Chapter 31
Going Home
Spike put on his duster, pleased to cover up the Union Jack t-shirt that he was wearing. Once his boots were on his feet, he followed a police officer to a patrol car in the yard at the rear of the station. He put his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking slightly as the level of alcohol in his bloodstream continued to drop. He gritted his teeth against the urge to find more liquor as soon as possible. Then he remembered his decision and smiled grimly as he considered how best to do it.
“You might want to pull that coat over your head as we drive out of the yard,” said the officer.
“Huh?” Spike glanced around, surprised that they were standing next to the car.
“It’s a bit of a zoo out there.”
“A zoo?” repeated Spike stupidly.
The officer sighed. “God, this one’s real bright, isn’t he?” “Reporters,” he explained. “Lot’s of them.”
“Oh,” replied Spike weakly.
The officer opened the door of the vehicle and Spike got in. He didn’t see the point of covering his face. He didn’t have anything to hide – well not about being gay anyway. The duster was just as much a trademark of him as his hair. He kept his eyes downcast as the car exited the yard. Spike’s eyes changed as anger flared when he glimpsed the number of cameras and reporters.
“Bleeding vultures.”
He was tempted to glare at them with his amber eyes – give them some real news, but wisely didn’t.
The officer stomped his foot on the gas and they sped away.
Angel steered his stolen car away from the curb and followed the car, being careful not to get too close. The last thing that he needed was the cop noticing that he was being tailed. He cursed loudly as he turned in to the road leading to Spike’s property. He kicked himself for the not thinking that reporters would be camped out here, too. His plan of overtaking the patrol car and waiting at the gates, so that he could talk to Spike was useless now. He’d be lost in the crowd.
He pulled over to the side of the road and abandoned the car. A quick glance around told him that no one was looking in his direction – all focus was on the patrol car. So he took a few steps back and then ran forwards and leapt over the seven foot high perimeter fence. He ran towards the house.
The officer drove up to the gates, parting the sea of photographers all clicking away. Spike let out a low growl. He was horrified to discover that he wanted to go out and tear in to them. He shuddered. He really was a beast; a demon. He’d never sought a fight in his life – apart from once with Angel in high school – but now, he could barely sit still with the urge to wreak havoc amongst them. His eyes blazed yellow; he closed them against the glare of the flash from the many cameras.
“Um, you’ll have to key in the numbers to get the gates to open. I don’t have the remote control with me,” muttered Spike, telling him what the numbers were. The sooner he was back in his own house the better.
The officer placed the car as close to the keypad as he could before rolling down the window. “You’ll have to change it as soon as possible,” advised the officer.
“Yeah.”
The officer called out to the gathered paparazzi, “Anyone attempting to follow through the gates will be arrested for trespassing.”
A chorus of groans met his words, but they all stayed on the outside of the gate as they drove through.
“Here you are, sir,” said the officer politely as he let Spike out of the rear of the car. His expression wasn’t as polite as his words – he looked at Spike with disgust. “The man has it all. Gorgeous girlfriend, big house, rich, and yet he fools around with men when his girl’s not around, totally wasted too.”
Spike just mumbled his thanks and went to the front door. The bloodlust that he’d felt for the reporters had faded and he simply felt exhausted and crushed by the weight of what was happening to him.
Angel groaned as he saw the car disappearing down the driveway and Spike go inside the house. He’d miscalculated just how freaking extensive the grounds were, and hadn’t got to the doorway in time.
000000000
Buffy was grateful for Rich’s organisational skills as he arranged for their luggage to be collected and sent on to Buffy and Spike’s house and for a car to take them all there as soon as they cleared customs. What he couldn’t have anticipated or do anything about was the swarm of press that surrounded them as soon as they were in a public part of the airport.
They stared at each other in horror. They knew! The press knew about Spike! Rich put an arm around each of the girls and tried to bustle them through.
“Buffy, can we hear your side?” yelled one reporter thrusting a microphone near her face.
Rich glared at him and ground out a curt, “No comment.”
“How do you feel, seeing photographs like this splashed all over the papers?” said another pushing a folded newspaper in to her hands.
“Oh Christ, they’ve got pictures of his amber eyes. He’ll never cope with this.” Buffy thought desperately.
She hardly dared to look at the paper, when she did glance at it she stopped short. Rich anxiously looked at her; her expression was unreadable.
“Oh, God, Buffy. Are they –?”
“No,” whispered Buffy and then gave the paparazzi exactly what they wanted by bursting in to uncontrollable sobs.
Rich snatched the paper from her hands and then understood. Buffy was crying with relief as the photograph showed Spike being kissed by Chris. Thank God for small mercies. Rich had to stifle a smile at the thought that the world now believing that Spike was gay and cheating on Buffy was a relief compared to what it could have known. They all had presumed that the breaking news would be the fact that Spike was turning in to a vampire!
Wordlessly, he passed the paper to Tara, whose eyes widened when she saw the photograph. She quickly moved around Rich to comfort Buffy. At that point the airport security arrived and ordered the press to back off.
“About bleedin’ time,” grumbled Rich as they made their way to the waiting limousine.
Once inside the vehicle, all three sat together, Rich in the middle and the girls on either side as they poured over the article.
“I’ll sue the bastards,” snarled Rich. “That quote is taken right out of context and everyone in the business knows what Chris is like – the old slag. The whole report is a joke.”
“Who’s that?” asked Tara, pointing to the photos of Spike and Angel.
“I have no idea, have you, Buffy?”
Buffy stared at the picture. There was something vaguely familiar about the man but his face was never shown. She shook her head. “I don’t know either.”
00000000000
Spike slammed the door and leaned back on it.
“Fuck, what a mess.”
He covered his face with his hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. He felt his eyes change to amber and found that he no longer cared. Idly, he wondered what colour his eyes would be when he was dead. Or would there not be a body left behind at all? Would he disappear in to dust like Drusilla had? He took his hands away from his face and strode purposefully in to the kitchen.
He opened the drawer containing the cutlery and after a moment’s consideration, he picked up a short bladed knife. It was the sharpest that they had in the house. Spike smiled sadly and a tear rolled from an eye as it faded back to blue. He remembered how Buffy had cursed loudly last Christmas when she’d cut her finger with it whilst preparing vegetables for the dinner. Her mother had admonished her for using such language and then turned on him and Rupert as they had failed to hide their chuckles at Joyce’s outrage.
Where should he do it? The flooring in the kitchen would be the easiest to clean afterwards, but he didn’t think that he could do it sitting on one of the hard chairs around the table.
He walked to the refrigerator and took out a can of beer, regretting that they never had stronger alcohol in the house. He popped it open and took several long swallows, belched, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and walked in to the lounge room. Okay, so it would be harder to clean up in here but it’s not like Buffy couldn’t afford to throw it out and replace it, was it?
He drained the beer and sank down in to his favourite sofa. He put the empty can on the floor. Spike held the knife in his left hand and turned his right wrist over. Where to cut? He needed to get this right. Couldn’t mess this up like he had everything else. He laid the blade against his wrist. He’d cut it there first and then in the crook of his elbow too, he’d had blood taken from there in the past.
Angel peered through the window and watched Spike walk out of the kitchen swigging the beer and carrying the knife. Angel followed his movements to the lounge and watched curiously as Spike sat down. Angel had a clear view of Spike as the sofa that he sat on was side ways on to the window. It suddenly dawned on him what Spike intended to do.
“The young fool!”
Angel rammed his right fist in to the window pane, putting all his vampiric strength behind it. He winced as it felt as if he’d hit a brick wall thanks to the invisible barrier protecting the house, but the glass shattered.
Spike jumped as he heard the crash and the blade dug a deep furrow across his wrist, blood flowed freely from the wound. He stared at the window.
“Look what you made me do!” he yelled.
A burst of hysterical laughter escaped his lips. Like it mattered! “Need to finish off properly.” He positioned the blade again, his left hand shaking.
“Spike! Don’t be a freaking idiot!” shouted Angel.
“Fuck off,” said Spike not looking at him, his eyes on the knife.
Angel glanced around frantically, his eyes lit on a small plastic trowel, forgotten by the gardener. He picked it up and threw it at Spike. It was a great shot, connecting with Spike’s temple. With a howl of pain and surprise, Spike dropped the knife, stood up and turned to glower at Angel.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Piss off out of here and leave me alone.”
“Oh, yeah. Leave you alone so that you can kill yourself. Now why should I do that Mr. Got-It-All Famous Rock Star. Especially since we’re apparently lovers!”
“I’ll call the cops. You’ll be back in jail before you know it.”
“Do it,” urged Angel.
It took quite a while to bleed out from a slashed wrist. Spike would be saved even if he chopped at his wrist again. Spike wavered, obviously thinking the same thing as Angel; he couldn’t do what he had to do if the place was swarming with cops. For the first time since he discovered that it could happen, he consciously willed his eyes to change to yellow.
“Just leave me, the hell alone,” he snarled., expecting Angel to back off.
“Anything you can do, I can do better,” sang Angel, changing his face to show his demon. He added a growl for good measure, baring his fangs.
Spike recoiled a few steps, tripped over his own feet and landed with a thud on his ass.
“Wh…Wh…?”
“Invite me in, Spike. I can either rip your throat out and finish you off much quicker, or we can talk. Your call.”
“Invite?”
“For Christ’s sake, Spike. Repeat after me – Angel, please come in. I can’t come in unless you ask me to.”
Spike’s eyes changed back to blue as he spoke. “A…Angel, please come in.”
Angel, still in his game face, grinned and put his hand through the broken window, reaching for the frame’s handle. He opened it and climbed in to the lounge. Spike stood, wide eyed and trembling as Angel approached.
“You’ve ruined that sofa and the carpet; blood’s a bitch to get out,” said Angel conversationally. “The bathtub is the traditional place for slashing your wrists. Was it too much of a cliché for you?”
Spike was dumbstruck as Angel grabbed his right wrist and brought it up to his lips. He tried to pull it away as he felt Angel’s cold tongue lick the wound. When Angel let him go, the bleeding had stopped.
“I think that we need to talk, don’t you?” asked Angel. “Or would you rather I finished what you started?”
Tbc
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Banner by dawnofmeAuthor's Chapter Notes:
betad by carol and dawnofme
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Thanks for being so patient - thanks for reading!