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A/N: Italics are the other end of a phone line.



JULY, 2001

She should go to bed.

It was 11’o’clock, and she should be in bed. He didn’t have a watch on- he hated anything that reminded him of time, now. The sun rising, the sun setting, thunderstorms, back to school ads, those things on TV about “Do you know where your children are?” which she was watching now. But he didn’t need anyone to tell him what time it was, and he always knew what day it was. Eleven o clock on day seventy five, and she should be in bed.

Part of him wanted to walk away and let her alone, curled up in that robot’s arms- what had she called it? Gross? Obscene? Not real? No wonder he and it’d gotten on so well. Maybe he would leave now- just walk off, steal a car, drive too fast and end up- wherever, Washington, Las Vegas, didn’t matter. Somewhere neon and loud. But he wouldn’t. He missed the DeSoto, but Red and the Boy had this funny obsession with eating food everyday, so it was scrap metal now, somewhere. Whatever it takes. So he walks in the front door.

“Nibblet.” He says gentle and important. “”S late. And a school night.”

“Can’t I skip?”

“I let you skip last week.” He sighs and tries not to look at the plastic thing sitting next to her. “And for the last time, I’m not going to blow up the teacher’s lounge.” He walks over and shuts off the television. “The parts for the bomb are just too expensive.”

She pouts and takes the bot by the wrist, leading it up the stairs behind her. He knows how this part goes. She’ll say good night, and he’ll say sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite, because they spread the plague, you filthy little bird. She’ll grin and go upstairs, and they can play like things are OK for awhile, like things are how they’re supposed to be. He’ll sit at the bottom of the stairs and listen to the soft, simple sobs of the girl for a while, or maybe this will be one of the nights where she’s quiet for a long, long time before the breathing steadies. And he’ll wait till the sky turns gray and raw, and he’ll walk back to the crypt.

She walks to the stairs and goes up. Turns around and smiles quiet, “Good night.” He starts on his end, but he’s interrupted by a voice, sleepy-casual: “I love you, Spike.”

Yet he tries not to react, keeping quiet and nodding gentle, like this is normal and fine. It sounds the same as the last sunrise he ever saw- sweet and beautiful and hopeful and completely, perfectly tragic. But before he can respond, the robot opens its metal jaw- “I love you too.”


And everything is still and everything is stopped.


The universe is holding its breath and Spike can’t even move, can’t even speak because if he does, everything will shatter. Silence sits like smoke from the cigarettes he doesn’t buy anymore- the money goes to those vile gummi worms the bit likes- and after a thousand hours she speaks. Splutters something about sorry or good night and goes up the stairs, leading the oblivios copy-cat bot upstairs behind her.

For a thousand hours he stands there, fists clenched, knuckles white. He doesn’t need to breathe and he doesn’t need to blink, not really, and he thinks maybe he can just fade away, just blend in to the background. He just wants it to be quiet. Finally, he sighs, defeated, and walks numbly home, eyes on his boots. And he doesn’t cry. He pours himself a drink, and he doesn’t cry. He sits down and writes another letter- another one of the thousands upon thousands of letters he writes to her, letters no one else will ever see, letters he will never send, letters he doesn’t expect a reply from- and he doesn’t cry. He turns on the TV and lets blue-white insomnia wash over him and the rest of the crypt, and he doesn’t cry. He drinks his way to an aching, nstalgic, queasy sleep, tossing and turning dreams, and when the morning comes and the in-between seconds where he doesn’t know where he is pass, he doesn’t cry. He’s more used to the wide awake and the dying, anyhow.

No, he won’t cry for it now, on day seventy-six.

There are some things too sad for tears.



PRESENT

Spike’s trip down memory lane ended as quickly and suddenly as it began, and he blinked around. Willow was staring at Oz, Oz was staring at Willow. Dawn was staring at him, and Faith was staring at Angel, who was staring at Buffy, who was staring at everyone. After half an eternity, Willow made a move.

“Buffy, look! Our visitors. That’s Oz, our old friend, that’s Dawn, your sister, and that’s Faith, your-“ she swallowed nervously. “Our- that’s Faith!”

The dark slayer nodded with a rueful grin. “Good to see you too.”

“I’ll um...it’s late, Buffy, how bout you and I go upstairs?” The two girls walked upstairs, the blonde glancing back with a confused look on her face.

“So, um...” Dawn spoke to Angel. “You, uh...” The girl glanced at Spike furtively, but wouldn’t look at him while she spoke. “Called. I got sent to stay with Faith for part of the summer, and um...got the call and hurried...Oz....L.A.” The girl was getting more and more upset.

“Nibblet-“

“I’m gonna go. Upstairs.” She suddenly seemed flustered, her eyes on the floor. “Buffy...and...” She ran off.

Faith watched her retreat up the stairs. “Huh. Freaky.” She turned to Spike. “’Sup.”

“Hey.”

“Came back, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Necklace?”

“Necklace.”

The two nodded and smiled slightly. Angel stared. “You uh, you don’t seem too surprised.”

“Right. Name the last guy Buffy had a lip lock with who died and stayed dead.” Angel opened his mouth to speak, then shrugged. “’Sides, Spike and me? We both got a good portion of Angelus ass-whooping. We’re connected on a very deep level.”

“Oh, c’mon” The brown-haired vamp snorted. “Spike never--”

“Want to stop yapping for half a tic and listen, you great dull slab of brow? I’ll thrash you. Again.”

“But--”

“Wolfboy’s here.” Spike nodded toward Oz.

“Hey.” The guitarist rubbed at his hair. What color was it now? A kind of maroon? “Heard you weren’t evil anymore. Also kind of BBQ-left over.”

“Yes on the soul, no on the dust. What, did Red call you or summat?”

“Yeah. She looked me up last year, before the great trumpets-blaring saddles-blazing battle. Just in case, y’know. Called me after, told me about all of it.” Spike wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have detected a flicker of expression around the ‘just in case’. “She told me that you were gonna have to--”

BRRRING! BRRRING! The phone ringing shocked them all into silence. Angel had figured the phone line was bound to be dead- thank the Powers That Be for odd mercies.

None moved to pick up. At last, it went to answering machine, Angel flinching at the sounds of Cordelia’s voice.

“Hello, you’ve reached Angel Investigations. (Pause)”

“Hello? Hello?! Cordelia, thank God, I thought you were-“

“Is this on? (Ruffling noises) Ok, uh, Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless. Low rates, we’re busy, so leave a message. If you wish to inquire after one Cordelia Chase, in order to hire--”
“Cordelia! Keep it short! Their lives are most likely in great peril!”
“Keep your knickers on, Wes. Those looking for talent may leave a message. The endangered can too.”

“(Long pause.) Hello? Er, this is Giles. I, I wasn’t sure if this line would work, but Angel or Buffy, if either of you are there--”

“Hey, Rupes!” Faith finally called out, breaking the frozen silhouette. “Long time no lecture.”

“Faith? Faith is that you? I--”

“(From a distance)Selina Kyle? Selina is there? Great Gadzooks!”

“Andrew! For the last time, stop trying to be English, and who in the heavens--”

“Catwoman,” Oz smiled a little, stepping closer to the phone. “Selina Kyle is Catwoman’s alias.”

“Ha! Sweet.” Faith grinned. “What’s the deal, tweedy?”

“Erm, I’m afriad there’s been a--”

“Catwoman! Catwoman!!!”

“Andrew! Give me the receiver.” (Scuffling noise. High-pitched scream. Thud. Pause.) Er, hullo?”

“Um, Watcher? Does uh- what’s his name- Tucker’s brother- he does still have life, right?” Spike frowned, not sure just how to celebrate the idea.

“He has a pulse, if that’s what you mean. Wait- wait- (sputtering) Was that-“

“It’s me alright.” Spike smiled bittersweet. “William the Bloody is back. Emphasis on the bloody.”

“Good Lord... (Long pause)”

“Rupert?” Spike stepped forward and leaned over the phone. “You cleaning your glasses?”

“Erm...quite...what? What happened?”

“Evil lawyer. It’s a thing.”

“(softer) Well, that’s good. I’m sure Buffy’s very happy, she is there, isn’t she?”

“Thanks. And yeh. I guess.”

There was a pause. “Aww, I think they’re gonna telehug.” Faith prodded the bleached vampire in the back as he stiffened.

“I think not. I’d ask how Cleveland is, Faith, but there are more important things than pleasantries--”

“Always are...”

“We got a visit from Drusilla. She had a message, and I think Spike would be best equipped to interpret it.”


“Well, that’s too bad.” Willow spoke surprising them all from the bottom of the stairs. “Because Spike?” She looked guiltily to his quickly hardening face. “Gonna be out of commission for a while.” She took a deep breath.

“We’re taking out your soul. Tonight.”



A/N: Why is Dawn acting so strange? You’ll see. Oh, you’ll see.

BTW, i REALLY wish that i had named this story “Learning How to See”. So just pretend that that’s its title.

On a more somber note:

Joey Ramone has passed on to the great Fleet Center in the sky, meaning there is only one surviving member of The Ramones who hasn’t died of cancer and/or drugs. Wear black, weep, wail, pray, and moment of silence.






Thank you. Reviews much, much appreciated.





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