Chapter 4 - That Kafka Thing
Soft fabric against the back of his neck. Fringes tickling his hand like
little bugs. Hot, surface against the palm of his hand. The scent of pig’s
blood. He blinked, feeling naked and exposed in the bright light, overwhelmed.
There were voices coming from the other room. They spoke in whispering
voices, but they echoed through him. Heartbeats, breaths, scents of skin
and hair. Fragments of humanity. The frailty of their existence so apparent.
He looked down into the crimson fluid in the mug. It was the color of
death. He closed his eyes.
* * * * * *
“Glowing birthmarks and apocalyptic revelations? Time to tape an X on
the window.” Xander, always the one to bring the popular cultural reference.
“Yeah, aliens, that must be it”, Dawn said sarcastically, slapping Xander
over the head.
“They'd better be one of those nice little hobbits with glowing fingers
and not those who snatch bodies. Because I like mine. It’s all smooth
and firm, and they can’t have it!”
The others looked at the demon girl in the sofa.
“Why the hell are you still here, Anya?”, Dawn snapped.
Anya suddenly was reminded that she was the enemy now. She came to bring
pain and death, at least, she thinks she would have. If she could. Dammit.
Immersed in the chaos regarding the Summer’s house-guest she had sort
of forgotten. Old scoobie habits die hard. The vengeance thing had been
like slipping into a comfortable pair of pants, but now she felt like
a sulking child who didn’t get to play with the other kids in the playground.
“Hey," she stood up, almost pouting, "You don’t yell at the undead guy!
He gets to stay in your house and drink your pig’s blood! He’s evil, too
- and his body count is much higher than mine!"
"OK, no," she reconsidered, "but he’s still of the mass murderer variety!
And he gets hospitality and blood! What’s up with that?”
“Anya, you don’t drink blood”, Xander said softly.
“Well...that’s beside the point!”
Dawn looked at Anya with rising irritation.
"A:," she began, "Last time Spike tried kill us was, like, two years ago.
How about you? An hour? Remember, you went all Freddie Krueger and pointed
fingers and stuff?"
"And the:“Oh, oh, I will make you pay!” “ Dawn mocked her, imitating Anya
with savagely-accurate gesturing.
There was that feeling again.
It wasn’t that Dawn lacked good reason for being angry with Anya. Something
inside of her raged, like she wouldn’t really mind having a baseball bat
in her hands - right then and there - so Anya’s dress could have a few
more nuances of red. Big dark spots that soaked through the fabric, brown
ones with coagulated blood, some pale spots from tears spilled whle begging
for mercy...
She paused for a moment, to shake those disturbing feelings off.
“And B)" she resumed her list, "Spike has a chip...and a..."
“A soul.”
The others looked over at Buffy. She hadn’t been taking part in the Spike-speculations.
In fact, she really hadn’t said much since they brought him down to the
kitchen. The others quit their bickering, realizing that the discussion
now had taken a serious turn.
Shocked, Anya opened her mouth to speak, but Buffy cut her off.
“Listen," Buffy gazed into the kitchen, "I'll talk to him, find out if
this means something, or if it’s just crazy ranting and radioactive body-paint.”
She looked at Dawn.
“Dawn, could you go to your room?" she asked, "I’m sure you’ve got some
homework to do. I need to do this alone.”
Then Buffy was quiet, looking down at the floor with crossed arms.
Since it was Friday night, homework wasn’t an issue, but Dawn went upstairs
without complaining. If Spike was going to stay in their house for awhile,
Dawn would be eternally grateful if Buffy could sort out some of the issues
that had created more tension than having a really large tesla coil in
the basement.
Dawn felt a lump in her throat as her feet skipped up the soft, fitted
carpet on the steps. As she closed the door to her room behind her, she
sighed, then threw herself onto her bed.
Buffy was miserable, Spike was completely fucked up, and together they
had always created cataclysmic matter/antimatter reactions, usually in
the form of violence and/or sex. Unfortunately, for Buffy and Spike that
almost seemed to be synonyms, which wasn’t a good thing.
* * * * * *
Once Dawn disappeared up the stairs, Buffy turned to Xander.
“Take our little door-breaker home," she told him, "Or to her hell dimension
motel room or wherever she lives.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t exactly live anywhere," Anya directed
herself to Xander, "I got re-employed around lunchtime. You kind of were
the number one item on my to-murder-list.”
“Nice to know that I’m in your thoughts," Xander replied, "Anya, but don’t
you think the others will feel neglected when you leave them out of your
elaborate assassination plans?"
“Whatever." Anya got to her feet, her hair flowing around her determined
face as a sudden gush of cold air from the tarpaulin-covered doorway swept
across the room, "I need somewhere to live for a while. Give me your apartment
keys, Xander.”
Xander’s eyed widened, “Give you my huh?”
“You left me at the altar, so you owe me," Anya explained, "Consider it
a downpayment on your eternal debt. A very small downpayment."
“And then," she added, "I might only order you crippled when I get someone
else to do my job. And perhaps I can give you one of those "Captain Pike"
chairs, so you can dictate your heart-breaking memoirs with a cool red
lamp.”
Xander burrowed his face in his hands, shook his head, then reached for
the keys in his pocket. He lifted his head and looked over at Buffy, but
she obviously didn’t want to touch this discussion with a ten-foot stake.
“Can I stay here for a while?”he asked weakly.
“Well, the couch is vacant.”
“Come on," Anya tugged at Xander’s shirt, "Drive me to your place and
leave Buffy to her interrogation."
Defeated, Xander nodded, then he walked to the plastic sheet and pulled
it back, "opening" the door for her.
As the plastic sheet fell back to place behind them, Buffy heard Anya's
shrill voice disappearing down the driveway.
“By the way," Anya was asking, "what the hell is up with the whole vampire/soul
thing? Does Buffy collect these guys or what? Should I get a few of my
own and trade with her on the lunch break?”
It was a good question.
* * * * * *
He seemed so small and frail. He sat there with his eyes closed, clinging
to his mug as if it was the only floatation device in a sea of panic,
and for the moment it was hard to remember the Spike that they all had
learned to know and despice.
The cocky poses, the way he, a bit too conscious, used the dramatic effect
of the way his black duster fell around him when he walked, and how he
always had something annoying to say, that, it must be admitted, often
was on-the-spot. But now he sat in her kitchen as a broken vampire.
Angel had never really said much about how it was for him when his soul
was returned, but he had told her enough to hint that it was a trauma
that went well beyond what people who had lived all their lives with an
intact super-ego could fathom.
She felt a pang of compassion in her heart before she reminded herself
of the situation:
Why the hell should she pity the psycho mass murderer for grieving his
victims? Or was this a different person? Was he William now?
She wished that USC had had courses in vampire psychology 101 during her
short period as a student, then maybe she would have some useful answers.
Professor Walsh had, after all, a cool specimen collection that surely
could reveal some interesting information. Buffy couldn’t help continuing
this line of thought with the images of a primed hostile 17 drooling at
the sound of a bell.
She remembered her former boyfriend’s sex-related Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde
change, and tried to apply it to Spike, but it just didn’t make any sense.
And she felt guilty for trying to compare Spike with Angel.
Her cheeks flushed as she thought of how Angel would react if he had known
about her and Spike. He had given her up so she could have a normal love
life, and even if she had grown to think that his big gesture had been
a totally misguided action, she still wanted Angel’s approval.
She wished that this situation demanded beating something up.
Damn, that would be good.
And it would have been easier if Spike didn’t look so much like something
left in a basket with a bow at her doorstep with a note attached:
“please take care of me, I’m an orphan ensouled vampire.”
* * * * * *
He opened his eyes.
Buffy.
He hadn’t said, or even thought, her name since that night in Africa.
And now she sat next to him. Even in the bright, unflattering light of
the fluorescent kitchen light, she was the the most beautiful thing in
the world.
She was the sunlight, the sky and the moon, wrapped in flesh and bone.
She was the reason for living.
She was the reason.
He didn’t deserve to love her. But he couldn’t help himself. Her presence
filled him with the sparkling warmth that only Buffy could bring. It was
unmistakable Buffy-flavour that seeped through the cracks of the pain
and the dark voices. It tasted like raspberries and cinnamon, and he couldn’t
help loving it, as if he was a starving man, saved from a barren wilderness.
But he didn’t deserve the sweetness of her presence.
He deserved ashes.
“Spike.”
Her eyes. He quickly looked down into his now lukewarm blood.
“Spike, we need you to tell us," she said, "about what you said earlier.
About the darkness? If something is going to happen, I need to know.”
Her words again, like bright snowflakes through his mind, twirling
about as in a child’s snow-globe.
Finally the subtitles caught up. She needed his help, she said so.
God, she spoke to him. She was real, flesh and bone, raspberries and cinnamon.
“There was," he made his dry lips answer her, "a bloke in the room.” Good,
almost a decent sentence.
“Or a ghost or something," he continued, "Dunno. He poked at me, through
my chest. A lotta pain and images. Bad ones.”
He swallowed. Tried to remember, tried to make words out of it.
There was a moment of silence. After a while her voice stirred him.
“What did you see?” she asked.
Rewind. Pause. Press play.
And then there was Hellraiser in surround-sound. His fingers clenched
the mug, making the tip of his fingers turn white.
“Blood on the streets," he whispered, "Corpses. People were killin’, hurtin’
each other. Takin’ what they wanted. Nobody cared. Soddin' Armageddon,
it was. Dunno why or how, just that it was gonna happen. Soon. It’s all
kind of a blur."
“What do you mean? Armageddon?”
“It just..." he didn’t want to remember, “Like everyone was evil, goin’
insane. Everyone”
“Any useful details?” Buffy asked.
Her voice was surprisingly steady. At this point in her career, she didn’t
succumb to shrill yelling in the style of them female 50’s movie characters,
when "Apocalypse" was mentioned. She wasn't really sure why that should
help against the aliens and the mutated ants anyway.
Perhaps it worked as some sort of high-pitch frequency sonic weapon.
“This groping guy," she asked, "did you recognize him? Can you describe
him?”
Spike blinked. He struggled for a second, as he reacquainted himself with
speaking. Like riding a bicycle.
“Black bloke," he lifted his head a little bit, "Not African-American
or anythin’, just regular black. With a cloak. Kinda melted together,
the cloak and the guy. All black, even the face. Like a shadow. Just appeared
and poked, then, poof...”
“And what do you mean with that "you are the one who will bring it"?”
“I dunno, I just know that I will. It sorta fades away. Can’t remember
much of it all, lo… slayer.”
He almost slipped up. In the corner of his eye, he saw Buffy become tense.
It was quiet for several minutes. The low buzzing from the lamp filled
the silence, sounding like large numbers of small, hungry, fruitflies
waiting for a banana delivery.
Finally Buffy spoke.
“Why did you do it?!” Her voice was sharp and cold and cut through his
very being.
He didn’t have to ask, he knew what she meant.
Then the world of pain and guilt came rushing back from its hiding place.
It engulfed him and buried him, soaked his fresh new soul. He fought his
instant impulse to break down like the wreck that he was. He had no right
to throw the weight of his emotional burden in her lap. He fought the
tears, fought his body going tense, fought the impulse to throw himself
at her feet and beg her to punish him, hurt him. She deserved that he
at least looked at her. God, he didn’t want to, he was sure he would loose
all his resolve, but he had to.
She was crying. What did he see in those beautiful hazel eyes? Pain. And
disappointment?
A strand of her hair had gotten caught in the track of her tears. He wished
that he could reach out and pull it away, touch her cheek and tell her
that everything was going to be OK. But he was the reason she wasn’t.
The world was whirling around him now, and he was sickened by the motion.
“Because I’m evil.”, he replied.
She didn’t answer.
“Because I’m the scorpion on the tortoise’s back," he said bitterly, "It’s
my nature, innit?”
The room fell silent, deathly still. She stared at him as if it would
all finally make sense if she could only look hard enough.
“I dunno," his whisper broke the silence, "I loved you more than life
itself. I don’t see how I could..."
His lips was trembling as he looked into her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
It sounded so stupid. Like an apology would make it all ok. He could no
longer hold the tears back, and with a broken voice, interrupted with
sobs, he asked her.
“Are you going to kill me now?”
She realized that he actually meant it.
He really believed that she could drive a stake through his heart.
And he really believed that he deserved it.
Inside Buffy's mind, a feeling that until now had been buried and silent
started to make itself known. She'd kept it vague and distant, but now
she couldn’t push it away any more.
Guilt.
Buffy tried hard to make it go away, tried to make him the sole bad guy
again, but watching Spike break down in front of her broke down the last
of her barriers. She'd directed her energy to hating him so that she didn’t
have to listen to that inner voice.
The fact was that she had hurt him. She was the hero who saved the world
in the name of everything good and right, and still she had used him for
months. She had abused him over and over, both physically and psychologically.
And she was the one who had had a soul.
In the end, who was the Big Bad?
She reached out her hand and lifted his chin to make him look at her again.
“No. I’m not gonna stake you.”
“Don’t you remember," she removed her hand, but held his gaze with hers,
"what Dawn said that night at the Bronze? “The hardest thing in this world
is to live in it”? Dying is easy, believe me, I know. It’s living that’s
the challenge. I won’t give you a “Go to hell without passing Go”-freecard.”
“And I," there was pain in her voice, "have no right to throw the first
stone.”
He looked at her, trying to understand what she was saying.
Buffy felt she couldn’t continue the discussion any further. She felt
tired and worn.
She got up from the table and left him with his mug of blood. He looked
confused, but didn’t speak up as she turned from him.
As she walked away from him, she heard Xander at the front door. She put
on her happy face, quickly wiping her tears away.
“So you’re still alive?” she called out to him, trying to sound cheerful,
but missing the mark.
“Well, for now at least," Xander walked directly to the kitchen door and
peeked past her, "How was the interrogation. Could our undead guest provide
any useful information? Should I book some time in my filofax next week
for a brand, new, exciting Apocalypse?”
Still aiming for cheerful, succeeding a little bit better this time, Buffy
tried to sum up the intel.
“Well, it seems like a mean ghost will bring on “28 Days Later”. Spike
was a little vauge on the details, but I’ll do some research tomorrow,
and I’ll see what I can find..”
Then she herded Xander back to the living room, pausing briefly to check
the fridge. Inside, there was Dr. Pepper there that Dawn had bought earlier
that day. Buffy knew Dawn would be furious if she took it, but as she
reached for it, she noted that she really didn’t care.
* * * * * *
Outside the window, the bushes twisted and swayed in the wind that blew
across the deserted suburb street. The block tended to become something
of a ghost town when evening fell. After all, this was the time where
all the hard-working, white, middle-class families that populated this
part of town stayed indoors and pretended that the world was a safe place,
that the monsters under their well-mannered children’s beds were figures
of their imaginations, and that the growing body count among their acquaintances
was surely due to drug-related incidents (It happens in the best of families).
It was the hour when parents sat by the kitchen table and together agreed
on the fact that their quarterback son, who'd just won a scholarship to
Berkeley, was regularly waking up naked in the woods, with no memory but
the smell of wolf in his nose, was simply going through some sort of phase,
and that the pentagram on the floor in their daughter’s room will come
right out with a little bit of soft soap and some scrubbing.
In the living room at 1630 Revello Drive, the Interdimensional Key rolled
a two.
She grimaced in disappointment as the Slayer removed her last red plastic
Australian soldiers with a malicious smile.
“You’re totally cheating!” Dawn accused.
“Don’t be a cranky," Buffy looked pleased as she inspected the world map
that was slowly becoming more and more covered by little green men, "Just
because you're losing."
“I think that sore looserism is a genetic defect in the Summer’s family”,
Xander commented with a little laugh.
From the armchair at the other side of the room the vampire watched their
game. Spike felt like a tennis racket in the grocery department. All the
time he had spent on Planet Angst these last days that made board-games
and fun seem like a strange contrast.
Reality had started to settle down around him, at least as long as she
was with him. She was the anchor for his frail psyche.
He was really grateful that she allowed him to sit with them in the living
room during their game, but he had turned down Dawn’s offer to join them,
since playing Risk pretty much demanded access to all your mental abilities.
And besides, he now had a strong belief that evil beings and world domination
should be kept far apart.
The struggle of the three colors surged back and forth on the board, and
as the game progressed, the atmosphere of competition between them became
more pronounced, especially when the red areas started to grow bigger
and bigger.
Buffy never liked getting her ass kicked, neither metaphorically nor literally.
“Hey!" Buffy asked, visibly irritated, "Why do you never attack Xander?”
“Well, perhaps because most of his countries are on the other side of
the world, with you in between!”
“Whatever, it’s just not fair!”
Xander’s ears were getting sore from their increasingly high-pitched voices.
“I’m gonna make some more popcorn”, he said and walked to the kitchen.
Happily away from the bickering, he picked up the bag of microwave popcorn
and sent a prayer to the housing deity for a short stay at Revello Drive.
The Summers’ girls had been even more difficult than usual lately, and
he didn’t want to get in the middle of it.
In the background, the sound of arguing continued, and Xander sighed as
he put the bag in the microwave and set the timer.
Suddenly a loud noise came from the living room.
Xander ran to the living room and saw Dawn pinned up against the wall.
She was choking and struggling to break free from the hand that was brutally
gripping her throat. On her neck, several trails of blood ran out from
under the fingers that was holding her in place. There were cracks in
the wall behind her, stained with more blood.
“Give me back South America!”, Buffy yelled without loosing her grip.
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