CHAPTER 5 – ARRIVAL

PARIS, FRANCE

DECEMBER 20, 2003

11:00PM

Spike shook himself off and looked around him, trying to get a sense of which way to head. It had been a long and boring flight for him, locked down in the cargo hold with only a couple of lollypops to tide him over. Truth be told he had also not enjoyed the cold. Funny, coming from him, but he'd been spoiled he supposed by living with humans for so long; first in Sunnydale and now, what with multi-million dollar fancy office complexes.

Cold crypts or cargo holds for that matter just didn't do it for him anymore. He needed the warmth, the sensory perceptions. He needed a bloody cigarette the whole fucking flight!

He looked back at Orly Airport, through the fields he had just run through, trying to get his bearings. It had been pretty easy to slip out unnoticed after the cargo hold had been opened up and after the packages had been taken off of the plane. But, he had been concerned that they would close the hatch back up afterwards, which meant he would have had to make either a hole in the plane to get out, which he wasn't sure he would have been able to do, or make a racket, bringing attention to himself. Luckily, he hadn't had to do either.

He'd just simply jumped down and strode off through the darkened runway, until he came to a fence, which he easily scrambled over.

He heard the soft lowing of a cow nearby and followed the sound.

"Sorry mate," he said to the Jersey, which stood alone, chewing it's cud, "this won't hurt you too much, but I really am hungry." Spike slipped into game face and grabbed onto the cow’s neck, biting down and letting the warm blood slip over his tongue and down his throat. The cow stood still, unconcerned, as Spike drank for the next few minutes.

"Well, not quite as tasty as otter, but a lot better than that pig swill. Thanks," Spike said, giving the obliging cow a pat on the rump, as he made his way toward the road.

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He hitched a ride with a truck driver heading toward Calais, where he could catch a ferry across the channel to the Motherland. It wasn’t until he was almost halfway there, that he finally understood the man’s broken English, that he could have taken a train and been in London tonight.

He sighed. So much he didn’t know about Europe anymore, how to get around being close to the top of the list.

By the time the truck pulled into Calais, Spike could see that it was only another hour to dawn. He would have to wait until the next evening to go any further.

He found an old warehouse on the outskirts of town, which looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and settled in for the day.

He awoke around 6:00pm the following evening, feeling a sense of anticipation. Hurriedly, he headed towards the ferry station to find out the schedules. There was a ferry leaving around 8:00pm that would get him to Dover around 10:00pm, but he’d still have to get to London. He asked where the train station was and found that the Eurostar stopped in Calais for passengers around 10pm and would get to London about an hour later. Much better.

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LONDON, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 21, 2003

11:30PM

Spike stood outside the rail station in the middle of London, wondering what he should do next. His initial enthusiasm wore off once he realized he hadn’t a clue as to where he would be going once he arrived.

He wandered around London that night, from the inner city, to it’s more outer reaches, trying to get a feel for the city he’d left so many years before. It was getting towards morning when he found himself in his third cemetery for the night; hoping that he’d get a sense that she’d been there, hoping that maybe while Buffy was in London, she would go out patrolling.

He amused himself with fantasies of her tackling him, straddling him, ready to stake the Big Bad, only to realize it was he. Her stake would drop, as a look of amazement would cross her features, next thing, she would be in his arms, kissing him passionately as he… Or, more likely, she would think he was just another wanker, like the one she saw who reminded her of him, and she would stake him accidentally before he got so much the chance to say, ‘Bloody hell, Slayer!’

He sighed. Not realizing it, he had wound up in front of his family’s old home. He peered through the darkness at it. It still looked almost the same. He stood there for a long time, realizing that he should be hurrying to get away from the coming dawn, but mesmerized by memories and something else which drifted ever so softly over his senses. He didn’t notice when the lights came on, or when the front door opened.

"Hello! You, across the street, what do you want?" Margaret McTavish called out.

Spike looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Well? Are you here about the room or are you casing the place, because if it’s the latter, just want you to know I’ll be calling the authorities straight away."

Room? Spike saw the sign then.

"The former, ma’am."

"Well, this is a hell of a time to come round looking for a room, isn’t it?"

Spike looked up at the sky. Time to think quickly.

"I wasn’t really coming to call right now, just coming off my job at the pub and thought I’d do a walk-by and see what the house looked like and all that."

She studied him for a moment, then sighed.

"Work nights then, do you?" she asked, motioning him over.

"Yes ma’am."

"Well, I work most days, but sometimes I’m home. Regular noises going to bother you?"

"No, I sleep like the dead."

She cautiously opened up the door for him, "Come in then."

Spike gingerly stepped over the threshold of the home he hadn’t been in for over 120 years.

"I’ve had some other inquiries, too. There was a young American woman here just yesterday asking after the room," Margaret said, thinking about her.

"I see," Spike said, distractedly.

"I don’t think she is coming back though. Think I would’ve heard from her. She seemed to be more interested in the history of the house and its former occupants than the room."

Spike barely was listening to her, lost as he was in looking around. He walked ahead of Margaret over to the dining drawing room, noting the fireplace, the ceilings, the walls, and little things about it that had been forever etched into his mind’s eye as a boy. He walked over to the windows, peering briefly through the drapes, up at the lightening sky.

She talked about the rooms as they went through them, but Spike barely heard. They were at the top of the stairs now and then she was opening the door to his former bedroom.

She looked over at him. He had such a world weary, sad look on his face, as he tentatively walked around the room.

"I’ll take it," he said softly.

"What?" she asked, not knowing if she’d heard correctly.

"I’ll take it," he repeated.

"Well, usually I do a background check and…" she stopped to look at him. He had sat down on the bed, his head in his hands.

"Um…what do I call you?"

He looked up at her, and she saw the pain in his eyes, if only for a mere second. Then it was gone. Still, she’d seen it, and it had touched her.

"Call?"

"Your name?"

"Spike. William, if you’d prefer."

"William," she said, just like the person who had once lived here. Suited her that his name should be the same, somehow.

"I’m Margaret McTavish. So, William…when would you like to move in?"

"Now."

"Now? As in now? Right now?"

Spike nodded, then cleared his throat, "See, person I was with, I got kicked out, so if you don’t mind, yeah, now would suit me fine," Spike said, reaching in and handing Margaret the rest of his cash, which amounted to about $42 and some change, American. "I can get more tonight, for the first month’s rent. And in pounds, too."

She looked at the money suspiciously. "Why do you have dollars?"

"Only money I made tonight at the pub, was by some American who tipped in dollars; spent all my pounds on some dinner. I’m sorry, I can change them over later, if you wish."

"You say you got kicked out? You’re not just looking for a place to stay for the night are you? Because I’m not running some flop house, you know."

Spike shook his head; "No, I shan’t be going back there, and I really would like to rent this room," he said looking up at her, his eyes pleading.

She shook her head, knowing that he wasn’t being totally up-front with her, yet somehow trusting him none-the-less.

"Alright, William. I’ll rent this room to you for a month. We’ll see how we get on with each other. At the end of that time, if it doesn’t work out, I don’t want any problems, understand?"

Spike nodded.

"You have any other stuff to bring over?"

Spike thought about it. He didn’t, but he figured he’d buy some stuff later tonight to satisfy her, rather than her just think him a vagabond, a homeless person, a vagrant... In all honesty, he did rather fit those descriptions, just didn’t care to think of himself in those terms.

"Um, yeah, I’ll pick up my things from my old flat tonight and bring ‘em over. Don’t have much anyway."

She nodded, "Alright then, I’ll leave you be. If you want anything…well, there’s food and tea in the kitchen. Loo is down the hall."

She started to leave when all of a sudden he realized what she’d said to him downstairs.

"Mrs. McTavish? What did you say about an American woman looking after the room?"

"It’s Margaret. And to answer your question, nothing much, though I was pretty sure she was going to take it, as interested as she seemed to be. At least she was very interested in the history of it and its former residents."

"Did she know them?"

"From nearly 150 years ago? I should think not! Said she was doing her dissertation on the Victorian Era, or something like that. She said she’d like to come back, and look at more of that old stuff in the attic, so maybe you’ll meet her."

He tried to keep his voice even, "What did she say her name was? She sounds rather familiar; lots of them college types come into the pub, and all that."

"Think she said her name was…" Margaret looked up, and stifled a yawn. Head would work better, after she had her tea, "oh yeah, Anne Winters. Yeah, that was it. Know her?"

"I might," Spike said, evenly.

"Well, goodnight then, or good morning, whichever you’ll be going by."

Spike nodded as she left the room, closing the door after her. He stood up and threw his duster onto the chair in the corner, then collapsed on the bed.

His head spun as he took it all in; the flight over, being back in London, his old room, even his old bed. And…Anne Winters? Could that possibly be…?

Buffy’s middle name, forever remembered from when he’d visited her grave all those 147 days, a couple of years ago; sat running his fingers over the inscription again and again and again. Winters, the opposite meaning of her last name. It was almost so bloody obvious, as to be funny. Therefore, it really couldn’t be anything other than a cruel coincidence, a joke from The Powers that Be. Probably just some silly, overeducated bint trying to make a name for herself, get herself published…

Spike curled up on his side, pulling the blanket around him and was immediately assailed by her scent coming from the side of the bed. Tears stung his eyes, all the while he inhaled deeply, knowing that his mind had to be playing tricks on him. Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, his face in the very spot he imagined her scent so clearly.

END CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6 - DRAWN

DECEMBER 22, 2003

7:00AM

"Spike!" Buffy startled awake, then relaxed back onto her pillow. That is, if heart pounding can be considered that.

She tried in vain to remember the dream she'd just had, but all she had was images of him standing in his black coat and white hair, silhouetted against something, that seemed familiar. She closed her eyes again, hoping that she would go back to the dream. Anytime she dreamed of him, it was somehow comforting; a lot more so than waking up and realizing that she was still alone, with no Spike to watch her back anymore.

Not that her back needed watching these days.

Even worse, it was opportunity forever lost. That possibility that they were finally, about to have a chance at something real. Real, without all the end-of-the-world-crisis-every-day-news-at-nine-and-putting-all-our-past-shit-behind-us-once-and-for-all-type-real. Forever lost. Just like he was.

The dream came again. She saw him standing there, his back to her. She always knew him by the way he stood, his telltale stance, proud, yet somehow vulnerable all at once.

He was looking up when she called to him, but he didn't hear her. She looked up, too, and saw the white steeple of a church off in a distance, but she couldn't tell what his vantage point was.

That's when she woke up. Sighing, Buffy wracked her brain trying to figure out where she'd seen this church steeple, because she was sure that she had.

She got up, went to her window, and drew back the curtains, letting out another sigh. In this distance she could see the red steeple of a church, the large turrets of Westminster Abbey, and another small yellow church down the road. One thing for was certain; London surely wasn’t short on churches, or church steeples, for that matter.

She went over to the dresser where her purse sat, and took out the pictures she’d taken from Spike’s old home. She stared at the image of William as a young man, trying to superimpose Spike’s face on top of it. What a contrast he had been to his human self! Spike surely, had constructed as different a persona from that of William, as he possibly could.

And yet, something of William had survived in Spike, even before he’d gone to get his soul. She’d been privy to that, on the few rare occasions when she’d let him be gentle with her, after she’d been brought back from the grave, and had sought solace from him for all the wrong reasons. And last year, after he’d returned, after having gotten his soul back, he’d been so much more restrained than she’d ever seen in him before, more refined, more…

She sighed one last time, staring at the face that looked out at the camera’s lens almost 150 years ago, before putting the pictures back in her purse again.

An hour later, Buffy went downstairs, leaving a note for Dawn that she’d be home by late morning and they could go and finish their Christmas shopping then.

Not knowing exactly why, but telling herself that she needed to tell Margaret McTavish in person, that she wouldn’t be taking the room after all, Buffy rode the two buses across town, drawn to 22 Patshull Road. Taking a deep breath, she walked up the sidewalk and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, louder this time, and listened for a reply. She turned to glance out at the yard, and sadly noticed that the ‘Room for Rent’ sign was gone.

"Well, what did you expect, Buffy?" she chastised herself, "Think that Margaret was just going to hold the room, so you could pretend you were interested?"

Half of her really had thought about actually renting it, not so much to sleep in, but just to be able to come there whenever she wanted...and what? Just spend time, she supposed.

She was just about to walk away, when for some reason, she turned back towards the door and tried the handle. It opened.

Buffy walked in and closed the door behind her, heart pounding, "Great, I’m breaking and entering, now," she mumbled to herself.

"Margaret? Mrs. McTavish?" she called out, not really expecting to hear a reply. She wandered into the kitchen and felt the teapot, it was still warm and she supposed that Margaret had already gone off to work.

Slowly Buffy found herself going up the stairs, pausing for a moment on the second floor, and then up to the attic. She had grabbed a torch on her way up and now carefully made her way across the floor to the far corner where the trunk was.

She opened it, and once more, laid the clothes against the inner surface of the lid, until she came to William’s journal.

She propped herself up against the edge of one of the walls, then jumped, knocking over an old seamstress’s mannequin, when she came in contact with a spider’s web.

"Shit!"

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Spike stirred in his sleep, waking a bit upon hearing a crash and a mutter from somewhere above. Must be his landlord, he thought groggily, turning over on his side. But hadn’t she left for work this morning? He pondered the noise for a moment, then decided it wasn’t anything to concern himself with and went back to sleep.

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Buffy righted the mannequin, then unfolded the old quilt, putting it over her shoulders, before leaning back against the trunk.

She opened the journal and began reading where she’d left off before.

There was an entry almost every day, if only a few lines about what was happening in his life, which by the looks of it, hadn’t been very much.

What was much more telling, had been the hopes and dreams he wrote of, the love he wanted so much to give the right person, the love that eluded him.

She took a quick look at the time, then continued reading.

Buffy swallowed hard and continued to read.

Buffy finally came to the last few entries in the journal.

An unexpected pang of jealousy and loss coursed through Buffy.

There were no more entries after this one. Buffy stared at the last page, a lone tear rolled down her cheek.

"Stupid bint!" she said, bitterly, "why didn’t you realize she wasn’t worth it, William?"

Buffy looked down at her watch and reluctantly started to put back the items into the chest. She was more than tempted to take the journal with her, in case Margaret wouldn’t let her in to look at it again, but she just couldn’t do it

If she’d been honest with herself, she’d have known that it wasn’t just the journal or the photos that were drawing her back here, but the house itself, the feeling that there was some piece of the puzzle about Spike that she needed to find out.

Buffy made her way back to the second floor, hesitating before continuing down to the main floor. Slowly, she walked down the hall to the bedroom that had been William’s and stopped. She started to reach out her hand towards the door, but then withdrew it, her heart pounding suddenly.

Spike had heard someone come down the stairs from the attic and now he saw the shadow of feet that had stopped in front of his bedroom door. What was this then? Didn’t make any sense that his landlord would just be standing there. Or maybe she was just looking at something else in the hall. That must be it.

Slowly, quietly he got out of bed and walked over to the door.

In the hall, Buffy thought she’d heard the bed creak ever so slightly and suddenly remembered that the sign in the yard had been removed. Perhaps, Margaret’s new boarder had moved in. She listened closely, but didn’t hear anything else. Must have been her imagination, ghosts of the past and all that. There couldn’t be someone living here already, could there? She put her hand up to the door. Wouldn’t hurt if she just had a little peek inside, would it?

Spike walked quietly to the door, his senses on full alert now, as equally sure his mind was playing tricks on him, as he felt a familiar presence nearby.

Buffy had just started to turn the doorknob, when she heard the slightest creak in the floorboards beyond the door, her spidey senses tingling with a familiar sensation.

Spike put his hand out to the doorknob, just as he saw it turn ever so slightly.

Buffy froze as she felt the tiniest bit of resistance.

Spike closed his eyes; his hand glided upward, caressing an invisible spot, mere inches between him and the warmth, the aching, and the longing he felt emanating from the other side, at least what his imagination wanted it to be.

Buffy held her breath, listening. Unconsciously, her hand lifted upwards, then stopped; suspended in the air at a point that just ‘felt’ right. She closed her eyes, hand caressing the image she could almost sense, beyond the door. She could almost feel his face lean into her touch, cool planes imprinting and searing themselves once again on her palm, branding the memories there forever.

Spike drew in an unneeded breath and brought his hand down to the doorknob.

Buffy was startled out of her reverie by the soft sound of the knob being turned.

"Oh my God!" she mouthed to herself, quickly bolting down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the house. What had she been thinking coming here?

It had started to pour sometime while she’d been inside. Putting her jacket over her head, Buffy ran down the sidewalk and crossed the street, going back the way she’d come.

Spike heard footsteps retreating, down the hall and the stairs, followed seconds later by the front door being closed. Startled, he stood there for a moment, before darting over to the window.

Before turning the corner, Buffy looked back at the house one last time, up to the second floor, noticing a flutter in the drawn curtains.

By the time Spike got to the window, all he could see was someone running down the street, jacket above her head to shield her from the downpour. But it didn’t shield her from his memory of the way she moved, "You," he whispered, and as if she’d heard, she turned to look at the house. He quickly closed the curtain. When he looked back out, the street was empty.

Spike slowly walked over to the door, opened it, and inhaled deeply. It was her! Buffy! She’d been here, right outside of his door, within reach.

He slumped down in the hall, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them to himself, as he tried to make sense of it all.

END CHAPTER 6