After Spike had been discharged from the emergency room, it had been about three in the morning. Tara drove him home in her mini-cooper and insisted on staying the night, despite Spike’s plaintive argument that he was fine. They watched television until Tara’s cheek was a heavy weight on his shoulder. Spike cautiously lifted her head so that he would not wake her and then set Tara gently on the couch before stealing out into the hallway.
Spike hadn’t been back to apartment nine since Toy had asked him not to go there, but this night he was making an exception. He needed to know he hadn’t gone around the bend, toddled into madness. Spike knocked on the thin door, noticing as he did that the place was dark inside. The force of his fist rattled the wood in its frame, but no one answered. He waited, then knocked again but there was no joy.
Fuck it.
He took out his newly recovered wallet and slid a credit card out of the leather pocket. In thirty seconds’ time he’d jimmied the lock and gotten inside. Spike flicked on the light and took in the small space. The front door opened onto a living room with a galley kitchen off to the right and the master bedroom to the left, just like his place. Toy’s, or possibly Walter Kurtz’s living room was surgically sterile and uncomfortably spare. There was a black television hanging on the white wall. On the glossy hardwood floor sat a black futon; no other furniture and no pictures.
Spike went into the kitchen and perused through the cupboards. There were cheap, white dishes in neat stacks, columns of matching white mugs and tall, clear glasses. Spike opened the fridge and found ground coffee, hazelnut flavored creamer, a bag of salad and an array of dressings. In the freezer was a striped, yellow carton of Funfetti ice cream and assorted frozen, low calorie meals in sad, little boxes that boasted their high quality, organic ingredients.
There was no way a guy named Walter lived there.
The bathroom confirmed his suspicions. Although everything matched the dire black and white motif, the shampoo in the shower caddy smelled like Toy’s hair. Spike glanced in the medicine cabinet. It was stuffed equally with pricey make-up and first aid supplies. He pocketed a bottle of crimson polish called “I Am Not A Waitress Anymore Red.”
Spike saved the bedroom for last; he’d always wanted to be invited there and this was poor substitute. What he saw filled him with confused emotions. The bed looked exactly like his, down to the red comforter and the candles flanking either side. There was a pillow with the dirty t-shirt she’d taken from his apartment wrapped around it; Spike imagined she probably held the pillow as she slept. The room told him that Toy was desperately in love with him, she wanted to be immersed in him. It also told him she would rather play-act than sleep in bed next to him.
On the wall opposite the bed hung a cluster of photographs. These were what she chose to see at night before she went to sleep, Spike thought. He looked at them with a sense of awe, as one might visit the works of old masters hanging in a somber gallery. In the largest picture Toy was laughing with a boy and a girl. The boy had dark hair and Toy was resting her head on his lap. The other girl in the picture was a redhead wearing pink overalls; she was tilting against Toy like a domino. Spike stared at the red-head; she was the same girl that tried to rip his chest open the night before, although that was hard to believe looking at the smiling kid before him.
There were other pictures; a woman with soft waves in her blonde hair that looked like Toy’s mother, a little girl with long, silky brown hair mugging next to Toy in a cheesy, sequined frame that read ‘Sisters’; a middle-aged man with round glasses, a warm smile and thinning, sandy hair, perhaps her father. In the center of the images was the wrapping paper from the gift Spike had given her, folded into a heart. The ribbon was attached with a push pin, right through the center.
He was going to leave and just wait for her to find him, when he heard the door open. Spike froze. Someone was crashing through the living room, opening doors and dragging objects. Toy ran into her bedroom carrying a black suitcase that was nearly half her size. Toy was still in her puffy, black winter coat and a green, knitted cap. She dropped the case and kicked it open. She tore out her top dresser drawer and emptied it into the case.
“Off to warmer climes, love?” he asked.
Toy whipped around, her hair like a gold propeller. She had immediately fallen into a fighting stance, but when she saw Spike, Toy relaxed.
“You’re picking up some bad habits from me,” she said.
“That’s an understatement. So were you planning on saying goodbye, or did you think I bled to death in the snow drift where you abandoned me?” he asked.
“I didn’t abandon you,” she said.
“Not what I heard.”
“I don’t have time,” she said.
Toy turned around and resumed her frenzied dumping. Spike walked over to her and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Tell me the bloody truth for once,” he shouted.
She shook him off.
“Fine, here goes. Vampires are real. The girl in the alley who was trying to eat you used to be my best friend Willow, but she became one of them, courtesy of my ex-boyfriend. It’s my job to kill the vampires. I’m a slayer, the slayer, the one girl in all the world tasked with ridding the planet of demons. Except for the past three years I’ve been dealing with one vampire who is obsessed with destroying me. The thing is, he wasn’t a vampire when we met. His name was Angel and he was an ordinary boy who cared about me, so one of the baddies I fight turned him into a nuclear bomb. That’s what happens when people love me, Spike. That’s what’s going to happen to you if I don’t leave,” she said.
“Why'd you tell me you loved me, why'd you pretend you were giving yourself to me knowing you'd leave like a fucking thief in the night?” he asked.
She crossed her arms over her chest.
“That's your question? I just told you that I'm a vampire slayer and you want to talk about our relationship?”
“I'm a selfish man,” he said.
“Well, I guess I’m selfish, too,” she said.
“You used me—“
“And you enjoyed every minute of it,” she said.
“Not relishing this part, pet,” he said.
Toy walked over to the collection of photographs on the wall.
“Do you see these people? He killed every last one of them. I couldn’t protect them, I couldn’t stop him. You love your sister, Tara? Well I had a sister, too, once, and I loved her more than anybody in the world. I had her hidden away where I thought no one could find her. To get to her, Angel let me think it was over. The people I work for, the ones who keep Walter Kurtz in Funfetti ice cream and clean socks, they got word he was dust. They convinced me to start living in the open, telling people my name and then one day I came home to find my ten-year-old sister missing. He tortured her for a month, Spike, a month. And he kept sending me pictures every day. When he finally brought her back, she was a shell. But he didn’t kill her then. He waited until she was starting to get better. I found her body propped up in front of the television. It looked like she was watching cartoons. I tried to die that morning; I cut my wrists but he wouldn’t let me. Angel was the one who called an ambulance and stopped the bleeding. He told me he didn’t want it to end yet,” she said.
Toy was shaking, but there were no tears. Spike enfolded her in a hug that she initially resisted; it was like trying to embrace a clump of straight pins. Then she eased up and let him hold her.
“I’m not going to leave you,” Spike said.
“You are the only person left in the world that I love. If you die, too, it ends me, Spike,” she said.
“Toy, I—“
“Please, take Tara and go hide somewhere. Go back to England, just survive. Just…stay you,” she said.
She looked at him, her green eyes fathomless. Spike kissed her with fierce tenderness. They broke apart after awhile and leaned on each other. There were too many things to say and then suddenly, there was nothing left to talk about. Spike kissed her forehead and then left Toy to pack up the rest of her belongings.
When he got to his apartment, Spike felt cold spider-webbing through his chest.
The door was open.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is the chapter that made me say be prepared for anything. I didn't know how to handle this--it's character death. Specifically everybody from the original series, except it's only mentioned in passing, there are no graphic descriptions at all. I just didn't know how upset readers would be at the thought of this situation. It gets weirder from here, but never as disturbing, I think.
Chapter End Notes:
I will post three chapters next Friday. Please let me know what you think, I really need some constructive criticism on this one. Also, Walter Kurtz is the name of Marlon Brando's character in Apocalypse Now, a movie the characters were watching in the episode "Restless."