The Finest Line
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Title: The Finest Line
Author: Willa (willshenillshe@aol.com)
Genre: Slash, Redux
Spoilers: Canon through and spoilers for the end of BtVS Season 5, AU after
that
Part: 01/?
Rating: Averages out to a hard R/NC-17
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own 'em. But I do check daily.
A/N: This is based on and inspired by Shakespeare's "Much Ado About
Nothing"
A/N 2: The original author of this fic, Jamemosalo, is no longer writing
and has given me her full blessing to rework and repost this.
A/N 3: Yes, I've got two WIP's at the same time. I'm hoping to
alternate postings of each one's chapters.
Dedication: For Andrea, forever and always
- 01/? -
Fingers drumming on the table, knuckles cracking as they're stretched with
gentle ferocity, nails tapping at the surface of his book's ancient leather.
Spike gets cranky when he's without a cigarette for long, and heaven forbid
he light up in the presence of the Watcher's beloved old tomes. Can't
even take one from the pack and fondle it; that's just inviting a host of
surly glares, and he's not in the mood tonight.
Normally he doesn't so much mind the research sessions. He's gotten
used to the easy/tense atmosphere that clings to them. And they don't
have them so much lately, not since he relented and started telling them
the stories they wanted to hear. Most of the time, he knows all they
need about the beastie of the week.
But every now and again, his well of information runs dry.
Tonight it's a prophecy, not a slavering demon that's got them worked up,
but it still ranks high enough on the panic scale for the gang of humans
he shares his nights with. Time to delve into the books and don't come
up for un-musty air until there's been an answer found. Even he gets
passed his share of the volumes - more eyes, better chances, and so forth.
Not that he can be arsed to actually read. Isn't what he's there
for.
Restless, he stands abruptly, and paces to the shop window. A little
hard to see the road from here, what with the street-lamps reflected in
the glass, but he narrows his eyes and squints, and he can make out enough.
A handful or so of humans, stupid or deliberately blind to the dangers of
Sunnydale come nightfall, giggling their way through the streets. Drunk
on cheap plonk, watery beer, "high on life", to coin a daft phrase, life
which they think isn't in any danger at all. Spike's teeth set themselves
on edge and he gives them a stony stare. Idiots, the lot of them.
Don't know how bloody lucky they'll be just to make it back to their snug
little nests. It's even odds surviving all the way home.
"Spike?" Red calls out to him, raising her weary eyes from a tangle of scrolls.
"Is there a problem?"
"Not yet." Spike swings away from the window, ambling toward the door.
"Want a bit of fresh air, is all."
It's a lie, but no one calls him on it, not Red or her bird Glinda, not the
Watcher nor Slayer, not even the Bit or the ex-demon. All too tired,
most likely.
Spike pushes the door open and leans on the frame, reaching without thinking
for his yearned-for smoke now that he's in the open air. Lighter's
flame touches the tobacco - inhale - and ahh, that's better. Sherlock
Holmes knew what he was on about; smoking makes the brain cells churn about
much more smoothly.
He taps the ash and glances up and down the street, once, twice, again.
Something's gotten him unsettled tonight. He's not the augur that Drusilla
was - she'd probably see an omen in the way that cluster of crows lifts off
the phone lines and rushes cawing into the night, some clue from the stars
that would explain it all, this uneasy feeling, but damned if he can see
more than a bunch of dreadful dirty birds wobbling in their flight toward
the sky.
Closing his eyes, he imagines he can hear her sweetly mad, wispy voice whispering
warnings into the curve of his ear. /"There's danger, Spike, little
kitten feet pad-padding toward you, coming close and all ready to nibble
you up. Nip, nip! Strangers with faces you remember. Danger.
Beware!"/
Spike shivers. Her voice sounds all to real to his mind's ear.
Too much like a real omen or warning, and he doesn't care for that.
Even more on edge now, he raises himself on tiptoe and scents the breeze
wafting its way down the street.
Wait...
Just there...
If the blood ran in his veins instead of lying dormant, and if he had a heart
that beat, he would have felt the one slow in dismay while the other sped
up with suspicion and upset. He'd smelled something long-ago-but-not-forgotten
in the air, he had. A salty tanginess that belonged to only one man's
skin in all the world. A smell he'd not been gifted with for years,
but close enough now that Spike knows he's here. He's back. In
Sunnydale. Where he'd sworn never to set foot again.
"He promised." Spike breathes out the words on a cloud of smoke.
The acrid bitterness of tobacco doesn't quite overlay the man-scent, like
he wishes it would. And he knows, as you sometimes just know things
- like you're going to miss your train, or not be able to find your good
axe when you need it - that it's coming his way, that scent.
Even though he'd promised.
Then again, what are promises?
Not much, after all. The cigarette crumbles between Spike's forefinger
and thumb as he forgets to be careful, stares daggers into the calming night
street.
The prodigal returned, then, after over five years.
Xander was coming come.
And he'd better have a bloody good reason why.
~ T B C ~
B A C K
