his loss.
I ran my fingers over the letters. Although I had never seen Spike’s handwriting before, I was sure that he had written it. I knew what it was. It was a line from Milton’s Paradise Lost. I had actually read it for one of my college classes. But why had he written it here? I wondered what he was thinking when he wrote it. I turned to one of the only pages in the book that was dog-eared. He must have read this page a lot, I thought to myself.
Night
My kitten walks on velvet feet
And makes no sound at all;
And in the doorway nightly sits
To watch the darkness fall
I think he loves the lady, night
And feels akin to her
Whose footsteps are as still as his,
Whose touch as soft as fur
Lois Weakley McKay
I loved poetry. The words used, the tempo, how it rolls off your tongue when you read it out loud, even if it’s when you’re alone. I mean, I didn’t have much time for it in my life before, but now that there were so many slayers, maybe I would. I’ve spent the last eight years fighting evil. When normal girls are discussing dating, fashion, and now that I’m twenty-three, marriage, I get to discuss ambush tactics, the proper way to behead, and how to get Fyarl demon mucus out of a leather coat. Lacks poetry, eh? Of course, it doesn’t have to. What rhymes with mucus?
I turned to the last page of the book. It was empty. I pulled a pen from my purse and began to write.
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Song is Beautiful Disaster by Kelly Clarkson