Categories > TV > Buffy the Vampire Slayer > 'Til the End of the World
Title: 'Til the End of the World
Author: Lillian Morgan
Pairing(s): Spike/Angel, Spike/Buffy, Spike/Angel/Buffy, Spike & Dawn
Rating: R (mainly for language and sexual situations)
Setting: post-/Not Fade Away/, the beginning of 2005, London
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Joss and ME do.
A/N: Thanks to yourlibrarian for the wonderful beta job.
Each character narrates his or her part and these are separated by their own unique idioms, because it's all in the first person.
'Til the End of the World
Part One
19:30; February 25th, 2005; The Maple Leaf, Covent Garden, London
"Thanks, pet," Spike said as I placed the pint in front of him. We'd found a pub in the middle of Covent Garden filled with Canadian paraphernalia - moose heads, maple leaves, paintings of mounted soldiers. At two ends of the pub were very large screens - and belying the Commonwealth theme - the pub was filled with people in red shirts shouting and screaming at the soccer match televised for the pub's patrons. We were shoved into the corner of a booth; with eight guys we'd only just met also sharing our table.
"Don't call me that," I said. He did nothing but take a large, healthy dose from his stout. He kept drumming his fingernails on the table, nervous energy suffusing him as he watched the game. That really annoyed me.
"I hate London," I grumbled.
There was a longish pause and I thought he hadn't heard me, but, well, vampiric hearing caught everything. Avoiding me was Spike's specialty.
Finally, "Why's that," Spike asked, his mouth tweaking into a smirk, but his face still glued in the direction of the television, "too many Englishmen?"
A roar of the crowd muffled my groan as one of the players whose name I can never remember sent the ball careening over the goalpost. Spike was facing away from me, so I took to glaring at my Guinness.
A moment later his hand reached out and started caressing my thigh. It inched forward and stroked me over and over. When he'd finished and a tiny smile was playing at my lips, he grabbed my hand and began stroking the place between my thumb and index finger. He knew it calmed me. He knew I was annoyed because he was ignoring me. I was very selfish. His hands were very talented.
But he still kept watching the game though. So did our eight new-found friends. And screaming. And shouting. And cursing. And leaping out of their seats at very regular intervals. I felt a bit left out which made me grumpy, and besides there were other important things to be considering, but then I decided to give in and watch the match.
"What a half!" shouted one of the guys at the table. He was heavyset in that English way that seemed to predominate now. Years ago Englishmen were dapper or slender or reeds in the wind. Now they were all bulldogs with necks like oaks, hair short or shaved, most wore glasses. Probably had more blood in them too. Typical.
"Van Nistelrooy's really come into form, thank God! I was worried after that game against Chelsea when they hammered us, but now, he's stepped up to the mark hasn't he?" another said.
"Sometimes, I think Ronaldo's a bit too clever, don't you?" mused Spike. I gawped at him. "Can't beat Giggsy for a level-headed, perfect performance."
"I'm a bit worried though about Lazio. They're cunning bastards," muttered the guy closest to me.
All eyes fell to me. I knew I should say something but I just didn't know what.
"Shall me and my friend here get a round in? Eight lagers is it?" said Spike.
The eight guys all lit up with joy and the nearest one clapped me on the back. "You know, I never liked Americans but-"
"Oh my friend's Irish!" Spike happily inserted.
"Well, I never liked the Irish either, but look at Keane. He's a saviour to Man U. Good on yer mate."
When we approached the bar, Spike leaned on the counter, waggled his eyebrow at the young girl behind the bar and put the order in. She laid eight pints on a tray in slow succession and left our two Guinness beers standing behind the bar, their frothy heads settling.
"That'll be £25.20," she said. Spike swooped up the tray and looked at me. Then he marched over to the table, his ass ever so slightly swaying from side to side. Wasn't that his patented "Come hither" wiggle? Or, no, maybe the "Just you wait for what's in store for you" sway? I was unfocused for too long before the girl coughed and put the two Guinness pints in front of me.
"£25.20, thanks." He knew I was the do-gooder and would pay. Pity we had to cut up, then burn, then bury those old Wolfram and Hart cards, I thought, as I scrummaged through my pockets for the cash.
Spike knew of this Cush'a'aloff demon who knew of this human who knew of this Remming demon who might know where Illyria was, but first there was the rendezvous with one of Hovenden's underlings outside the Marks and Spencers department store at Covent Garden around midnight. He would have a demand from Illyria, undoubtedly, but probably not know of her whereabouts. This, of course, did not explain how we ended up in the pub watching a Champions League game between Manchester United and Lazio. I'm not sure whether Spike actually wanted to see Manchester win, or the Italians lose. Any mention of the Eternal City was an extremely touchy subject for both of us - Buffy and the Immortal were words that hadn't passed our lips in each other's company for over a year.
Other parties had become interested in us; I'd become closer to Spike (or maybe we'd let our egos not get the first word in) and perhaps realised that Buffy was no longer going to save me.
Nor was I going to save her. Or maybe that's what she'd meant in her last email.
Besides, we'd lost Illyria somewhere in the time between running from California to Indonesia via Europe and back to London again. Fleeing the forces of Wolfram and Hart, while simultaneously trying to decimate their support base, proved much harder than I expected when I first shook the hand of that bastard Hamilton. And Illyria had gone, disappeared, and I don't think it was into the Deeper Well. I was pretty sure she could hold her own against any force that came against her, but I was more worried about what she might be doing to rips in time or shrouds of destiny. It was a rare moment when I didn't miss Wesley and his dignified responses to questions that always required an answer. He would know where to look, where to start and what might be the outcome.
And we wanted her back because she was one of ours, the last that we had. We belonged to her, like no-one else did. In the end there was her or there was just us. We didn't want to give in to that thought without a large, all-encompassing, trans-continental fight.
But indeed, I did have Spike, and as I wended my way back to the seat, he smiled that perfect smile that expressed all his love in one pure, defining moment. A smile that begged for acknowledgement, even if he knew that that was the last thing on my mind.
I looked once again at the screen. Damned if I knew what was going on. I'd lived too long away from Europe to think of soccer as anything other than a game that mothers took their children to in large, gas-guzzling cars. Rousing me from my thoughts, the patrons screamed to their feet as one of the English players scored a goal; Spike was so happy he smacked me on the lips (with no tongue, mind you) before I pulled away, embarrassed by what the others would think. His eyes became wary and the smile on his face was overtaken by a weariness. He turned back to the television and clapped his neighbour on the back.
Well, sometimes it doesn't hurt to play, give him a bone, as long as it's not mine, so I lent forward and whispered in his ear, "Plenty of time for that later, my boy."
"Yeah?" The boyish smile was back in place and he was smacking his lips at me.
"Just you wait."
"Not sure I can, Peaches." His eyes danced toward my crotch and he laughed out loud.
"You know you'll pay for that, and all your other misdemeanours tonight, don't you?"
"Why do you think I'm such a naughty schoolboy, master?"
I growled low and long into my chest. Payback was going to have to get creative.
But then there was still this demon and Illyria and finding our way across London to old dives and haunts and reliving the past, Drusilla, Darla and memories better left forgotten.
**
12:41; February 26th, 2005; Marks and Spencer, opposite the Covent Garden Underground Station, London
I didn't like to kiss, fondle or have anything to do with Spike's ass when we were on the job, waiting for this demon. He knew this and loved to be a tease, lighting up his cigarette and blowing smoke into my face, as we stood in the shadows of the side entrance of the shopping store.
Waiting gave me time to think, ruminate, reminisce. Whether this was a good or bad thing I couldn't say but strangely memories were losing the tang of regret. That was either Spike's doing, or I was giving up.
But I knew how to handle him too, even when he pushed me to it. Breaking Spike had been one of the most tortuous yet gratuitously enjoyable projects Angelus had had. That memory stayed with me, long after the soul had taken possession and reassembled my other memories. Drusilla had been a fine wine, aged and matured over months of torture, forever set in stone at the moment of her creation. Spike on the other hand was a triumphant toss-away; a challenge laid down that I never expected to win. It was as if, sometimes, he wished to bring out the Angelus in me, just to remind himself, as well, that those memories were real, that they existed, that two souls could never deny what we really were - family.
"Stop smoking, Spike." But I weighted my words in such a way that he knew to submit; he stubbed out his cigarette, fell into line behind me and lowered his head to the ground. The cool gleam of his exposed neck caught the corner of my vision - good lad.
And then the demon arrived, morphing around the corner of a parked car, shimmering into vision. All maroon scales and putrid yellow decaying flesh. Perhaps the ungrateful boy had felt the demon and had only played at submission. His eyes were imperceptible.
"You Angel?" The demon's voice was tainted with a phlegm-inflected accent as if it wasn't used to speaking on this plane of existence.
I nodded. It never paid to talk much in these situations. Talking gave too many things away.
"And I'm William the Bloody. Or did your master bloody well forget me again? You know, I was the Scourge of Europe too."
Ignoring Spike, punctuating the brevity of the situation by passing an envelope, the demon continued, "Here're you co-ordinates for the next meet. No funny business this time, ok? Get in, kill a few of their clients, get out. This is what her Imperialness negotiated with my master. Collateral damage isn't an issue."
Spike closed the gap in a stride, fisting the demon's collar. "Well. That's all very well and good. But it makes a difference to me. See?"
"Gotta follow orders like the rest of us. Don't think the stink of your souls makes you different," gasped the demon. I didn't know if it needed to breathe, but perhaps Spike was considering crushing its windpipe as a better possibility.
"Spike," I shifted behind him, "much as I realise that your fighting prowess gets the better of you, there's Hovenden to consider, isn't there?"
He dropped the demon and its eyes flashed fury but Spike raised his fists in parry of any counterattack.
"There's always others to think about aren't there?" the demon said, stepping away, but directing his comment to me. "Just remember the details. And we'll all be sweet. And there'll be one less rung on the ladder for you to climb."
It shimmered out of reality as a farewell.
"Angel--"
"No fucking sympathy, right Spike?"
"Wasn't gonna. Not a word. Not a peep. Not a frission of sound emanating from my lips in any way shape or form that would pass for sympathy. Nuh uh. However, I would like to take the opportunity as we're at this jolly impasse to remind you of my first suggestion. Go in there, fist and fangs, and bleedin' annihilate the bastards."
"Repercussions, Spike."
"Yes, Angel. I do understand that word."
"But do you know what it means to me?"
He huffed out a sigh, turned away from me and reached for a cigarette. "No I don't. But I'm trying, aren't I?"
"Let's just go and do this thing." And I walked away. Though I caught Spike's whispered, "Bloody Broodypants" before he followed.
And so we went and killed a few of Wolfram and Hart's demon supporters. As instructed by Hovenden, via his messenger. As part of Illyria's debt to him. As part of our indenture to Illyria. Even though we'd currently lost her.
**
02:16; Late Night Cafe; Farringdon, London
We found a late night cafe and had to order two coffees so that it appeared we were human. Didn't pay to draw attention, a lecture I'd often narrated to Spike, whether he listened or not. I sat ruminating on the night's discoveries; Spike just started shredding the menu, the napkins and the tablecloth.
The only other patrons were an old man at the far end of the cafe and a group of young clubbers just returned from their night's activities. Their eyes were large, deep and black and they were surrounded by bottles of water. I'd never sampled blood filled with any of the modern drugs; though I'm sure Spike would be able to tell me of his misadventures.
I stirred my coffee and almost missed the two girlish gigglers that entered the cafe. There was an old David Bowie song playing on the jukebox; I remembered I quite liked it because he mentioned my name in that same anguished tone in which I always said it to myself in my head.
"And that guy, Dawnie, he was just so weird. His chat up line had to be the worst in history. I think I've heard better at the Bronze."
Spike reacted before I did. Or, rather, he didn't react. He stopped shredding and went preternaturally still.
"Yeah, sorry about that Buffy. That club is usually ace, but somehow, tonight, the men of London decided to--"
The girls had stopped giggling. Spike had stopped shredding. And my spoon was sitting on the saucer, so it appeared as though I wasn't doing anything either but looking at the two Summers sisters. Nobody said or did anything for far too long, until Dawn said, "Spike? Is that really you?"
He stood up awkwardly, the year and a half in which he'd grown into his new persona, seemed to drift away as he stepped out from the table. "Yeah, Nibblet, it's me," he said, running his hand over his head. It reminded me of how he had constantly made that nervous gesture just after he'd shaved off his hair, and I had got so annoyed with him and his obsession with his head, that I banned him from doing it ever again. Instead, only I was allowed to touch his head, run my fingers from his brow to the nape of his neck and feel the wonderful tactile soft-and-prickly sensation of his new haircut. In that brief moment, I wondered if I would ever do it again. He looked at the other girl and acknowledged her. "Buffy."
Dawn flew into his arms and engulfed him in a hug that spoke of long separation, maybe more. Buffy gave me a brittle look and then moved her eyes to the floor. When Spike broke off his embrace with Dawn, he whispered into her hair, "It's very good to see you, Nibblet."
"Oh! I missed you Spike. I missed you," she said and threw her arms around him again. "I'm so sorry. I never got the chance to say that, and now I'm going to say it at every opportunity. I missed you. And I'm sorry."
"Don't rightly need to, Dawn. There was more on my side to be sorry for, besides."
"Do I get a hug?" said Buffy, her voice was small but defiant.
"Of course," said Spike. They stepped into each other's arms and I could see how well they fit. It was that simple. Or maybe it wasn't. Spike just fit well with anyone he loved, his heart was big enough to make the room necessary.
Dawn looked at me in a mirror image of the previous Buffy glare. "Angel."
"Nice to see you Dawn. Can't remember the last time we caught up."
"Don't worry. Andrew gave us most of the details, before Giles warned us of the consequences."
"Consequences?" I asked.
"Never mind about that," said Buffy. "It's just good to see both of you." She gave me a short, sharp hug and then turned back to look at Dawn.
Well, this is comfortable, I thought. Instead I said, "Can I get you two a coffee?"
TBC
Author: Lillian Morgan
Pairing(s): Spike/Angel, Spike/Buffy, Spike/Angel/Buffy, Spike & Dawn
Rating: R (mainly for language and sexual situations)
Setting: post-/Not Fade Away/, the beginning of 2005, London
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Joss and ME do.
A/N: Thanks to yourlibrarian for the wonderful beta job.
Each character narrates his or her part and these are separated by their own unique idioms, because it's all in the first person.
'Til the End of the World
Part One
19:30; February 25th, 2005; The Maple Leaf, Covent Garden, London
"Thanks, pet," Spike said as I placed the pint in front of him. We'd found a pub in the middle of Covent Garden filled with Canadian paraphernalia - moose heads, maple leaves, paintings of mounted soldiers. At two ends of the pub were very large screens - and belying the Commonwealth theme - the pub was filled with people in red shirts shouting and screaming at the soccer match televised for the pub's patrons. We were shoved into the corner of a booth; with eight guys we'd only just met also sharing our table.
"Don't call me that," I said. He did nothing but take a large, healthy dose from his stout. He kept drumming his fingernails on the table, nervous energy suffusing him as he watched the game. That really annoyed me.
"I hate London," I grumbled.
There was a longish pause and I thought he hadn't heard me, but, well, vampiric hearing caught everything. Avoiding me was Spike's specialty.
Finally, "Why's that," Spike asked, his mouth tweaking into a smirk, but his face still glued in the direction of the television, "too many Englishmen?"
A roar of the crowd muffled my groan as one of the players whose name I can never remember sent the ball careening over the goalpost. Spike was facing away from me, so I took to glaring at my Guinness.
A moment later his hand reached out and started caressing my thigh. It inched forward and stroked me over and over. When he'd finished and a tiny smile was playing at my lips, he grabbed my hand and began stroking the place between my thumb and index finger. He knew it calmed me. He knew I was annoyed because he was ignoring me. I was very selfish. His hands were very talented.
But he still kept watching the game though. So did our eight new-found friends. And screaming. And shouting. And cursing. And leaping out of their seats at very regular intervals. I felt a bit left out which made me grumpy, and besides there were other important things to be considering, but then I decided to give in and watch the match.
"What a half!" shouted one of the guys at the table. He was heavyset in that English way that seemed to predominate now. Years ago Englishmen were dapper or slender or reeds in the wind. Now they were all bulldogs with necks like oaks, hair short or shaved, most wore glasses. Probably had more blood in them too. Typical.
"Van Nistelrooy's really come into form, thank God! I was worried after that game against Chelsea when they hammered us, but now, he's stepped up to the mark hasn't he?" another said.
"Sometimes, I think Ronaldo's a bit too clever, don't you?" mused Spike. I gawped at him. "Can't beat Giggsy for a level-headed, perfect performance."
"I'm a bit worried though about Lazio. They're cunning bastards," muttered the guy closest to me.
All eyes fell to me. I knew I should say something but I just didn't know what.
"Shall me and my friend here get a round in? Eight lagers is it?" said Spike.
The eight guys all lit up with joy and the nearest one clapped me on the back. "You know, I never liked Americans but-"
"Oh my friend's Irish!" Spike happily inserted.
"Well, I never liked the Irish either, but look at Keane. He's a saviour to Man U. Good on yer mate."
When we approached the bar, Spike leaned on the counter, waggled his eyebrow at the young girl behind the bar and put the order in. She laid eight pints on a tray in slow succession and left our two Guinness beers standing behind the bar, their frothy heads settling.
"That'll be £25.20," she said. Spike swooped up the tray and looked at me. Then he marched over to the table, his ass ever so slightly swaying from side to side. Wasn't that his patented "Come hither" wiggle? Or, no, maybe the "Just you wait for what's in store for you" sway? I was unfocused for too long before the girl coughed and put the two Guinness pints in front of me.
"£25.20, thanks." He knew I was the do-gooder and would pay. Pity we had to cut up, then burn, then bury those old Wolfram and Hart cards, I thought, as I scrummaged through my pockets for the cash.
Spike knew of this Cush'a'aloff demon who knew of this human who knew of this Remming demon who might know where Illyria was, but first there was the rendezvous with one of Hovenden's underlings outside the Marks and Spencers department store at Covent Garden around midnight. He would have a demand from Illyria, undoubtedly, but probably not know of her whereabouts. This, of course, did not explain how we ended up in the pub watching a Champions League game between Manchester United and Lazio. I'm not sure whether Spike actually wanted to see Manchester win, or the Italians lose. Any mention of the Eternal City was an extremely touchy subject for both of us - Buffy and the Immortal were words that hadn't passed our lips in each other's company for over a year.
Other parties had become interested in us; I'd become closer to Spike (or maybe we'd let our egos not get the first word in) and perhaps realised that Buffy was no longer going to save me.
Nor was I going to save her. Or maybe that's what she'd meant in her last email.
Besides, we'd lost Illyria somewhere in the time between running from California to Indonesia via Europe and back to London again. Fleeing the forces of Wolfram and Hart, while simultaneously trying to decimate their support base, proved much harder than I expected when I first shook the hand of that bastard Hamilton. And Illyria had gone, disappeared, and I don't think it was into the Deeper Well. I was pretty sure she could hold her own against any force that came against her, but I was more worried about what she might be doing to rips in time or shrouds of destiny. It was a rare moment when I didn't miss Wesley and his dignified responses to questions that always required an answer. He would know where to look, where to start and what might be the outcome.
And we wanted her back because she was one of ours, the last that we had. We belonged to her, like no-one else did. In the end there was her or there was just us. We didn't want to give in to that thought without a large, all-encompassing, trans-continental fight.
But indeed, I did have Spike, and as I wended my way back to the seat, he smiled that perfect smile that expressed all his love in one pure, defining moment. A smile that begged for acknowledgement, even if he knew that that was the last thing on my mind.
I looked once again at the screen. Damned if I knew what was going on. I'd lived too long away from Europe to think of soccer as anything other than a game that mothers took their children to in large, gas-guzzling cars. Rousing me from my thoughts, the patrons screamed to their feet as one of the English players scored a goal; Spike was so happy he smacked me on the lips (with no tongue, mind you) before I pulled away, embarrassed by what the others would think. His eyes became wary and the smile on his face was overtaken by a weariness. He turned back to the television and clapped his neighbour on the back.
Well, sometimes it doesn't hurt to play, give him a bone, as long as it's not mine, so I lent forward and whispered in his ear, "Plenty of time for that later, my boy."
"Yeah?" The boyish smile was back in place and he was smacking his lips at me.
"Just you wait."
"Not sure I can, Peaches." His eyes danced toward my crotch and he laughed out loud.
"You know you'll pay for that, and all your other misdemeanours tonight, don't you?"
"Why do you think I'm such a naughty schoolboy, master?"
I growled low and long into my chest. Payback was going to have to get creative.
But then there was still this demon and Illyria and finding our way across London to old dives and haunts and reliving the past, Drusilla, Darla and memories better left forgotten.
**
12:41; February 26th, 2005; Marks and Spencer, opposite the Covent Garden Underground Station, London
I didn't like to kiss, fondle or have anything to do with Spike's ass when we were on the job, waiting for this demon. He knew this and loved to be a tease, lighting up his cigarette and blowing smoke into my face, as we stood in the shadows of the side entrance of the shopping store.
Waiting gave me time to think, ruminate, reminisce. Whether this was a good or bad thing I couldn't say but strangely memories were losing the tang of regret. That was either Spike's doing, or I was giving up.
But I knew how to handle him too, even when he pushed me to it. Breaking Spike had been one of the most tortuous yet gratuitously enjoyable projects Angelus had had. That memory stayed with me, long after the soul had taken possession and reassembled my other memories. Drusilla had been a fine wine, aged and matured over months of torture, forever set in stone at the moment of her creation. Spike on the other hand was a triumphant toss-away; a challenge laid down that I never expected to win. It was as if, sometimes, he wished to bring out the Angelus in me, just to remind himself, as well, that those memories were real, that they existed, that two souls could never deny what we really were - family.
"Stop smoking, Spike." But I weighted my words in such a way that he knew to submit; he stubbed out his cigarette, fell into line behind me and lowered his head to the ground. The cool gleam of his exposed neck caught the corner of my vision - good lad.
And then the demon arrived, morphing around the corner of a parked car, shimmering into vision. All maroon scales and putrid yellow decaying flesh. Perhaps the ungrateful boy had felt the demon and had only played at submission. His eyes were imperceptible.
"You Angel?" The demon's voice was tainted with a phlegm-inflected accent as if it wasn't used to speaking on this plane of existence.
I nodded. It never paid to talk much in these situations. Talking gave too many things away.
"And I'm William the Bloody. Or did your master bloody well forget me again? You know, I was the Scourge of Europe too."
Ignoring Spike, punctuating the brevity of the situation by passing an envelope, the demon continued, "Here're you co-ordinates for the next meet. No funny business this time, ok? Get in, kill a few of their clients, get out. This is what her Imperialness negotiated with my master. Collateral damage isn't an issue."
Spike closed the gap in a stride, fisting the demon's collar. "Well. That's all very well and good. But it makes a difference to me. See?"
"Gotta follow orders like the rest of us. Don't think the stink of your souls makes you different," gasped the demon. I didn't know if it needed to breathe, but perhaps Spike was considering crushing its windpipe as a better possibility.
"Spike," I shifted behind him, "much as I realise that your fighting prowess gets the better of you, there's Hovenden to consider, isn't there?"
He dropped the demon and its eyes flashed fury but Spike raised his fists in parry of any counterattack.
"There's always others to think about aren't there?" the demon said, stepping away, but directing his comment to me. "Just remember the details. And we'll all be sweet. And there'll be one less rung on the ladder for you to climb."
It shimmered out of reality as a farewell.
"Angel--"
"No fucking sympathy, right Spike?"
"Wasn't gonna. Not a word. Not a peep. Not a frission of sound emanating from my lips in any way shape or form that would pass for sympathy. Nuh uh. However, I would like to take the opportunity as we're at this jolly impasse to remind you of my first suggestion. Go in there, fist and fangs, and bleedin' annihilate the bastards."
"Repercussions, Spike."
"Yes, Angel. I do understand that word."
"But do you know what it means to me?"
He huffed out a sigh, turned away from me and reached for a cigarette. "No I don't. But I'm trying, aren't I?"
"Let's just go and do this thing." And I walked away. Though I caught Spike's whispered, "Bloody Broodypants" before he followed.
And so we went and killed a few of Wolfram and Hart's demon supporters. As instructed by Hovenden, via his messenger. As part of Illyria's debt to him. As part of our indenture to Illyria. Even though we'd currently lost her.
**
02:16; Late Night Cafe; Farringdon, London
We found a late night cafe and had to order two coffees so that it appeared we were human. Didn't pay to draw attention, a lecture I'd often narrated to Spike, whether he listened or not. I sat ruminating on the night's discoveries; Spike just started shredding the menu, the napkins and the tablecloth.
The only other patrons were an old man at the far end of the cafe and a group of young clubbers just returned from their night's activities. Their eyes were large, deep and black and they were surrounded by bottles of water. I'd never sampled blood filled with any of the modern drugs; though I'm sure Spike would be able to tell me of his misadventures.
I stirred my coffee and almost missed the two girlish gigglers that entered the cafe. There was an old David Bowie song playing on the jukebox; I remembered I quite liked it because he mentioned my name in that same anguished tone in which I always said it to myself in my head.
"And that guy, Dawnie, he was just so weird. His chat up line had to be the worst in history. I think I've heard better at the Bronze."
Spike reacted before I did. Or, rather, he didn't react. He stopped shredding and went preternaturally still.
"Yeah, sorry about that Buffy. That club is usually ace, but somehow, tonight, the men of London decided to--"
The girls had stopped giggling. Spike had stopped shredding. And my spoon was sitting on the saucer, so it appeared as though I wasn't doing anything either but looking at the two Summers sisters. Nobody said or did anything for far too long, until Dawn said, "Spike? Is that really you?"
He stood up awkwardly, the year and a half in which he'd grown into his new persona, seemed to drift away as he stepped out from the table. "Yeah, Nibblet, it's me," he said, running his hand over his head. It reminded me of how he had constantly made that nervous gesture just after he'd shaved off his hair, and I had got so annoyed with him and his obsession with his head, that I banned him from doing it ever again. Instead, only I was allowed to touch his head, run my fingers from his brow to the nape of his neck and feel the wonderful tactile soft-and-prickly sensation of his new haircut. In that brief moment, I wondered if I would ever do it again. He looked at the other girl and acknowledged her. "Buffy."
Dawn flew into his arms and engulfed him in a hug that spoke of long separation, maybe more. Buffy gave me a brittle look and then moved her eyes to the floor. When Spike broke off his embrace with Dawn, he whispered into her hair, "It's very good to see you, Nibblet."
"Oh! I missed you Spike. I missed you," she said and threw her arms around him again. "I'm so sorry. I never got the chance to say that, and now I'm going to say it at every opportunity. I missed you. And I'm sorry."
"Don't rightly need to, Dawn. There was more on my side to be sorry for, besides."
"Do I get a hug?" said Buffy, her voice was small but defiant.
"Of course," said Spike. They stepped into each other's arms and I could see how well they fit. It was that simple. Or maybe it wasn't. Spike just fit well with anyone he loved, his heart was big enough to make the room necessary.
Dawn looked at me in a mirror image of the previous Buffy glare. "Angel."
"Nice to see you Dawn. Can't remember the last time we caught up."
"Don't worry. Andrew gave us most of the details, before Giles warned us of the consequences."
"Consequences?" I asked.
"Never mind about that," said Buffy. "It's just good to see both of you." She gave me a short, sharp hug and then turned back to look at Dawn.
Well, this is comfortable, I thought. Instead I said, "Can I get you two a coffee?"
TBC
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