Title: In Excelsis Deo
Chapter 2: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Author: HollyDB
Email her at: holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon is responsible for everything that is Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Summary: Upon answering a desperate call a late autumn night, Wesley invokes the help of Fred in nursing a broken warrior back to health. A warrior that does not want to live but to see the face of a woman that has moved an ocean away.
Rating: R
Spoilers: After Chosen
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He awoke. Warm. Comforted. Swimming in a sea of blankets—pillows serving as life rafts. His stomach growled, his eyes were blurry, and he had no idea where he was. But it didn’t matter. Somehow, it didn’t matter. It was the first feel of genuine security in almost the entire course of his lifeline. Warmth. Comfort. Safety. The nonexistence he had known for months at an abrupt end. Traded for this. Traded for warmth above nothing.
He had been cold for far too long.
It took a few minutes, but Spike’s weary muscles finally listened to what he was telling them to do and sat up slowly, wincing with ache but not giving in. The room was small and unfamiliar, its scent lost on his suddenly dull senses. Through the span of his admittedly long life, the Cockney was more than accustomed to waking up in strange places. His entire wake through the sixties was nothing more than drinking and injecting his dead system with every narcotic the book had to offer. And true, while it took an admitted lot to make vampires suffer the same effects as humans, said effects were similarly a thousand times more potent.
The time of his useless waste had ended forty years ago. Waking up now in a strange apartment was not welcoming. And given the lack of strength surging through his worn muscles, it could prove to be dangerous business.
His mind fought for its last memory, ignoring the pains and strains that aligned his body. There were cuts on his arms and chest, but those weren’t entirely out of the ordinary, either. His skin had known its fair share of abuse.
But that was it, then. A spark. A burning blaze of glory as fire stretched the length of him, cindering him to nothing at all as the cavern collapsed and she let go of his hand. She. Buffy. Buffy, oh God, where was Buffy? Sunnydale was gone, he remembered that much. He had watched as the world came tumbling down. Watched everything. Sacrificed his life for the sake of a girl.
Had she gotten out? Was she all right? God, she had to be all right.
Something terrible seized his lungs, and Spike hunched over with a sudden coughing fit that attacked from nowhere. The noise was loud but vacant, bouncing off the walls of an apartment he did not know with no one to answer. He had to find out where he was and why he was here. If Buffy had survived—find her if she had. Hold her to him and never let go.
The door to the room suddenly squeaked open and an unfamiliar cute brunette popped her head in. They stared at each other for a long, dumb minute before she sent him a bubbly smile. “Oh! Look, you’re awake!” she said cheerily, if not a little embarrassed. “Wes! Wes, he’s awake!”
Wes? Who in the bloody blazes was Wes?
Spike, listen to me.
He drew in a deep breath and shook his head, fighting his strength and propping himself properly against the headboard. The girl was gone, now, and there were voices in the outer hall. Hers, he assumed—hers and a deeper baritone that either belonged to a bloke named Wes or a chit with a severe hormonal imbalance. Didn’t matter, though. Nothing so far had addressed the question of where he was, and—more importantly—why.
Spike, listen to me. I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.
“Spike?” A man had entered the room. A British gent with a young face and old eyes. He was rugged around the jaw line and, for a human, comparable in size. Not overly tall, by any means, but gave the frontage that he could definitely hold himself in a fight. And he looked even deader than Spike felt.
I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. I used to be Buffy’s Watcher.
The former vampire’s eyes widened with recognition. He didn’t know from where he knew it, but he did. A fact that was just there. Something that he understood without being told why he should.
This man knew Buffy.
“Spike,” the man said again, venturing forward. It should have surprised him that the bloke knew him well enough to address him so casually, but he couldn’t find the will to care. All that mattered was his kinship with Buffy. This man could tell him something. Where she was, if she was all right…how long would it be before he could leap out of bed, rush to her side, and spend the rest of eternity in her arms.
Bugger. He had only been un-undead a few conscious minutes and he was already getting ahead of himself. Wherever she was, regardless, there was no guarantee that she would want him. There was no guarantee of anything.
He had no idea how much time had passed. What if the Hellmouth had been sealed for years? What if Buffy was married, her belly full with another man’s child? What if she had forgotten all about him?
Well, that last one was unlikely, but the possibility haunted him still. And even if all his other fleeting spur-of-the-moment panics fell through as only that, there was no telling what he would find if and when he saw her again. Her last words—he remembered those. Carried those with him to wherever he had gone, floating on them without mass or thought for what felt like an eternity. Even if they weren’t real. It didn’t matter if they weren’t real. Not when he was dead. All he knew was that they were spoken in her voice while her hand clutched his, her eyes welling with the tears she would cry for him.
Buffy would cry for him.
“Spike?” The man was approaching now. “How are you feeling?”
Bloody loaded question if he ever heard one.
When he opened his mouth to speak, he was astonished at how guttural his voice sounded. Raw. Dry leaves dancing together in a late autumn wind. “Like I was hit by a semi,” he replied. “Then dropped off a cliff, smashed by a piano, an’ set on fire.”
“Yes, I would imagine. Do you remember at all what happened last night?”
“’m guessin’ I din’t win the Publisher’s Clearin’ House.” Spike drew in a deep breath and winced with the jolt of pain that came along with it. “How long has it been? How long have I been dead?”
“A few months, really. Not long.”
That surprised him. Genuinely surprised him. Only a few months. His eyes fluttered shut.
A few months.
“An’ Buffy? Where’s she? I need to—”
“Find her, yes. You said as much last night.”
“I did?”
The chit at the door with the all-too rosy disposition nodded emphatically. “Repeatedly, from what he tells me,” she said, then waved. “Hi. I’m Fred.”
He nodded politely. “Spike.”
“Wes told me, among other things.” She smiled and took a few steps forward, hands shifting to her front pockets. “We think you might have caught a cosmic fever or something in traveling between dimensions. It’s not that uncommon with, well, people who come back from the dead.”
“That why I feel like this?”
“That and the fact that your body’s probably going through shock at suddenly being corporeal again. That plus the heartbeat.” She shrugged her shoulders and offered a nervous smile that looked natural on her. In knowing her for exactly two minutes, he could tell immediately that this was a girl that could find the good in a nuclear holocaust. He didn’t know what to think of her, but found his insides warming in spite of himself. “I’m going to need a sample of blood to examine back at the lab and pinpoint exactly what sort of antidote we’re looking for. Wouldn’t want you to die, being alive all of a sudden.”
An ironic smile tugged at his lips. “No, pet,” he agreed softly. “Wouldn’t want that.” Then he turned to Wesley again, the room still spinning. “How’s it that I’ve got a heartbeat?”
A pause. “I believe that in saving the world, you fulfilled a prophecy that I thought was meant for Angel,” he said, obviously careful. Gauging a reaction.
And then recognition hit. Blind. From nowhere. He knew why the bloke was so familiar. Angel. Los Angeles. Angel Investigations, helping the bloody helpless. Figured it would take that to know as much as he did. A sigh coursed through his lips and he nodded, temper flaring briefly at the mention of his grandsire, but his body too worn to react with the vehemence that poured through every artery.
Spike wouldn’t give him what he was looking for. Not now. Not when he felt like this. “Prophecy?”
“The vampire with a soul that plays a pivotal role in the apocalypse will have his humanity restored. I thought it would be a little sooner, granted, but…” Wesley shrugged. “We’re lucky we found you.”
He was sure they were. And it was all overwhelming. Hearing it and processing it was two very separate entities. The sort of understanding that struck minutes before sleep. A new recognition: human. He was human. The heart beating in his chest was real—was his own. He was human, and alive.
Buffy.
“Buffy. I need to—”
“Yes, I know.”
“You keep sayin’ that. Where is she?! Did she…she made it, right? She—”
Fred stepped forward, her eyes a tad hazy. “She went to Italy after the town went kabloowie,” she said. “We’re going to find her for you. But first, some tests? We don’t want to get you all revved to see Buffy and then—”
Spike smiled gently and held up a hand. “Right. I’ll do whatever I need. Just get me to her.”
“Right.” Wesley nodded to the girl. “Fred will be back in a minute to take a sample of your blood. Now, I need to know what, if anything, you remember of last night.”
“Last night?”
“You don’t remember?” The former Watcher pursed his lips and expelled a deep sigh. “You were in quite a state. The marks on your arms? The cuts on your chest?” As if by suggestion alone, his skin seared with pain and the vampire willed his eyes closed. “Yes. You did all those last night…wanting to know if you were real. It’s how I found you, actually. You caused quite a ruckus down at one of the filthier pubs in this town. Wolfram and Hart received a call and—”
“Wolfram an’ Hart?” He peeked an eye open. “Greatest evil on earth? Same Wolfram an’ Hart, right?”
Wesley huffed up a little at that, defensive façade falling over his face. “Not anymore. Just a few days before Sunnydale was destroyed, Angel struck a deal with the Senior Partners and now we head the Los Angeles division. We’re trying to turn—”
Spike’s eyes boggled. “Whoa. Wait. Back up. Peaches is drivin’ the greatest evil known to…mankind? Are you outta your bleedin’ mind?” It took another minute before the humor in the situation struck, and he threw his head back with an attempt at a rich laugh that was masked with a cough. “Bloody hell, never thought…I’d see the day when the nancy sod would step up a mark an’…an’ become even more hypocritical than he was…before. Workin’ for Hell on Earth’s not exactly…exactly the mark of a champion. No bloody wonder I got mojo’ed back in human skin an’ he’s still his broodin’ self.”
There was no direct reply, and therefore deciphering that he had slammed headfirst into a sore spot wasn’t exactly difficult. A sigh set upon his shoulders and he rolled his head back. “Lemme guess,” he said slowly. Careful. Tempering his pace as to not over-exert himself just to make a point. “You took…the fruit off the Tree of Good an’ Evil ‘cause some…some skimpy spokesperson who…looked good in a short skirt assured you that you could keep…keep on fightin’ the good fight, never mind the fact that they’re already nose-deep in a deal with the devil.” A significant break at that to catch his breath before he ran out of it. And despite the pause, Wesley’s eyes remained heavy. Considering. This invigorated the former vampire, and he jumped back on track before his body could convince him otherwise. “An’ Peaches, bein’ the overbearin’ ponce that he is…figured he could walk into the very…heart of temptation without battin’ an’ eye.” Spike shook his head with a small, incredulous laugh that came out more as a cough. “You don’ mess with power…not like Wolfram an’ Hart…mate. I wouldn’t’ve touched it even when I was evil. ‘S more than me an’ you…’s big enough to take everythin’ else over an’…make it look like someone in the workroom hit the wrong button. Don’ see how he’s s’posed to be…helpin’ protect people ‘f he’s runnin’ the reason they’re hurtin’ in the firs’ place.”
Another still beat settled through the room. The look haunting Wesley’s face had deepened from merely bothered to tortured. That absent knowledge that kept killing him with every wake. “We were going to try to turn the place around,” he said softly.
Spike arched a cool brow. “You think they woulda let you in ‘f that had even the remotest possibility?”
“Of course not. Which is why finding you was so fortunate.” Wesley expelled a deep breath and glanced up again. “We’re going to get you well, Spike. And then we’re leaving to find Buffy. I’d imagine Rupert couldn’t be too far off from where she is. We will find her.”
“An’ then…what?” The former vampire’s eyes widened in alarm. “You can’t send her back here, mate. She jus’ got her normal life. She doesn’ need to be in the thick of another—”
“Spike.”
“No! I won’ let you! I’ll kill you firs’! I—”
Wesley held up a hand. “I have no intention of declaring war on Wolfram and Hart. It’s a battle we cannot win. To eradicate such malevolence from the world, you would also have to kill all its citizens. It feeds on evil, and there is evil in everyone…and no way to take that back.”
“Oh.” Slowly, he began calm. “Oh. Then why—”
“It’s a matter of survival. Staying here is killing me. It’s killing us all.” He shook his head. “I won’t presume to think I can get through to Angel. I believe he is too preoccupied with whatever good he thinks he is doing, far being from finding a cure for Cordelia. But I have no intention of allowing it to destroy me in the process. Or Lorne or Gunn, if I can help it.” Another sigh trembled through him. “We are leaving here once you are well enough. We are getting away.” He paused once more, conviction set in his eyes. “And regardless of what she says, I’m taking Fred with us.”
Spike’s brows perked appraisingly. “’S that right?”
“She’ll thank me for it later. As for what she says now…I really do not care.” He started to say something else, but quickly closed his mouth as Fred bustled back into the room, all sunshine and smiles despite the intimidating needle she wielded. The vampire obligingly forfeited his arm, watching the former Watcher’s eyes carefully as he studied the brunette beauty hunched over his bedside.
He knew that look. Oh, how he knew that look.
It was the sort of look that stormed emotion. And emotion was something he knew a thing or two about. Unrequited love. Longing so desperate that he could barely breathe, only to stop and remind himself that he didn’t need to.
Only he did now. The breaths heaving from his chest were not a luxury. They were needed. As was food, water, shelter, an income, and all the things he had taken for granted for the past century.
It would hit him soon. The realization of what had happened—he knew it would hit him soon. At any moment, he would come to the ultimate understanding that he was no longer a creature of the night. That he could walk in sunlight, touch crosses, drink holy water if he liked. No longer did invisible barriers block his entrance to homes he had yet to visit.
But yes. He knew that look. He knew every agonizing strain of that look. He felt it every time his vision was blocked by his golden goddess—so close. Close enough to touch.
Buffy.
Spike shook his head and flinched as Fred withdrew the needed sample of blood. It wouldn’t be long, he told himself. It couldn’t be too long. He would find her. He had to. That he knew for certain.
Whether or not she wanted to be found, by him especially, was a different matter altogether.
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He was looking into the mirror, and could see himself looking back.
It was autumn. The autumn following Sunnydale’s disappearance. Spike stifled a chuckle at that. Autumn. The year hadn’t even had the decency to change. So, for the first time in a hundred and twenty three years that he had looked into anything other than a snapshot and seen his eyes looking back. The vast, empty reflection of a sky that had lost its stars. His body was aligned with healing scars that would have been gone—should have been gone. And evermore, there was that blasted sound. Echoing from somewhere deep inside him. A resonating presence that he had once taken for granted. The proof of life. What people died preserving for others. The reason anyone was on this blasted earth at all.
The quiet torment of a heartbeat. His heartbeat. The motion was so furious, he wondered how it did not leap out of his chest. Clamoring against him. Beating at his skin—a prisoner of war. He had died and now his heart was beating. He had a heartbeat.
And that was blood running through his veins. Blood was circulating in his body.
He could see his reflection. He was looking in the mirror, and he could see his reflection.
He had died only to live. Studying hands that shouldn’t exist. Examining wounded skin that, just yesterday, had not been attached to any body. His head pounded. His heart bellowed. It was so loud. Life was so loud. He hadn’t vamp hearing, but he was going deaf from the screaming of it. His entire body was screaming with life.
It had really happened. He was alive. Alive.
And that was all he could take. Spike tore his empty ocean eyes away from the broken man staring at him. He had to get back into bed. He had to. Had to get in bed and get ready. Ready for Buffy. God, he needed Buffy.
He didn’t make it to the bed. His legs gave way within two steps and then he was on his knees.
Alive. He was alive. And he didn’t know if his reason for living would want him or not. His body ached for hers. Ached for her arms around him, welcoming him to a home that he did not deserve. For the penance he had fought purgatory to earn. He would sacrifice all of heaven just to escape this hell.
Centuries of living and he didn’t know a thing about life. Not a damn thing.
The air around him broke with the weight of his sobs. His body curled on the floor, inches away from the mirror that taunted him with his image. His broken image.
The night held nothing for him now. Nothing. Not even heat to drive away this insufferable cold.
And he wept.
To be continued in Part Three: In Sin And Error Pining...
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Chapter 3: In Sin And Error Pining