The Tin Bird by Spikez_tart

Chapter #1 - The Dark and The Light

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” NOTES: To the regular Tart Groupies, this is not my usual type of story (you know, snarking and ironic smart-assery), but I hope you’ll enjoy a walk to the angsty side of William’s life. The story takes place a few days before the events of William’s life shown in Fool for Love. HISTORY of HARROD’S – For all us American types, Harrods is a fabulous department store, which was started in 1849 by Charles Digby Harrod. His store motto Omnia Omnibus Ubiqu' - all things for all people. In 1883, three years after William became a vampire, the store burned to the ground. =================================== Chapter 1 – The Dark and The Light Sunnydale Lavender-grey twilight was falling when Buffy slipped into Spike’s crypt after a grinding day at the DoubleMeat Palace. Spike wasn’t home, although the television was playing. “Never around when I need him. Must have snuck out for some ciggies,” she said to herself. “Or, some refreshing violence before bed. No, before breakfast.” She pushed away the thought that there was something unpleasant about the idea of having sex with a person – no, a vampire – who’s first thought in the morning was killing and death. She was disappointed. He’d be back before long, but she’d looked forward to him rubbing her shoulders for her and soothing away the day’s hassles. This day had been worse than usual. Her cash register came up short and she’d had to make up the balance of $19.80 out of her own money. Once, she would have been considered such a sum as mere change, but these days a twenty dollar bill was earned hard and missed hard when it vanished. She poked her head down the hole to the lower level. “Spike, you down there?” No answer. She jumped down the hole, without bothering with the metal ladder, and landed hard on her feet. The lower level was empty, but a couple of candles flickered and cut into the blue shadows. He knew she was coming, which both annoyed and pleased her. She took off her boots and plopped into the middle of the bed and stretched out. Spike’s bed was always made up and the pillows always smoothed. He swung to extremes, wildly sloppy or fastidiously neat. She didn’t know what to make of that. After a moment, she grew restless and got up again. She walked around the room, touching Spike’s few belongings. Other than the bed and the white candles that dabbed light onto the walls, there was nothing much in the room. Three shirts – one red and one royal blue and a black one with patterns, a couple of tee shirts folded and placed on a shelf cut into the stone walls and a can of lighter fluid. Nothing more. Then, she spotted a stone in the wall that seemed out of place. She might not have noticed it, except the cement that should have held it in place was missing all the way around the squared off rock. She pulled it out and saw a small, wooden box. She took out the box and sat on the bed. The box was dark wood with some inlaid lighter pieces that made a pattern of flowers. The wood was polished to a soft glow and looked old. Old as Spike. She shouldn’t open the box. It was Spike’s private stuff. She hated when she found out that he’d snooped into her things, looking into her underwear drawer, for example. “I’ll just put this back.” The box looked old enough to have belonged to Spike when he was still alive. She hardly knew anything about the human William. He never talked about his former life and got bad moody whenever she brought the subject up. She didn’t want to know about the vampire part of his life, though she suspected he would be more than willing to brag about that. She ran her hand over the top of the box. She should put this away. She opened the box. Inside were a few photographs and a small blob of something wrapped in white tissue and tied with a rusty, black satin ribbon. “Spike wouldn’t mind if I looked at his pictures.” She touched the white tissue. It looked like it had been tied up a century ago, and considering Spike, maybe it had been. She burned to know what had been so important that he’d carried it around for decades. She picked up the first picture. “I’ll just look at the pictures and put this away and Spike won’t even know that I saw this.” He would know, of course. He’d sniff her scent on his things. Too late to worry about that. He’d be mad or he wouldn’t. She might as well look. The first picture was tinted soft brown with age. An old lady with white hair wearing a black dress stared back at her. Her hands were folded over a bible and she looked serious, but kind. Spike’s mother. Buffy turned the photo face down. She didn’t care to dwell about what might have happened to Spike’s mother, what happened to the mothers of most vampires. She recognized Drusilla in the next photo. Drusilla wore a white, lacy gown and white boots with buttons up the sides. There were photos of Angel and Darla, more photos of Drusilla and one of Spike with long hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She studied that one. Spike, or William, as he must have still been, looked awkward and girlish. It was hard to match this image with the tough, snarky Spike that she knew. Would she even have liked the human William, or would she have thought he was silly like one of the science nerds at high school, no hottie and not worthy of consideration? She flipped over several more photographs of people she didn’t recognize, including a dark-haired girl named Cecily. When she turned over the last photograph, she found a thick piece of black-edged paper. She opened the paper and found a colored Christmas card with two angels – one blond and one brunette. “Like me and Drusilla.” Dark and light, like all the extremes in Spike’s life. The Slayer or The Vampire. No plain girls in between, no middling mousy browns or washed out red-heads. She put the photographs and the card back in the box. The only item left was the white package. She touched it again and scooted the black ribbon off.

Chapter #2 - An Invitation

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” ===================================== Chapter 2 – An Invitation London - December, 1880 Mrs. Augusta Underwood lifted the heavy silver teapot from its tray. “Shall I be mother?” William Pratt composed his face into a silly grin. He resented Mrs. Underwood’s usurpation of his mother’s duties. His mother should be handing around the tea things, not the huge busted and blade-faced Mrs. Underwood. He understood Mrs. Underwood’s feelings, while pretending to ease the burden of the delicate Mrs. Pratt by serving tea and passing around cake, feared catching the disease that was slowly etching away his mother’s life. He was not about to mention this since it wasn’t the sort of thing a gentlemen would do and since he hoped one day Mrs. Underwood would be his mother-in-law. He shifted on the hard, horsehair seat in his mother’s parlor, then reminded himself that a gentleman didn’t squirm around on his chair, especially not in front of ladies, and held himself rigid with his feet placed flat on the carpet. He longed to prop his ankle on his knee and make himself comfortable. It was really his parlor now, since the death of his father, but he never thought of it that way, since there was not one thing in the room that he had placed there or picked out. The parlor was overheated and crammed with furniture and decorations on normal days. A large fire blazed in the fireplace behind the brass grate making the room hot and stuffy. The walls were papered in cream silk with a wriggling, snake-like floral design. A large, brownish oil painting in a gilt frame hung over the fireplace and brass gas sconces hung on either side, their hissing gas flames added to the heat. The black horsehair sofa and chairs, with their black walnut carved wooden arms and legs and backs were surrounded by potted palms and displayed murky needlepoint pillows stitched up by William’s mother. Each morning, Betty, their servant girl pinned freshly starched and ironed white anti-macassars along the chairs and sofa backs and placed doilies on the tables. A large curio cabinet with glass figurines sat on one side of the fireplace with a small brooding landscape hanging above, and an oval mirror hung on the other side. The mirror’s silver backing had worn away and the reflected room was smoky and dim. A glass kerosene lamp with a cream-colored shade with slashing black designs burned on a small table next to the sofa. Dark roses clotted themselves through the wool carpet. Maroon velvet drapes covered the small brass-grated windows and blocked out the last rays of the winter sun. The usual confusion of the room was even worse this evening. The room reeked of the turpentine smell of evergreens. Two days ago, Betty added fresh fir, pine and hemlock boughs and pomanders of cinnamon, cranberry, and apple to the floral decorations and satin drapes on top of the mantle piece and a large vase of pink Christmas hellebores. She propped a small bruce pine in one corner and decorated it with gingerbread men, hard candies, pinecones, and garlands of cranberries. Tiny white hand-dipped candles teetered on the tips of the branches, dripped hot drops of wax and threatened to send the tree into flames. On the top of the tree, Betty fastened two Christmas dolls – one a blonde angel with long, curly hair and the other a brunette with hair pinned up. The brunette wore a blood-red dress. Every year Mrs. Pratt asked William to pick one of the two, and every year he said he couldn’t make up his mind. Lady Bloxham, mother of Charles Bloxham, and Mrs. Bolton sat on the sofa next to his mother. They all wore mourning black for brothers, uncles and husbands long passed. Three of Mr. Poe’s Ravens. Mrs. Underwood sat in one of the upholstered chairs with dark wooden carving across from William. Cecily sat on a small gilt chair that befitted her status as the only female under the age of forty in the room and the most attractive young lady of William’s acquaintance. “It’s very kind of you to visit my mother,” William said. The three old bats and Cecily showed up ever Tuesday, regular as machinery, to visit with his mother, and he, just as regularly, was caught in the parlor sipping tea and making vapid conversation so he could sneak looks at Cecily. Cecily was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, with her dark, curling hair tucked up on top of her head and splayed out on the sides in waxy, sausages curls, her pallid white hands and dark, glowing eyes. She always dressed fashionably. Today, she wore an icy blue silk dress that hugged her figure down to her hips. A swath of ruffled cloth swept across her belly and around her curves into a small bustle. One dainty foot, shod in dove grey boots with pale blue buttons up the ankles, peeped out from under her skirt. It was a highly impractical outfit for the sloppy weather of this time of year, but he couldn’t fault her for displaying her beauty. She peered at him over her tea cup with narrowed eyes, and he looked away. Mrs. Augusta Underwood was as ugly as Cecily was lovely and dainty. “It’s our Christian duty to visit the sick, Mr. Pratt, and our pleasure to see your dear mother.” She patted William’s mother’s hand with her black-mitted one. William stared down at the dregs of leaves in his tea cup. He found it nearly impossible to speak when Cecily was in the room. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Underwood.” He felt foolish for repeating himself and irritated at the ladies who only visited his mother in order to out do themselves in a display of Christian virtue. “Will we be hearing you in the church choir for Christmas services, Mr. Pratt?” Lady Bloxham asked. “We do enjoy your singing.” His delicate cup rattled in his hand and he set it down on a nearby table when he saw his mother looking at him with a steady gaze of disapproval. He wasn’t sure if he had offended by not speaking enough to Mrs. Underwood and the other ladies, or if rattling his cup had drawn his mother’s notice. William’s mother smiled at the compliment. “William has a lovely voice.” He suspected he sang off key and everyone was too polite to tell him. He didn’t like the choir, didn’t like the pompous songs they sang or being the butt of Charles Bloxham’s jokes. He’d decided just that morning that he would find some way to dodge out of choir duty. Now, he felt trapped. “I suppose I will.” His finger wandered to his too tight linen patricide collar and he pulled it a little loose. It was his last good linen collar and soon wouldn’t be fit to be seen. He’d have to switch to cheap paper collars or those awful celluloid things. His mother blinked and he dropped his hand. “Oh, that will be lovely,” Mrs. Bolton said. She clapped her tiny hands. “You must be so proud, Mrs. Pratt.” “I couldn’t ask for a better son,” Ann said. “So much like his father, so dutiful and considerate.” “Mother, please. I’m sure the ladies don’t want to hear about me.” He could feel his face turning hot and red. A flash of Cecily’s dark eyes showed her disapproval and her opinion that he was somewhat of a sissy and a mama’s boy. He longed to show her his manly, romantic side. His mother was not to be deterred. “The only duty William has been remiss in performing is bringing home a sweet girl to marry.” She looked at Cecily, who busied herself with another cup of tea and bit off a large mouth of biscuit. William attributed Cecily’s avoidance to her modesty and her shy nature. Naturally, she wouldn’t care to seem interested in the prospect of getting married until the event was properly sanctioned by her parents. Augusta Underwood passed around a plate of cake. “We all wish to see William happily settled.” She gave William a severe look. The conversation turned to matters concerning the upcoming church social, decorating the church for the holiday services, the excellence and dedication of Dr. Gull to his lady patients and other things that William had no interest in discussing. He appreciated not having to talk which gave him the opportunity to sneak shy glances at Cecily. She was a lovely girl, serious and calm. She’d already gained his mother’s approval. He imagined himself in the church raising her white gauze wedding veil and leaning forward to kiss her small mouth. His imagination shifted to their wedding night. She sat on his bed in a pure white linen gown, her rose-colored nipples dark against the thin cloth. He lifted the hem of the gown and -- Mrs. Underwood addressed him and jerked him out of his fantasy. “I do hope you’ll be able to attend, Mr. Pratt.” He had no idea what Mrs. Underwood was talking about. Whatever it was, he was certain he would prefer to avoid it. “I would be happy to, but I don’t think I can be away from Mother for so long.” He adjusted his cake plate over his lap so that the ladies would not notice the embarrassing predicament in which he found himself. His cotton drawstring underdrawers felt hot and scratchy and he was certain the flap had come open. He wished the flap had buttons, but he was too embarrassed to ask Betty to fix them. His mother would never forgive him if she knew what he’d been thinking about Cecily. He could hardly forgive himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about a nice girl like Cecily in such a fashion. She was good and pure. His bewildered look was not lost on his mother. She often caught him daydreaming. “Don’t be silly, William. Mrs. Farquhar is still in mourning for her dear husband. She’s offered to come and stay with me any evening you’d like to go out. You can certainly go to Cecily’s party.” He glanced at Cecily to see if she had any part in this invitation, but she was chatting with Lady Bloxham and ignored him. He preferred to stay at home and avoid these gatherings where Charles Bloxham and the Harbury brothers, Frederick and Cyril, did their best to make him the miserable brunt of their jokes. Still, he wanted to meet Cecily and he was prepared to endure all the Bloxhams and Harburys in the world to spend an evening with her. “Since Mrs. Farquhar has so graciously agreed to visit Mother, I’d be pleased to attend.” A short while later, the ladies left. Cecily stepped to the edge of the paneled door to avoid the green beribboned ball of mistletoe that hung over the parlor threshold.

Chapter #3 - Razzle Dazzle

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” ======================================= Chapter 3 – Razzle Dazzle The following afternoon, William escaped the house. He told his mother he needed to perform some important errands and she, believing him to be going out to buy some permitted trinket for Cecily, bid him enjoy his afternoon. He would have loved to buy a gift for Cecily, but it was out of the question. He only planned to buy his mother’s Christmas present. The afternoon was cold and sharp dashes of sleet splashed into his face, but he enjoyed the cool air after the stifling heat of his mother’s parlor. He scurried into Harrods without pausing to examine the elaborate displays of Christmas decorations and gifts or the store’s impressive façade with its motto engraved into a stone plaque over the door that usually drew his attention. He wandered about the store for a bit, admiring the store’s bewildering fairyland display of scarves, mittens and muffs, gloves and jewelry and all manner of paraphernalia for genteel ladies. A young lady clerk saw him casting about and looking confused and approached him. “May I assist you in finding something, sir?” He glanced at her crisp, white blouse and black skirt. Miss Merk’s name was printed neatly in black ink on a white card and pinned to her blouse with a tiny red and green plaid ribbon. Yes, an employee. “I am quite at a loss. I would like to buy a gift for my mother, but I have no idea what she would like.” He felt his words had been too abrupt and might be construed as rude. “You have so many lovely things here, it is impossible to choose.” Miss Merk directed him to a counter layered with soft, woolen scarves and colorful cashmere pashimas imported from Lahore. “Perhaps a lovely scarf?” She held up a pink and purple paisley scarf. William dismissed the idea of a scarf. His mother rarely left the house, especially in the winter. Dr. Gull advised her to avoid the cold air. He didn’t wish to parade his mother’s illness to a mere shop girl, so he made up an excuse. “I’m afraid it won’t do. My mother is in mourning.” The shop girl fetched out a black version. “The black, then?” “No, I’m afraid a scarf won’t do. If you could suggest something else?” A large, well-dressed man with longish brown hair and a prominent forehead brushed by William and knocked into his shoulder. Two women, one a blonde floozie that William recognized from the cut of her neckline as a soiled dove and the other a brunette with large, dreamy eyes, followed the man. The brunette turned back for a moment to stare at William. She was decidedly odd. William opened his mouth to protest the man’s rude behavior, but before he could collect his thoughts, they disappeared into the crowd. The shop girl spent twenty minutes showing William lace handkerchiefs with black borders, black gloves, black lace mitts indoor wear, lavender sachets and tiny bottles of cologne with jet stoppers. He narrowed the choices down to a pair of monogrammed handkerchiefs or some black lace mitts, when a silly thought occurred to him. “A question popped into my mind, foolish question really, but is it true Omnia Omnibus Ubiqu?” “Sir?” “All things for all people? The store motto? The one over the front entrance.” For a moment, he thought her eyes flashed silver, which was ridiculous. Shop girl’s eyes didn’t turn silver. “Oh yes, sir. You should have mentioned it straight away.” She directed him to another counter. Her words were quite puzzling. Why should he have mentioned it? He followed her to a large display of Christmas cards and ornaments – tiny black and yellow-headed china dolls, glass icicles and tear drops, gold and silver cardboard cut and folded into fanciful shapes, sentimental cards printed in bright colors and a small selection of tin fancies – birds, whistles, drums, stars and moons, butterflies and other animals. Miss Merk handed him a Christmas card and turned her hand to a tin bird suspended from the branch of a gilt tree display. “I believe you’re looking for this.” He fumbled with the card. Two angels, one blonde and one brunette. The blond carried green pine boughs in her skirt front. The brunette held a blank scroll suitable for a message. The brunette looked like Cecily in a vague way. Mother’s comments of the previous evening made him feel certain that she approved of Cecily as a prospective daughter-in-law. The blonde angel was the prettier, but the brunette was the important one, the safe one. He wished to marry and have a wife to help him with Mother. Unlike the other males of his acquaintance, the Harbury brothers, Charles Bloxham and even Cecily’s brother, Edward, who frequently made nasty remarks on the subject of squalling infants, he wanted to start a family and father a little girl he could name after his mother. He would never admit it to anyone, but he also rather desperately wanted to have sex. The thought of holding a woman close and, well, having relations, was on his mind, it seemed to him, every hour of every day. He wondered what it would be like. He’d had incidents at night, humiliating incidents which burned in his memory and shamed him for his lack of control. Other men tried themselves out on the maids, but he would never dream of importuning the helpless Betty in that manner. Fallen girls, such as the blond he’d seen earlier, could not even be considered. No, it must be marriage and soon. He cramped his hands to control himself. Cecily was a good woman. She would never be interested in sex except for the purpose of having children. His married cousin, Robert Brooks, explained to him that women simply didn’t care about the act. He felt guilty for thinking about Cecily in that way. Still, if they were married, he would be able to exercise his rights once in a while. Cecily’s mother would explain to her that a man must exercise his rights. What if he sent the card to Cecily? No, that would be too bold. It wouldn’t be proper and she would be furious if he revealed his feelings in such a public manner. He could have his mother send the card on behalf of the family. He checked the price and decided it was within his reach. He counted out his pennies to buy the card and handed the money to the shop girl. While Miss Merk was ringing up the sale, he turned his attention to the tin bird. It was a small silver and gilt bird with pink patches on its wings, a blue-capped head and a blood-red sparkling drop hanging from its beak. It fit neatly into the cupped palm of his hand. A green-gloved hand touched the bird. “He’s a razzle dazzle, isn’t he?” William looked up into the white, heart-shaped face of a beautiful girl. From her flat pitched, musical voice, and her strange words, he supposed she must be an American. He’d never heard an American speak before, but she certainly didn’t sound like an English girl. Her curly blonde hair was pinned up loosely under her clever green hat and several strands popped free to frame her face. Her face was a pale valentine shape, her chin something too pointed, with cheeks and lips pink from the cold. Her eyes were deep green, the green of holly boughs. Her figure was trim and hugged by a bright green bodice and a snappy modern skirt that rustled when she moved. A small purse of sparkling emerald bugle beads and two tiny pink lovebirds perched on her hat, completed her outfit. “He - he’s a very clever bird. I was thinking of buying him for Mother.” He tore his eyes away from the girl and turned the bird over in his fingers to see the price tag. The price astonished him and he released the bird. “I’ll have to think about it.” “They do want an awful price. My name is Emma Harlan,” she said. She held out her gloved hand for him to shake. William pulled on his cravat and tugged on his shirt collar. He felt flustered. Why was this lovely creature talking to him? It wasn’t proper, he was certain, but more, he’d never attracted such attention from such a pretty woman. He took off his hat and accepted her hand. “William Pratt.” “Pleased as raspberry punch, Billy Pratt.” She studied his face for a moment. “You have a kind face and I’m new in town. Would you take a girl out for a drink?” This was most astonishing. This American girl must not know that it wasn’t proper for a young lady to introduce herself to a total stranger and ask him out on a frolic. He didn’t think she was a woman of ill repute. For one thing, she didn’t look hard and calculating as the woman who bumped into him earlier. No, she looked fresh and unsullied. He found he didn’t mind whether she was proper or not. He wanted to go with Miss Harlan. He cast about for a suitable place to take her. “There’s a tea room here in Harrods.” “I was thinking about the place kitty wampus across the street. You can get something better than tea.” Kitty wampus? She must mean the chemist’s shop. They served sarsaparilla and chocolate sodas with seltzer there. His face crumpled into a frown. He wasn’t certain he’d brought enough money for this adventure. “Short on the jingle jangle? Don’t worry, Billy. We’ll go snooks.” She grabbed his hand and led him out of the store.

Chapter #4 - Fizzle Sizzle

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” ================================== Chapter 4 – Fizzle Sizzle The place across the street proved not to be Chomundley’s Chemist Shop, but a far different establishment. A wholly and completely unsuitable establishment for either a young lady such as Miss Harlan or even a bachelor like himself, yet Miss Harlan, who was still holding his hand, drew him across the street against all the traffic and down an unlit alley and into a public house called The Raven. The pub was a white-washed and half-timbered house with guttering gas lights over the door and a weathered board sign painted with a raven wearing a red coat and tipping his black hat. “Miss Harlan, I don’t think you appreciate the nature of this establishment. It’s most unsuitable for a young lady like yourself. Please let me take you to the chemist’s shop for a sarsaparilla or a root beer.” “Don’t be kerflummoxed,” she said as she pushed through the front door. “I know the owner.” William felt he had no choice but to follow. It wouldn’t do to allow Miss Harlan to come to harm. Miss Harlan walked right up to the bar and pushed her way through the crowd of men. She called out to the bar man. “Cagey!” Cagey Leander came forward with his white bar cloth in his huge hands. He was a solid plug of a man, beefy shoulders, a bald head and a nose that had been broken more than once. “Well, well then, if it isn’t our little Yank songbird. Come to favor us with a song this evening?” “Cagey, this is my new friend, Billy Pratt. Billy, this is Cagey Leander.” She hooked her arm through the crook of William’s elbow and pulled him up to the bar. “Tumble us to a couple of drinks, will you?” This was most bewildering. Miss Harlan told him that she was new in town, but she had formed an acquaintance with this Cagey person. He shuddered at her impetuous behavior yet, at the same time, felt rather exhilarated to be introduced to a rough person like this bar man. “I might supply the needful, if you’ll give the gents a little treat.” He set up two large glasses of brown ale. “Let me wet my whistle first and I’m your huckleberry.” She took the two glasses and headed for a tiny table in a dark corner of the room. William felt he had no choice but to follow. It was his duty as a gentleman, to protect her from the unwanted attentions of the rude men who drank swore and smoked filthy cigars all about them. Several of them cast admiring glances at her as they passed. William hoped it would not become necessary to defend her honor. He was not a good fighter, as his many altercations with Charles Bloxham had proved. She plumped herself down at the table and took a long drink of ale. “That’s much better. Here, Billy, I have a present for you.” She fished around in her green beaded reticule and brought out the tin bird. She placed it on the table in front of him. “Where did you get this? I didn’t see you purchase it from the clerk.” A frightening thought crossed his mind. What if she had taken the bird without paying? “I fluffed it for you. Take it!” She smiled and touched his sleeve with her long, white fingers. “You might have been caught. The police are very harsh about this sort of thing.” This wasn’t the right thing to say. He should have admonished her for her immoral behavior, yet, as he looked in her flashing green eyes, he could only think of the terrible risk she’d taken. She laughed. “Not me. Easy as gooseberries.” “I see. Well, thank you.” He placed the bird inside his coat pocket. He would have to return it tomorrow and explain to the store’s manager the bird had been taken by accident. The thought of lying made his face glow. After that, he’d never be able to show his face in the store and God only knew how he would explain to his mother the next time she sent him there for a purchase. Miss Harlan’s face wrinkled into a soft frown. “You’re not going to jack me up over a hickeymadoodle, are you?” “Jack you? I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you.” “You know, call the police. Have me arrested.” “Not this time.” William smiled. She was apparently not the hardened criminal she fancied herself. He took a sip of his ale. It was not something he treated himself to very often and the sour malt tasted pleasant in his mouth. In a moment, the alcohol whirled through his brain. He loosened his collar a fraction, leaned back in his chair and admired his companion. “Tell me about your travels, Miss Harlan.” She reached out and grabbed his hand. “Let’s don’t make flicky talk. There’s so little time. I want to tell you something. Promise you won’t laugh?” Miss Harlan was so full of life and surprises. He didn’t understand many of the things she said, but he found he didn’t mind. “I would never laugh at anything you choose to tell me.” His voice was low and solemn. “You seem like a kind man. I have a crush on you. Do you mind?” William didn’t know what to say. He’d never dreamed that a vivacious girl like Miss Harlan would show him slightest interest. “You scarcely know me.” “I know your face. It’s the face of a kind man, a good man. Say you like me, too, Billy.” He took her hand in both of his and hoped she wouldn’t pull away. “I do like you, very much, Miss Harlan.” Across the room, Mr. Leander seated himself at an upright piano and picked out a sentimental tune. “Have to pay for the freshers,” she said. She pushed her way through the crowd of men, laughing and greeting one or two until she reached the piano. She fastened her eyes on William’s face, folded her hands together and sang. I am dreaming Dear of you, day by day Dreaming when the skies are blue, When they're gray; When the silv'ry moonlight gleams, Still I wander on in dreams, In a land of love, it seems, Just with you. Let me call you "Sweetheart," I'm in love with you. Let me hear you whisper that you love me too. Keep the love-light glowing in your eyes so true. Let me call you "Sweetheart," I'm in love with you. William sat frozen in his seat. Dear Miss Harlan was singing a love song right to him. Such a thing had never happened to him before. Her voice was silky sweet without all the trills and embellishments that he was used to hearing at the opera. Despite her plain way of singing, it was most elegant and touching. The men in the crowd hooted and stomped and whistled when she finished the song. William looked away when their noisemaking turned to him. It was obvious to every man in the room that he was the object of her interest. As he turned away to hide his embarrassment, he noticed the large man and two women that he’d seen earlier in Harrods, seated a few tables away. This was a most strange coincidence. The man slung his arm around the blonde woman’s shoulders and eased his fingers down the front of her low cut dress and fondled her breast. The man stared at William and raised his glass with his free hand. William blushed and looked down at his own empty glass. Miss Harlan sang another song, a sad Irish tune that brought tears to his eyes and made him forget about the odd trio. I'll take you home again, Kathleen Across the ocean wild and wide To where your heart has ever been Since you were first my bonnie bride. The roses all have left your cheek. I've watched them fade away and die Your voice is sad when e'er you speak And tears bedim your loving eyes. He fumbled his black-bordered handkerchief out of his suit pocket and dabbed his eyes. He couldn’t remember when he’d been more affected. After she finished the second song, Miss Harlan spoke into Cagey Leander’s ear. He nodded and started playing an old-fashioned waltz tune. She skipped back to her chair and drew William up from the table. “Come dance with me.” Before he could protest, she’d drawn him into a clear space between the tables and one tiny hand was resting on his shoulder. The other clasped his right hand tight. “I beg your pardon, Miss Harlan, but I’m not a very good dancer. I’m afraid that I’ll crush you.” He wanted to melt with frustration. Why hadn’t he practiced his dancing more when his mother arranged for lessons, instead of being cowed by the smirking and taunts of the other boys? He wasn’t naturally graceful, but he wanted to sweep Miss Harlan away onto a whirling cloud of romance, instead he was reduced to bumbling around in a circle. And, yet, somehow, he found himself dancing across the sawdust strewn floor more than adequately, when he was gazing into her holly green eyes. “I think you dance like a lambie pie, Billy. But, you must hold me closer.” William’s arms stretched out stiffly as he fell into the approved pattern of his youthful dancing classes, which did not include embracing young ladies so closely that their bodies actually touched their partners. He relaxed his arms and she cuddled into his chest and rested her blonde curls on his shoulder. His heart beat fast in his chest. Before they had been dancing more than a few minutes, the pub clock chimed five times. Miss Harlan pouted and squeezed William’s hand. “I have to go now. Mr. Jennikins will have a litter of black and white kitties if I’m not back before seven.” She headed for the door, waving and smiling at the men in the crowd who catcalled and whistled at her. “Mr. Jennikins? I don’t care a blast about Mr. Jennikins. Don’t go.” He ran after her, pushing his way through the crowd. Outside the door, he caught her arm. He shouldn’t touch her, but he couldn’t help himself. Proprieties be damned. He couldn’t let this lovely girl go. “Don’t leave me.” She touched her gloved hand to his cheek. “I have to go to work.” He paled at the thought. What work could she mean? He shook off the thought. “When can I see you again? I don’t know where to find you.” She took a pale green playbill out of her reticule. “Come see me tomorrow night. I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office and you can come round to my dressing room during intermission.” He jammed the playbill in his coat pocket without looking at it. “You aren’t teasing me? I can see you tomorrow?” She giggled. “Don’t be a fizzle sizzle. I’ll be waiting.” She stood on tiptoe in her elegant green-buttoned boots and touched her lips to his. “I’m counting on you, Billy.” She darted out into the street, hailed a passing hack and was gone.

Chapter #5 - The Crash

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” NOTE: Dr. Gull was a real person in 1880's London. He was a suspect in the Jack the Ripper case. =============================== Chapter 5 – The Crash William’s romantic dreams crashed to the ground when he arrived home. He was late to tea, which Betty served every afternoon promptly at five o’clock. His mother sat on the horsehair sofa, jabbing her needle back and forth through her latest canvas, an ugly rendition of a litter of black and white kittens tangled up in yards of black yarn. “Where have you been, William?” she asked in her sweetest voice. “I waited tea for an hour.” She jerked a thread taut. William kissed her on her cheek. How could he have been so thoughtless? His invalid mother was alone and waiting for him while he was – yes, there were no other words for it -- lusting after a woman of questionable virtue and consorting with her in a sordid drinking place. His only comfort was lying to his mother so that she would never know to what depths her son had sunk this afternoon. “Forgive me, Mother. I met Charles Bloxham and we were going over the choir program for Christmas services. I didn’t notice the time.” His mother cast him a quizzical look, but made no comment. She rang the bell cord for Betty. “Bring William some tea, Betty. I’m certain he’s famished.” William sat on the opposite end of the sofa and loosened his black silk cravat and collar. The stiff collar had cut a red mark into his neck. He shouldn’t loosen his clothing in this fashion, but the room was so blazing hot. His mother pretended not to notice, but continued sewing pulling each thread hard and tight. The fire roared in the grate, banked hot and high to keep Mrs. Pratt warm and comfortable. The room, with all its decorations and squirming vines wallpaper, felt close and especially suffocating this evening. While he’d been gone that day, his mother threaded black ribbons into the Christmas decorations. The entire room had been stitched into an oppressive net formed of black organza and tulle strips. His mother poured his tea and handed him a cup and a plate of soft, crumbling cake. “I’m so pleased that you’ll be going to the Underwoods’ party. It will be good for you to get out with the younger people.” “Don’t be ridiculous, Mother,” he said. The last thing he wanted to do was spend time with the sons of his mother’s church friends. He’d only agreed to go to be near Cecily and that prospect no longer seemed tolerable. His mother looked hurt and he realized his words had been harsh and impatient. It felt good to say what he wanted, but he must retract his inconsiderate words. He patted her hand. “You know that I’d rather spend time with you than those fools, Bloxham and the Harburys.” Ann raised her hand to her mouth and coughed into her handkerchief. A splash of blood dotted her black-edged handkerchief. “I want you to go out and enjoy yourself, William. And, I believe was thinking of Miss Underwood and not the Harburys.” Cecily. Miss Harlan whisked every thought of Cecily out of his brain for the entire afternoon. It showed what a bad influence she was, that she could make him forget the excellent young woman he’d selected to be his bride. He should be concentrating on Cecily and arranging his marriage before his mother … No, he wouldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t think about Miss Harlan either, or her green sparkling eyes, or the springy curls of her yellow hair or the exciting squeeze of her hand while they were dancing. His mother wasn’t finished discussing the subject of Cecily Underwood, as William knew no subject could be finished until she pried some concession out of him, but she approached the matter indirectly. “Dr. Gull visited this afternoon. He said I won’t be around much longer.” William frowned. He didn’t much like this Dr. Gull. His fingers were too long and icy white and his handshake clammy. “Nonsense. Dr. Gull doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” “We must be practical. I’m not getting any better. It might be different if Sophronia and Helene were still with us. I want to see you settled before …” Before she died. She didn’t say the words and William wouldn’t say them either. She used the threat of those words to get her way, to get him to do things that he didn’t want to do. He resented the mention of his dead sisters, too. He missed his older sisters, but he tired of the constant mention of the dead. He was here. He was alive. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Mother. It’s tempting the fates. Besides, you’re my best girl.” He stirred his spoon around and around in his cup and thought about Miss Harlan until his mother’s upraised eyebrow brought him back to himself. “I believe it would be acceptable for you to wear your dark gray suit to the party.” William gritted his teeth and said nothing. She meant that he could finally take off his black mourning suit to court Cecily. He should have cast off mourning years ago. He determined to wear his tan suit with the plaid waistcoat and a pink cravat. Yes, he’d kick off mourning with a great bang and he didn’t care what anyone thought. Not his mother or Cecily or that harridan, Mrs. Underwood. After Betty took the tea things away, he picked up the family bible and read to his mother, while she stitched and punched her needlepoint. The hall clock thudded loud ticks, dragging the minutes away, one after another in a slow parade that tortured him. He’d been sitting in his mother’s parlor, in just this fashion, for three years since his father’s death, drinking tea and eating biscuits off fragile bone china plates, listening to the rasping pull of worsted thread through his mother’s needlework canvas and reading the Bible in the evening. It had been tolerable while Sophronia was still alive, but after her death, he and his mother slid into a dark pattern of stultifying routine. He should be grateful that his mother was still alive for him to read to, but he couldn’t feel his blessings this evening. He only felt restless and annoyed. At last, the clock struck ten and his mother rose to go to her room. She kissed William on the top of his head. “Good night, son. Think about what I said.” After banking the fire and locking the front and back doors, which Betty always neglected to do, he went upstairs to his own room. His mother had been in his room again while he was out. She’d tied black ribbons on his bottle of bay rum and on the handle of his hair brush. He swore under his breath and ripped away the ribbons. His temper rose and he swiped the bottles and brushes off the top of his dresser. They crashed on the floor and room filled with the sickly sweet smell of bay rum. “I’m not dead. I’m not dead. I’m not dead.” His eyes filled with tears of frustration. The next morning after a restless night that included a most appalling incident caused by thinking too long about Miss Harlan’s physical attractions, he forced his temper back into regular order. He rose and dressed himself and came down to breakfast at exactly nine o’clock, as he always did. He sat down at the head of the table, where his father once sat, and picked up his newspaper. Betty served his breakfast, holding the silver salvers of eggs and bacon for him, and placed the silver toast rack next to his plate. The toast was cold. She poured his tea and left the room without speaking. He opened the newspaper. It was one of his few pleasures. Being the man of the house, no one else touched it before him. The front page carried a sordid story about a girl killed in Kensington. Her body was found with bites and gashes about her neck. The reporter intimated that the perpetrator had interfered with the girl. He hated such violent stories. He wished the newspaper would print cheery stories, but the editors preferred to write about death and mayhem. Since his mother wouldn’t be down for another half hour and Betty had ceased her hovering and returned to the kitchen, he reached into his pocket and took out the tin bird. He couldn’t give it to his mother as a Christmas gift. It was stolen. He should return it to the store this morning. Returning the bird would be the correct thing to do, but he didn’t want to do the correct thing. The bird reminded him of Miss Harlan, bright and shiny and fresh. The store wouldn’t miss it. They had dozens of others. He’d keep the bird. It would remind him of the girl that he would never see again. He shouldn’t even be thinking about her. Miss Harlan was a dream, a silly young man’s dream. If what he felt for her was love, it would pass. He would stop thinking about her, buckle down and marry the serious and suitable Cecily. That would be the mature thing to do. It’s what his father would have done. It’s what his mother wanted. He opened his handkerchief. His mother had embroidered his initials in black curlicues on one point. The initials were so ornately shaped, he couldn’t make out the “W” and “H”, only the large “P” of his last name. He wrapped the bird in the handkerchief and tucked it back into his jacket pocket.

Chapter #6 - Juggler

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” ================================== Chapter 6 – Juggler The lamplighters lit the streetlights early that evening and a blustery wind had already blown out some of the lamps. The remaining lights sputtered and failed to penetrate the sleeting rain and gloom as William walked to church to attend choir practice. He turned the collar of his coat up. The church sat on a corner, its spire and upper floors obscured by a thick, dark fog. Gas fixtures on the first floor sent muted light through the sealed, arched windows. He pulled his coat lapels closer and crossed the intersection, stepping in puddles and catching icy splashes of passing hacks and carriages. Cecily would be at the church tonight. He might have an opportunity to speak to her in private about their future together. He planned to get matters settled as soon as possible. He planned not to think of Miss Harlan ever again. Choir practice started a half hour ago. He was late and he didn’t much care. He was tired of being punctual. He stopped at the bottom of the front steps and listened to the sour wheezing sounds of the organ and voices struggling to be heard over the sharp wind. In many an hour, when fear and dread, Like evil spells have bound us, And clouds were gathering overhead, In many a night when waves ran high … The song continued at a dirge pace. He backed away from the steps. He didn’t want to go in tonight. He didn’t want to go into the church which had once been a comfort and solace for him. The building would be suffocating and his damp wool suit would steam in the heat. He didn’t want to sing hymns that sounded like funeral marches and he didn’t want to meet Cecily. The church was the cornerstone of all the weights that burdened him, the rules and the traps. The church was marriage to a stiff laced woman and being punctual and never saying what he meant, but only what was polite, and sitting in a hot parlor every night for the rest of his life. The church was yards of black satin ribbon tied and tangled on everything he owned or touched. He took the playbill out of his pocket. He should have tossed it in the fire this morning. There was no hope, no future, no escape with Miss Harlan. After brief taste of earthly woe For whom, by cruel torments rent … He didn’t want to be married to Cecily. Marriage to her would only be a continuation of the chains that bound him to his mother’s hot, overstuffed parlor. No, he wanted something else, something luminous. He wanted love. Wild ... and passionate and dangerous love. Love that burned and consumed. Love that carried the promise of heartbreak and perhaps even death. He wanted to bind himself to a green-eyed girl with the voice of heaven’s own angels. But, he couldn’t. Miss Harlan would never be his girl. Cecily was his painful destiny. Death hath no power to hurt you more… There was still time to make the show if he hurried. There was still time to fling himself into one single night of happiness before he was chained forever to unromantic domesticity and a woman who would endure his touch for the sake of propriety. A rich man’s private carriage pulled up in the street in front of the church. Charles Bloxham dropped out and accosted William. “Tore yourself away from your mother’s skirts this evening?” “Please, do not speak about my mother, sir.” Bloxham cupped his hands around his mouth, lit up a small cigar and clamped it in his teeth. He drew one foul-smelling puff before the wind and rain snuffed it out. “I have a Christmas gift for you, young man.” William huddled into his black greatcoat and backed away. He hated the man and he suspected some trick. “I have to go.” “What’s the hurry, William? Can’t spare a moment for an old pal?” “You are not my friend.” There, he’d said it to Bloxham’s face. It was rude, but it was the truth. Telling the truth felt good. Bloxham laughed. “Don’t suppose I am. Catch!” He flipped a brass coin at William. William caught the coin and peered at it in the light from the sputtering gaslight. It was a brass token for a house of prostitution. He threw it back in Bloxham’s face. He pulled his hat over his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear Bloxham’s laughter and ran down the street. ~ ~ ~ The show had already started by the time William picked up his ticket from the matron at the box office. He slid into his seat, a good seat on the first floor, set to one side where he’d be able to see Miss Harlan perfectly. On stage, a man performed a juggling act with three balls, red, white and black, so William had time to look around. The Augury Theatre was a fine, large hall of two stories with a bow-front stage lit by a double row of gas lights. The stage contained a piano on the left, a bass concertina on the right, with, as the program stated, vamps in principal keys, and a curtained arch in the center. The arch had been painted with gilt and hung with sangria-red velvet curtains looped up with wide black-satin sashes. In front of the stage, an orchestra played in the pit. The main floor seated several hundred people in rows of scarlet velvet chairs, split into three sections. Above the main floor, gilt private boxes pushed out of the walls, and two gilt and crystal chandeliers lit the room. William scarcely had a chance to take in all of the room when he saw, to his astonishment, the same dark-haired man with two women that he’d seen at The Raven and at Harrods. He shrank into his seat as the man fixed his gaze on him. For a moment, the man’s eyes glowed nasty yellow and his entire face seemed contorted into a fright mask. William blinked his eyes and looked away. When he looked at the man again, his face appeared normal. “I’m losing my mind. A man’s eyes can’t be yellow. My glasses must need adjusting or it’s some trick of the light. The light is very strange in this place.” He fixed his attention on the juggler and avoided looking in the man’s direction. The juggler finished his act to a spattering polite applause and rude catcalls. A man came out of the wings and spoke in an exaggerated manner with a suppressed hint of cockney accent. “… brought to our fair island from the wilds of America by showman and entrepreneur, Mr. Joseph Crowfoot, our next performer was a Sensation in the American Cities of New York, Boston and Philadelphia, she’s a voice like the cherubs in heaven and a face as lovely as the morning dew, please welcome Miss Emma Harlan …” William sat on the edge of his seat, his fingers clenched on the chair arms. Miss Harlan was next. Would she be as pretty and her voice as lovely as he remembered? She walked through the arch as the orchestra struck up a sad tune. The dark velvet curtains closed behind her, the house lights dimmed and she glowed in a silver white sphere of light surrounded by thick, pulsing darkness. Her dress sparkled with silver, pink, aqua and gold glass beads and clung to her figure. Her curling blonde locks, brushed down over her shoulders, made her look young and wild. She clasped her hands and turned to the right and left, and the audience roared its approval, as she started her song. I would not die in spring time When all is bright around, And Fair young flowers are peeping From out the silent ground. She was more beautiful, her voice more clear and sweet than he’d remembered. She swayed with the lyrics and closed her eyes. But let me die in winter, When night hangs dark above, And cold the snow is lying On bosoms that we love. Ah! May the wind at midnight, That bloweth from the sea, Chaunt mildly, softly, sweetly, A requiem for me. She pierced his heart with love and longing. What a fool he was! To think that for a moment he’d entertained the notion of only seeing her one more time before returning home to his mother and one day, to Cecily. No. He couldn’t go back there. Whatever he had to do, whatever pain he inflicted, even on his own mother, he must be with Miss Harlan, with dear Emma. She was the dangerous love that burned with pain and glowed and consumed until there was nothing left but ashes. He’d persuade Miss Harlan to run away with him this very evening. They take the mail train to Gretna Green tonight and marry in the morning. No one could stop them. A creeping feeling, a feeling of being stared at, came over William and he glanced to the box where the strange man with the yellow eyes sat. The man was once again looking at him. The man smiled and stared until William looked away. William wished the man to the devil. Miss Harlan sang two more songs, received the tumultuous approval of the crowd and slipped off the stage and disappeared into the shadowy wings. The orchestra played a short refrain and the main curtain came down to signal the intermission. William jumped out of his seat and shoved his way past several other theater patrons before the house lights had been brought up in his haste to see Miss Harlan. He ran out the side exit and around the back of the theater. A small man wearing a rusty black bowler, dirty white shirt with no collar and tan and black tattersall pants checked his name against a list and sent him inside. He shuddered at the thought of dear Emma associating herself with such men. It took several minutes to search through the crowded back area of the stage to find Miss Harlan’s dressing room. She had a tiny dressing room to herself. He tapped on the door and called out her name. A woman of forty or more years, with dark blonde hair in a waving pompadour and a thick, but still curving body, answered the door. “So, you’re the new one. I’m Mrs. Slookey, Emma’s mother,” she said. She stood in the door, gripping the handle, looking William up and down. Her eyes took in his worn collar and the frayed edges of the front of his suit. She nodded her head and opened the door. William fumbled with his hat. Should he introduce himself to this woman? She seemed to see every fault in his appearance and his manner, and perhaps some that he didn’t even know he possessed. “My name is William Pratt, ma’am. I’d like to see Miss Harlan, if I may.” She backed away from the door. “Emma, gentleman caller.” The room was small and painted in sunshine yellow. It contained a dressing table with a large oval mirror and a padded seat and a stuffed chair covered with a flowery chintz print. Brilliantly colored dresses, hats and scarves – royal blue, maroon red, purple and emerald green - were flung around the room. There wasn’t a single black ribbon to be seen. Emma peeped out from behind a screen where she’d been changing her costume. Her face broke into a wide smile and her eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Billy, you came. Run along, mother.” Mrs. Slookey disappeared into the hall and Emma ran out from behind the screen and launched herself into William’s arms. She wore only her chemise, corset, drawers, stockings and crimson kid boots. Garish stage paint colored her heart-shaped face pale gray and pinkish makeup smeared a thin streak down her neck. “I was afraid you might not come.” William’s face blazed red. He’d never before been in the presence of a woman in such a state of undress. Miss Harlan’s mother said he was the new one. Had she done this sort of thing before? He refused to think about that. He didn’t care about her past. He only cared about this moment, when she was in his arms and he could smell the faint violet whiff of her cologne and the heated scent of her body. He closed his arms around her and placed his hands on the crisp cotton batiste of her chemise. He tried not to let his hands touch her skin. But, he wanted to touch her skin, all of her skin. He moved his hands to touch her bare arms and held her close. “I had to come, dear Miss Harlan.” She touched her lips on his and they melted together in a kiss. His entire body crackled, his head grew light and his breath came in gasps. He struggled to control those terrible feelings that he’d experienced last night when he’d dreamed of her, feelings a hundred times stronger now that he held the real woman in his arms. His member grew hard and he wanted so much to press himself next to her, but he feared to upset her, perhaps even repulse her with his physical desires. To his surprise, she made the first move, hooking her leg around his back and crushing herself against his front. He touched her breast with his fingers and she didn’t move away. After a moment, she broke their kiss and stepped out of his arms. “There isn’t much time. I have to sing again in a few minutes. Promise you’ll meet me after the show.” It took a moment for William to gather his wits. “Where?” She didn’t answer, but touched his face. “Are you a kind man, Billy?” “I could always be kind to you.” He grasped her hand. “I know a beautiful girl like you could have any man she wanted and I don’t have much money, but if you could see your way clear to marry me, I would always do my best to make you happy.” She stepped into his arms again and embraced him. “I don’t want those other men. They have money and a place in the world, its true, but they’re cold and heartless.” “You’re full of life and beauty and music, and, and I love you. Please say yes, and make me the happiest man on earth.” Before Emma could answer, someone knocked on the door and called “Five minutes.” “I must get dressed. Meet me outside the back door after the show.” She rushed behind the screen. “Send my mother in when you go.” He felt too happy to resent the dismissal and it wasn’t really proper for him to be lounging around her dressing room until they married. Mrs. Slookey came into the room and shoved him out the door before he could tell her the happy news. He waited outside to catch another glimpse of her. A few minutes later Emma left the dressing room. She wore a scarlet velvet dress that made her blonde hair gleam and a gold-colored necklace with paste ruby stones. The rubies glistened like drops of blood against her creamy neck. She blew William a kiss as she glided to the stage.

Chapter #7 - A Few Words

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” ================================== Chapter 7 – A Few Words Once Miss Harlan was gone, Mrs. Slookey held the dressing room door open and jerked her head to indicate that William should come inside. William re-entered the room where his fondest hopes had been answered. He never imagined himself becoming engaged in such a place, but it had established itself as the dearest place in the world. “Mrs. Slookey, I want you to be the first to hear our happy news. I’ve asked Emma, I mean, Miss Harlan, to be my wife. I hope we have your blessing.” Mrs. Slookey pointed at the stuffed chair. She seated herself at the dressing table and pulled a flask out of her apron pocket and offered it to William. William pulled back with a look of horror. Miss Harlan’s mother drank hard spirits. He’d never seen a lady take a drink of anything stronger than a small glass of sherry. “No, thank you.” “Suit yourself. Mr. Pratt, before you run off with my girl, I think we should have a few words.” “I assure you I will do my best to care for Miss Harlan and do everything in my power to make her the happiest of women.” She leaned forward with her hands on her knees. “I’m sure you would, but there’s some things you should know about Emma. She’s a fine girl, I’m sure you’ve noticed, and she’s got a fine talent. She’s going places. She’s got a chance to be rich and famous. Got a chance to marry a rich man, and no offense, young Pratt, you’re not him.” William felt all the force of the raggedness of his collar, the dull sheen of his cravat worn too often, the worn edges of his coat lapels. The never ending bills for medicine, doctor visits and extra wood and coal to heat the house had left little money for new clothes. But, Miss Harlan must know that he wasn’t a wealthy man and she seemed prepared to accept him. “I’m not rich, it’s true, but I have a respectable home which I share with my mother, and Emma will always have the things she needs.” Mrs. Slookey patted William’s hand. “You’re a good boy. Better than most that come lurking around her, but you need to think about what’s best for Emma.” After his talk with Mrs. Slookey, he was too upset to sit through any more of the show, even to hear Miss Harlan’s singing, so he went out into the alley to wait in the cold air. The sharp sleet stabbed his face and further dampened his mood. Mrs. Slookey hadn’t absolutely said she wouldn’t allow him to marry Miss Harlan, but she hadn’t given her blessing either. It was a disappointment, to be sure, but he hoped that Emma would choose him over her mother’s dreams of having her marry some rich man. Surely, being married to a man who loved her would be the best for her. His own mother might prove more difficult to persuade. He would have to inform his mother tonight before they left for Scotland. It would be cowardly, but he would send a messenger with a note. That way, his mother wouldn’t be able to argue him out of his plans by reciting all the practical and moral reasons why marrying Miss Harlan was impossible. His mother wouldn’t approve of Miss Harlan, at least not until she got to know her, to hear her sweet voice and see how pretty and lively she was. William frowned. What if his mother never approved of Emma? He hadn’t considered that. He knew nothing of Miss Harlan’s background, her family, her history. He’d only met her mother a few minutes ago, and Mrs. Slookey’s association with the theater, to say nothing of her habit of consuming hard spirits, would horrify his mother. As for Miss Harlan herself, any woman who performed in a music hall was considered questionable at best, and a fallen woman at worst. He couldn’t ask his mother to take a fallen woman into her house, not that he believed such a thing about Miss Harlan. She was good and pure. It was obvious. A sullied woman couldn’t sing with notes so clear and sweet as she did, couldn’t have a pure and lovely countenance and at the same time be wicked. It wasn’t possible. Not that it mattered to him. He didn’t want to know about her past. He was prepared to forget any thoughts or regrets he may have entertained on Miss Harlan’s previous activities, but his mother would not. His mother wanted the best for him. He knew that, but she wouldn’t understand that Emma was what was best. Emma, who was warm and bright and lively, and not the cold and remote Cecily. What if his mother refused to accept Emma? He couldn’t bring Emma into his mother’s home without her permission, even if the house did belong to him. He had nowhere else to take Emma. What if they were forced to live apart while they waited for his mother to – no, he wouldn’t think of that. It was wrong. He couldn’t bear to be apart from Emma either, not now, now that he’d found the one woman who could make him happy. If his mother was dead -- He jerked on his collar. The sharp wings bit into his fingers. How could he think such a thing? His mother, who lived to love and adore him, who was sick and frail and had no one but him to support her in her final days, didn’t deserve such a heartless son. Here he was, wishing for her death so he could be married to a girl who would revolt his mother and cause her pain. What was he thinking? William paced to the end of the alley and turned to walk back to the back stage door. Three figures lurked in the shadows outside the door. William froze. It was the dreadful man again with the yellow eyes and his two female companions. Who were they? Were they following him with some evil purpose? The blonde woman leaned against the brick wall of the neighboring building, raised her skirt and wrapped her legs around the man. Her lower leg was covered with a black stocking, gartered above her knee. Above the stocking, her thigh was grey and pale. The brunette woman raised a hand to man’s neck and embraced him. William couldn’t see her face. The man loosened his trousers and began having relations with the blonde woman. The man turned and grinned at William as he fornicated with the woman. His mouth was smeared with something dark and shiny. William backed out of the alley, his face rigid with disgust. He returned to the street and the front of the theater. It felt safer out here under the circle of the gas lights and within sight of the passing carriages and horses. He breathed in the cold air and reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe away the sleet from his face. As he opened the cloth, the tin bird rolled out of his hand and bounced into the street. He jumped out into the street to retrieve the bird, but he was too late. As he reached out his hand, a passing carriage wheel ran over the bird and flattened it. The wheel sloshed him with black, icy water and rolled down the street. He picked up the bird and held it in his trembling hand. It was just a trinket. It didn’t mean anything. It had been bad luck from the start. He should have gone back to pay for it, but he’d been too cowardly. Now, it had been taken from him by some foolish coincidence and he had no right to cry over it. Besides, Miss Harlan was what mattered, not some silly Christmas ornament. He wrapped the torn bird in his black-edged handkerchief and shoved it back in his coat pocket. A crowd poured out of the front door of the theater, laughing and bundling themselves against the cold rain. The show must be finished. He returned to the alley to wait for Emma at the back door. The yellow-eyed man and his women had disappeared and William sighed with relief, from what he didn’t know. As he arrived at the door a gush of people shoved their way out, shouting and pushing each other to escape, their faces drawn with fright. A woman screamed and fainted. A stage hand caught her and carried her out into the alley. William fought his way against the crowd and reached Emma’s dressing room door. Mrs. Slookey was standing outside the door, crying and shaking. He grabbed her pudgy arms and shook her. “What is it? What’s the matter? Where is she? Where’s Emma?” When he received no answer, he placed his hand on the door to the dressing room. It swung open and revealed a sight so horrifying that he was certain he would lose his mind in that very instant. Miss Harlan lay on the floor with her neck twisted into an unnatural position. Her garnet velvet costume had been rucked up to her waist and her drawers torn away. A pool of blood circled the floor under her head where a great gash in her neck bled out onto the floor. Her necklace was broken and the paste ruby beads were scattered on the floor. The walls, the stuffed chair and the mirror were splashed with sprays of blood and the room reeked of death. William gently pulled her skirt down to cover her and straightened her head. Her once holly green eyes were dull and glazed. He backed out of the room and wiped the blood on his pants before running out into the alley. He made no attempt to wipe away the tears that ran down his face.

Chapter #8 - Black Borders

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” ================================== Chapter 8 – Black Borders William tapped his soft-boiled egg with his spoon over and over, watching cracks spread and crush the shell. The yellow yolk ran out and down the side of the cup. He rapped his spoon against the porcelain cup and cracked it, too. His mother had tied a black ribbon around the base of the egg cup. He made no move to remove the ribbon. His eyes were blank and red from lack of sleep. “William, what are you doing?” his mother asked. His eyes focused. “I beg your pardon, mother. I was thinking.” He pushed his newspaper away from his plate without unfolding it. Betty came in with the mail and placed a thick envelope next to his plate. He made no move to open it. He knew what it was, the invitation to Cecily’s party. He would go. He would accept his fate. There was no reason not to go. “You didn’t come home until very late last night.” His mother sipped her tea and watched his face. “Choir ran late.” He lied to his mother now as easily as telling her the sun set. A week ago, he would have stammered and blushed and been caught. Now, it was as easy to lie as to tell the truth. Easier. “Dr. Gull came by yesterday afternoon.” Dr. Gull. He wished Dr. Gull to blazes. His mother had forgotten she’d already told him about Dr. Gull’s visit. He pretended the visit had not been mentioned. “What did Dr. Gull have to say?” “William, I want to talk to you about a serious subject. You’ve always been such a good boy. I know you’ll accept my interference in your affairs in the kind way they are meant.” William pushed away the egg without eating any of it and placed his hands, palms down, on either side of his plate. “Of course, mother.” She made a sound of exasperation. “I won’t be with you much longer. I want to see you settled with a nice girl. The Underwood girl, Cecily, would make you a fine wife. I don’t hope I will live long enough to see your first son born, but I want to know you’ll not be alone after I’ve gone.” A silly smile spread over William’s face. He felt his mind was not quite right this morning. “Oh, yes, mother. I have hopes one day Miss Underwood will agree to make me the happiest of men. I shall write a poem for her this very afternoon, if you could spare me for an hour or two. But, first, you have to tell me what you’d like for your Christmas present. Shall I get you some handkerchiefs, black edged?” His mother smiled. “I can always use some handkerchiefs.” He returned to his room after breakfast and sat down at his writing desk. He took out the Christmas card, dipped his steel pen in a glass jar of India ink and wrote on the back of it in his most careful cursive writing. He folded the card into a stiff piece of black-edged paper. He found some white tissue paper Betty used to line the drawers of his clothes chest and wrapped it around the crushed bird and tied the package with a black ribbon. He placed the card and the bird in the wooden box where he kept his cuff links and collar fasteners. He put the box away and sat back down at his desk to write a poem for Miss Underwood. My heart expands 'Tis grown a bulge in it Inspired by your beauty His pen skittered across the page, leaving black splats. He put his head down on his desk and cried. *** He took another gulp of the Underwood’s excellent blood red wine. He’d never drank so much in his life and the wine had gone to his head. Didn’t matter. Tonight was a night for kicking over the traces. He’d started with his clothes. He’d chucked his black suit into the back of his wardrobe and pulled out his tan suit. He’d splurged on a new collar, with points creased knife sharp. This was a costume for happier times. That’s what he was going to have from now on – happier times. His mother sniffed when he came down wearing his suit with the pink cravat, but he’d ignored her. True, the suit didn’t fit as well as it once did. It looked acceptable, but it felt too small. It wasn’t black. That was the important point. He was through wrapping himself in black and sitting in the parlor and sipping tea and he might even be through with being a gentleman. A waiter circled by with a tray of fresh glasses. William drank down his glass and switched it for a full one. He got out his pages of poems. Women like poems. He must finish this blasted poem for Cecily. He’d struggled for two days with the last line –radiant, gleaming, glistening, shining. All good words, but the last word must rhyme. Rhyme was essential. When the last couplet rhymed, the world was in order, all in its place and lovely. Not the kind of place where evil things could happen, where you fell in love with someone unsuitable, someone your mother would never approve of and then she was … Cecily was a fine girl. He was going to marry her. He might even ask her tonight if he drank enough. It was a fine party. Pretty girls, fine looking men, a quartet playing good music and good wine. Lots of good wine. Cecily hadn’t appeared yet. She liked to make an entrance after the male guests grew tired of talking with the other girls. Yes, when Bloxham yawned at the vulgar pronouncements of Miss Mary Butterville, Cecily would float down the stairs in her icy white gown and make all the men look at her. William would look at her. “Luminous. Oh, no, no, no. Radiant’s better.” Lustrous? Scintillating? Shimmering? The waiter approached again with a tray of food made of tiny scraps of meat and shrimp arranged on diamonds of toast, dabs of black caviar and deviled ham and lobster, and chestnuts wrapped in puff pastry wings like minute crisp angels. “Care for an hors d’oeuvre, sir?” William had no wish for food this evening. He would live as a chameleon on the spirited air, oh and the spirits. He laughed at his little joke and drank some more wine. He scratched out a word with a pencil and wrote another in its place. Sparkling. That wasn’t right either. “Oh, quickly!” he said to the waiter. “I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for ‘gleaming’? It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see.” The waiter made no answer and moved into the crowd to serve another guest. William wasn’t surprised. What would a waiter know about the glories of poetry, words that sounded sweet or soft or clear or hard in your head? Emma would have known. She would have felt the beauty and clarity a perfect word brought to a song. He blinked back his tears and drank some more wine. It was so hard not to think of her and the way her heart-shaped face glowed with light. Effulgent. Cecily would know. She was refined. She would understand. Cecily drifted into the room. She made no effort to greet any of her guests. She walked slowly, turning with slow elegance so her train would drape with perfection around her ankles. She paused so her guests could admire her. “Cecily ….” She was lovely. Her dress glowed white, its neckline edged with a tiny pleated flounce and decorated with papier-mâché buds and berries. A gold pendant with a single opal hung around her neck. Her dark curls were waxed into stiff cylinders and pinned up in a cascade at the back of her head. She was lovely and she was appropriate. Appropriate was essential. He returned his attention to his poem. He must get all the lines exactly perfect so he could present it to her tonight. He got up stand closer to her, to be near in case she spoke. The rude Miss Butterville was talking. “I mean to point out,” Mary Butterville said, “That it's something of a mystery and the police should keep an open mind.” Charles Bloxham turned his attention to William as he attempted to walk past without being noticed. “Ah, William! Favor us with your opinion.” William meant to avoid Bloxham this evening, especially after their meeting at the church two nights before. Was it only two nights ago that he was holding her in his arms? He felt he’d been crying for years. Bloxham persisted. The fellow cared nothing for his opinion, he only wished to show himself to be superior before the women, before Cecily, at William’s expense. “What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals or thieves?” William shivered. He wouldn’t think of these evil doings. Not anymore. “I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all. That's what the police are for.” He looked at Cecily who was standing at the edge of the crowd, watching him, her eyes ink blots in the dim gas light. Tender blue veins traced her chalky face. “I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty.” Frederick Marbury snatched the papers from William’s hands. “I see. Well, don't withhold, William.” He held the papers out of William’s reach, daring him to make a scene by snatching them back. “Rescue us from a dreary topic,” Miss Butterville said. “Careful,” William said. “Please, it's not finished.” “Don't be shy,” Marbury said. "My heart expands/'tis grown a bulge in it/inspired by your beauty, effulgent." He laughed. “Effulgent?” The others laughed with him. Everyone except Cecily. Cecily continued looking grave. She walked into the next room and sat on the sofa and looked out the window to the inky black street. William seized his papers and followed her. She was sitting alone, ignoring her guests. She must be upset by the disappearances. This would be a good time to approach her, when she was in a serious mood and not looking with any pleasure on Bloxham and his crass friends. “Cecily?” He sat down next to her. The feather-stuffed sofa sank under his weight. He felt foolish sitting with his knees nearly knocking into his chin. She turned away and sighed. “Oh. Leave me alone.” He must make her understand he was nothing like the others. “Oh, they're vulgarians. They're not like you and I.” Cecily looked even more serious and upset by his words. Had he said the wrong thing already? “You and I? I'm going to ask you a very personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?” He was surprised at Cecily, polished and trained in all the ladylike graces as she was, asking him a personal question. Did she mean to bring up the subject of their wedding herself? An offer of marriage was his prerogative. Perhaps she thought he was dithering about too much and wanted the subject settled as quickly as possible. Perhaps she worried if she left matters in his hands she might be an old maid by the time the orange blossoms were ordered from the greenhouses. He nodded. “Your poetry, it's... they're... not written about me, are they?” William felt relieved. She only wanted him to deliver some acceptable token of his love and passion. She wasn’t making a bold advance like Miss Harlan. No! He wouldn’t think of her anymore. It hurt too much to think of her. If he thought of her his heart would pain him and if he didn’t think of her … and he wouldn’t think of her. He would think of Cecily. Proud, beautiful Cecily. “They're about how I feel.” “Yes, but are they about me?” “Every syllable.” There. It was only a small, necessary lie and it was practically a declaration, as if he needed one. Everyone – his mother, Mrs. Underwood, Lady Bloxham, even Mrs. Bolton -- had been pushing and arranging things between them for months. What man would write poetry to a woman he didn’t love? And, he loved Cecily. Certainly, he loved her. What man wouldn’t want to love her? To Willliam’s surprise, Cecily did not appear a bit pleased. “Oh, God!” she said. She must be playing the part of an elegant female. He hoped she didn’t go so far as to actually turn him down with the thought of enhancing his love. A refusal would be embarrassing. How would he explain to mother? It occurred to him she might be modest and shy of accepting such tributes of love as his lines of poetry, but he rejected that notion. She was too much in company, too much admired by himself and the other men of their acquaintance to be much put off by his poems. Still, it was a way to respond. “Oh, I know... it's sudden and... please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily.” “Please stop!” Had he mistaken her? Was she modest and capable of delicate feeling? Certainly, she wasn’t bold and brave like ... “I know I'm a bad poet but I'm a good man and all I ask is that... that you try to see me—” “I do see you. That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William. You're beneath me.” She stood up and looked down at him for a long moment. She walked out of the room without looking back.

Chapter #9 - Heart on Fire

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” =================================== Chapter 9 – Heart on Fire He ran out of the Underwood house without stopping to speak to anyone. He was wild to escape before anyone should realize Cecily had trampled his prospects of marriage beneath her delicate kid boots. If he could leave before Cecily’s guests saw his reddened face and the tears in his eyes, no one need ever know about his rejection. Cecily’s icy and aloof character would not permit her to reveal to the others she had been the love object of the hopeless and poor William Pratt. Mary Butterfield called out to him, but he ignored her. He wouldn’t give her or any of the others the opportunity to laugh at him, at least not to his face. He’d left in such a hurry, he’d had no time to wait for the butler to fetch his hat and coat. Icy drizzle penetrated his thin clothes, but he found he didn’t mind. The cold soothed his hurt feelings and steadied his nerves. He wiped the tears from his eyes. How could he have been so blind? Surely, Cecily had encouraged his suit. It wasn’t all in his imagination, was it? His mother, fooled as well, had been quite insistent that he bring Cecily home as his wife. Had they both been deceived by the cold and thorn-hearted Cecily, or were they only seeing what they wanted to see? His embarrassment was keen, but he had no misgivings after hearing her harsh words. She was as unfeeling as she was beautiful. Cecily was nothing at all like Emma, whose open and loving heart invited him into its warmth. Tears sprang up in his eyes again and he made no attempt to keep them from falling. Bloxham and Marbury lurked on the corner, smoking cigarettes, when William burst from the house. Bloxham held some large cards in his hands. “Cecily give you the mitten?” He laughed. “Don’t take it to heart so, my good man. She’s an iceberg, that one. A man’s wick could freeze right off if he dipped it into her cold cunny. What you need is a real woman.” He held forth one of the cards. William didn’t want to take the card. Bloxham was planning a trick and William was bound to be the object of the joke, but if he didn’t take it, Bloxham and Marbury would laugh at him for a coward. He took the card. It was a photograph of a naked woman. She knelt before a naked man, who sat on a tufted velvet sofa. She was performing a most unnatural act on the man. One plump hand rested on the man’s knee and the other guided the man’s member into her mouth. He felt dizzy and repulsed and excited at once. His member tightened and grew hard. What kind of man was he to be excited by something so revolting? William pitched the card into the gutter. “You’re not a good man. A good man wouldn’t have such a thing.” Bloxham took a long pull on his cigarette and flung the glowing butt onto the street. “Maybe I was wrong about you, Pratt. Maybe a mama’s boy like you would prefer a photograph of two men.” “What – What are you saying?” Bloxham was accusing him of something too degrading to contemplate. He’d heard of such things. They were mentioned in the Bible, but he’d always skipped over those passages when reading to his mother. He saw himself sitting on the velvet sofa with another man kneeling at his feet as the man guided William’s member into his mouth. No! He wasn’t like this. He was a normal man with normal feelings. Bloxham, as if reading his thoughts, broke out laughing. William shoved Bloxham in the chest and scurried down the street. His mortification this evening was complete and thorough going – the indignity of having his poem held up for ridicule, then Cecily’s cold dismissal and now Bloxham’s disgusting insinuations. It was more than any man could be expected to tolerate. He raced down the street, his heart on fire, turning one way and another without watching where he was going, his eyes focused on the paving stones. He ripped the pages with his silly tribute to Cecily in half and then again into smaller pieces. As he rushed along, a large man rammed him with his shoulder and knocked him off balance. He dropped the torn pages. “Watch where you're going!” he said. He snatched up the pieces of paper. He turned another corner and found himself in front of Harrods. The store was closed and the windows showed only inky darkness, but the store motto, carved into stone above the door, radiated with a sickening green glow. Omnia Omnibus Ubiqu. All things for all people. Hah! His bitter laugh caught in his throat. This place was where all his troubles began, where he’d met Miss Harlan and got his heart broken, where he’d first seen that dreadful man and his harlot. Did the man have something to do with Emma’s death? William’s heart ached with the memory of her broken, torn body lying on her dressing room floor, all the life and happiness crushed out. All his life and happiness crushed out, too. He turned away from the store and walked for another quarter hour until he came to Couphin’s Livery, where his father once kept his horses. No one would bother him here. His mother wouldn’t be expecting him home for hours and he could compose himself before going home. He sat down on a bale of hay and looked at the ripped pages of poems. He had no one to blame but himself. He’d convinced himself after Emma’s death that he was wrong to want a woman like her. He’d convinced himself to take the safe path, to marry a suitable woman who would have his mother’s approval. But, Emma changed everything. Changed him. After knowing her, loving her, he could never be satisfied being chained to a stifling life with Cecily or any woman of her class. He’d only been kidding himself that he could be happy with the sort of life Cecily and all her frozen, pitiless kind represented. His eyes were open. He wanted something – “And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?” The sound of a young woman’s voice startled him. He wanted to be alone. Was there no place in the entire City of London where a man could sit and think without being tormented by some woman? “Nothing. I wish to be alone.” His voice was rough and his words almost rude. It felt good to say what he meant. He planned to be rude in future. He planned to say true things, no matter who got hurt. He planned to do the things he wanted to do and not the things society said he must. He’d break society’s rules and live a poet’s life. Once his mother was dead, he might even go to America, where everyone ran wild and did as they pleased. He thought of his mother’s death without emotion or guilt. He’d find another Emma, too, if such a woman existed. A woman filled with life and song and love, and he’d never settle for anything less than a woman blazing with fire. “Oh, I see you,” the woman said. “A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory.” She paused, her body swaying to some unheard music. “That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head.” Her hand stabbed the air. The woman’s skin gleamed pale against her black lace dress and black lace mitts. Her black pupils sank into the white globes of her large, glowing eyes. She didn’t blink. She was attractive and well dressed, but clearly she was unbalanced and no good woman would be on the street alone at this time of night. She must want something, perhaps to rob him. He got up from his seat and took a step away from her. “That's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you.” The woman smiled and came closer. “Don't need your purse. Your wealth lies here...” she touched his chest over his heart, “and here,” she skimmed her delicate lace-wrapped fingers over his temple. “In the spirit and... imagination. You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine.” He breathed faster. This woman, this night wanderer, understood him. She understood the poet’s soul scrabbling in his heart. “Oh, yes! I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me.” What was he thinking? It was all very well to seek a life free of society’s restrictions and a love to match his own in spirit and feeling, but quite another to take up with some female on the street. The woman pulled back the sprung collar of his shirt and traced her fingers along his neck. “I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening. Something … ” her open hand caught the air, “... effulgent.” “Effulgent,” he said. His voice was a ghost’s whisper. The woman touched his groin and sent lust radiating through his body. “Do you want it?” She wasn’t some woman on the street. She was a second chance! A chance to have love and longing collide in a flame of passion. Wild ... and passionate and dangerous love. Love that burns and consumes. Until there's nothing left. “Oh, yes! God, yes!” He touched her chest with the tips of his fingers. The woman lowered her eyes. When she lifted her face again, her visage distorted into a animal mask – yellow eyes, fang-like canines and rumpled brow. She embraced him with strong arms. Her teeth sank into his neck. Yes! His nerves flared with heat and light as her teeth pierced his skin and she sucked on his blood and flesh. Her jaw bit down harder. Pain! Her mouth hurt him, then the pain faded as his blood flowed into her mouth. He moaned with pleasure and sank to the filthy stable floor and embraced his death.

Chapter #10 - Black Feathers, Black Ribbons

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” ================================== Chapter 10 – Black Feathers, Black Ribbons London 1883 The moon, one day short of full, was setting and the sun was edging up to the eastern horizon when Angelus and his family arrived at the back door of what had once been Spike’s house. He hadn’t wanted to come back here, but that bleeding bogtrotter insisted and when Angelus insisted everyone better bloody well look out. The house had stood empty for the past three years, waiting for someone brave enough or callous enough to purchase a house where a maid had been murdered and its owner and his mother disappeared. Those years had not been kind to the once tidy and neatly kept house. Paint on the curling gingerbread peeled and left weathered raw wood exposed to the rain and show. The copper gutters had been torn away and curtains and blinds were drawn behind the dirt-streaked windows giving the house a blank, unseeing look. Weeds straggled up between the bricks of the walk and the bushes surround the house were spindly and overgrown. Drusilla drew a hairpin out of her chignon and batted it through the air. “My Willie misses his mummy.” Spike growled to get her to shut up. He wanted no reminders of his past, least of all from Drusilla, whose remarks cut all too close. “Get on with it, Willie,” Angelus said. “Open the focking door.” “Spike. The name is Spike,” he said. He snatched the hairpin out of Drusilla’s hand and jabbed it into the lock. He wasn’t good at picking locks, a skill Angelus said was mandatory for nightwalkers, and having Angelus and Darla and Dru hanging over him, watching his clumsy efforts, wasn’t helping the process. He dropped the hairpin. Angelus kicked Spike’s butt when he bent over to pick up the pin. “Hurry it up, Aunt Nancy. I don’t fancy being caught out in the morning sun because you’re so bleeding useless.” “Sod off,” Spike said. He tossed the pin away and kicked the door down. “After you, poufter.” He held out his hand and bowed in mock reverence. He never let Angelus get away with an order or a kick without some rude remark. Angelus slammed him against the wall and punched him in the gut. Spike collapsed, but made no sound. “You’re one step, missy,” Angelus said, “from getting a slat from the garden gate shoved into your heart.” Darla and Drusilla giggled and patted their gloved hands together. They loved it when Angelus beat the crap out of him. Spike giggled. Christ, that hurt. He wanted to cry from the pain and the mortification, but he wouldn’t, not in front of Angelus. Any sign of weakness would only encourage a more thorough going beating. Or worse. “Next time I tell you to open a door, Willie, you’ll not be scaring up all the neighbors by using your goddamned foot.” Angelus smacked Spike’s face to remind him who was sire and master in their little family and ushered the two women into the house. “It’s Spike. You’d do well to remember it,” Spike said after the others had gone into the house and coughed up a mouthful of blood. He woke up the following afternoon in his old bedroom to an empty bed and the sounds of grunts and squeals coming from the room Angelus and Darla were sharing. It had once been his mother’s room. It wasn’t the first time Drusilla slipped off to the arms of her Daddy while Spike was sleeping. Spike wondered if she loved him at all or if he was only a handy plaything when Daddy wasn’t about. “Willie!” Angelus roared. “Get in here!” Spike pulled on his trousers and went into the next room. He took his time, although his dawdling didn’t disguise that he was forced to go whenever Angelus called. Drusilla straddled Angelus and held her white nightgown gathered up in her hands. She moved her pelvis up and down, servicing him. Angelus occasionally gave thought to her pleasure – or pain - and pinched her nipples and she made little shrieks. Spike felt excited and resentful watching Drusilla pumping away on her sire. She belonged to him, or he to her, and Angelus had no right touching her. He got hard. Darla sat on the other side of the bed, looking bored. She picked dried blood from under her fingernails with a thin, wooden stick. Spike wished he could shove the damn thing into her heart. “Give your grandmother a jump, lad. If you think you’re up to it.” He was horny enough to do it, not that getting a piece off Darla was any thrill, more like putting your cock into a side of frozen beef. He approached the bed and unbuttoned his trousers and slid his braces off his naked shoulders. Darla snarled and continued to pick her nails. “You can put your pecker away, Willie.” She’d never let Spike touch her, whether Angelus gave permission or not. He wasn’t strong enough to force her, which he dearly wanted to do. He envied her ability to stand up to Angelus, as well. Angelus flipped Drusilla over and pounded her into the mattress. After a few strokes, his body quivered and he roared as he climaxed. He shoved off her and got out of bed, his member still hard and slick and pointing out straight. “Boyo, you can have sloppies. Or, would you prefer a mouthful of my stalk?” He grabbed his member and wagged it in Spike’s direction. Drusilla lay back on the pillows sucking her fingers. She turned to embrace Darla and the two rolled together while Angelus watched. Spike ran out of the room, angry at Drusilla for preferring Angelus and Darla over himself, and angry at himself for allowing Darla to refuse him. He grabbed his boots and the rest of his rough clothes. He put on a collarless white shirt and short workman’s jacket and left the house as the sun was setting. He straightened his coat and smoothed back his hair with his hands. You couldn’t catch a good kill looking like a maniac. He sniffed the air and walked down the street. He was hungry, but he liked to wait until the blood thirst was sharp before picking out his victim. It made the kill more exciting and the taste of blood keener and more satisfying. An old man lamplighter climbed up the ladder at the corner and lit the last lamp on the street. Carbon clogged the gas hob and made the light gutter and spit. Spike sized him up, but rejected him as too old and tough. Full of cheap gin, too. If Spike had to have his supper mixed with gin, he preferred something better than the slop served at some local unlicensed gin sty. There were no other people walking on the street, all the local residents were tucked away in their tidy homes, the windows glowing yellow, behind their safe thresholds. He walked on with his hands shoved in his pockets. It was good to be away from Angelus and the rest. He’d been a fool to stay with them so long. Living under Angelus’s thumb was no better than living with his mother. Worse. Rules for this, rules for that. A vampire has to have finesse. A good kill. A clean kill. A crack on the head if you didn’t do what you were told and Angelus dropping his trousers and banging Drusilla in front of you. He’d tried to convince Drusilla to slip away after Angelus beat him black and blue up in Yorkshire, but she’d refused, and he didn’t feel confident enough to live on his own. He hated Angelus and Darla, and even Drusilla sometimes, but he craved their company. If only he knew some other vampires, preferably another lady vampire, he would skip town, leave Drusilla behind if he had to, but Angelus never wanted to go to any places where other vampires might be found and he refused to stay in any one area long enough for Spike to find any on his own. He’d been walking about ten minutes, when he came upon a familiar sight – The Raven. How rough and exciting that night had been with Emma, beautiful as a picture card, her sweet voice dabbing silver notes in the smoky pub air. Pain stole across his heart. How different everything would have been if she’d lived. How different he would have been. He shrugged off the memory of his last visit and Emma. What was she to him now, but a foolish, romantic dream he’d had once? Drusilla and Angelus and Darla, they were the granite hard reality. Scrapping, killing, swilling blood, swilling booze until he chucked it back up, getting laid if Angelus felt like letting him tear a piece off his own girlfriend’s tail, getting his ass kicked no matter what. There was no place in Spike’s life for sentimental songs and pretty girls long dead. The Raven was as good a place to pick up a victim as any. He might even start a friendly scrap with four or five of the men. A good fight would suit him tonight, get the bitter taste of humiliation out of his mouth. He went in. Cagey Leander wiped the bar with a white cloth and handed out pints of guinness and ale. Spike recognized him and remembered with a blush how impressed William had been to know a tough character like Cagey. He’d met a lot tougher since then, hadn’t he? Spike tossed a coin on the bar and accepted a pint. “Where’ve you been, young Billy?” Cagey examined Spike’s clothes with a critical eye. Spike was surprised to be remembered by the bar man. It had been three long years since Emma brought him here and broke his heart. “Yorkshire and about.” “Look like you’re a bit on the down in them rags.” This was another point of contention with Angelus. Daddy Bear wanted Spike to wear a suit and a shirt with a collar and a silk cravat when they went out hunting. They’d fought about this point on many occasions and no doubt would fight about it when Spike came in from the prowl in the early morning hours. Spike always refused. What good was being a vampire if you couldn’t dress as you pleased? He didn’t want the soft, tasteless victims that Angelus favored, anyway. He preferred someone honed by a hard life on the streets, someone who would put up a fight. He might have to take this shite from Angelus, but he didn’t have to accept it from a quimlicker who called himself Cagey. “Can’t a man have a pint without getting a lecture?” He took a swig. The beer was adulterated with quassia, wormwood, capsicum and tobacco-juice. William had never noticed, sad bugger that he was, but Spike did. His vampire senses let him taste each separate dark ribbon of bitter ingredients He considered taking the matter of his piss poor beer up with Cagey, but decided to concentrate on the drink he’d come in here to get. Cagey held his hands up. “It’s no skin off my arse. Just thought you would be spruced up to see the girl.” He didn’t know what girl Cagey was talking about and wanted to avoid drawing any more attention to himself so he took his glass and looked around the crowded room for a likely whore to make his evening meal. Whores were easy pickings. They’d follow a man right into some dark alley with never a thought and no one would even think to look for a whore for days. Even Angelus approved taking a trull if nothing better offered. He picked her out right away, a small, curly-haired blonde, sitting alone with her head down, her face hidden by the wide brim of her hat and the streaming black feathers and black knotted ribbons that decorated it. She slumped in her chair, cradling a glass of gin in her hands. She looked beat and miserable. Hell, he’d be doing her a favor to end it all for her tonight. The wooden chair scraped the floor as he pulled it out and sat down. “Hope you don’t mind some company, this evening, Miss.” This was one useful thing he’d learned from that wanker, Angelus. Always be respectful to whores. They loved that. They’d do anything for a man who treated them like weren’t the worst kind of gutter trash. The girl raised her head and opened her sunken holly green eyes. “Hello, Billikins.” Spike opened his mouth, but no words came out, no sensible words even formed in his head. Emma. His Emma, alive, alive and sitting in this dreadful place alone. Her heart shaped face was gray in the subdued light of the pub and her eyes, ringed with black kohl, glittered with tears. She’d survived. Somehow, she’d lived through the terrible attack. And, he’d run away, never thinking to return. He hadn’t even read the paper the next day. He’d been too heart-sickened at the thought of reading the sordid details of her death. He’d left her alone and she’d had no way to find him. He’d wasted three years. He’d wasted a good death. He could have been with her all this time and instead he’d mourned her. She reached out a deathly pale hand. Her nails were chewed away, her fingertips raw and pink. She touched his hand. “Don’t you have a hello operator for an old pal?” Her hand was cold, too cold. He should have known the minute he pulled up his chair. She hadn’t survived. She had become a creature of the night, like himself. “Who ...” He didn’t ask the question. He knew the answer. His sire. Angelus had followed him, or Emma, for days, lurking in the shadow, licking his lips while he studied his victim, the way Spike had seen him do a thousand times since that night. A real kill. A good kill. It takes pure artistry. Emma took her hand away. She picked up her glass of blue ruin and took a long drink. Spike could see that she’d been taking a lot of long drinks in the past three years. “Does it matter?” Spike sprang out of his chair, knocking it over. He picked up his glass and threw it against the wall, sending a shower of adulerated alcohol and glass onto the heads of the men sitting there. “Bloody hell, yes, it matters! You were mine! I loved you. I wanted –,” he took her hand into both of his and held it to his chest. “I wanted to marry you and he stole you! He crushed the life out of you and made you into – this.” He dropped her hand and held his hands loose at his sides with the palms up, empty. “Did you love me, my sweet boy? That makes me happy.” Spike grabbed the chair and banged it back in place and sat down again next to her. “I want to know. Tell me everything that happened that night. I want you to tell me.” “It’s no good. We can’t go back.” “No, but I can stake the bloody bastard who did this to you.” He wanted to hear the words. He wanted all the details to feed the anger firing in his heart. The anger would give him the strength to kill his sire. She drained the taps of her glass and stood up. “I should go.” “No! You can’t go. Don’t you see? We’re the same, both stalkers of the night, living in the shadows.” He dragged her onto the small wooden dance floor. “We’ll leave town. Go to Paris or Rome, or even New York, if you like. We can get married, like we planned.” He crushed her close. She wasn’t warm and tender as she’d been when he’d first seen her, but she was Emma, still his Emma. She danced with him a while, their shoes scuffing on the floor to the sound of sour notes Cagey played on the untuned piano, and sang in a soft voice. “When the silv'ry moonlight gleams, Still I wander on in dreams, In a land of love, it seems, Just with you.” Her voice was different, coarse where it had once been sweet and clear, but still it was her voice, the voice he’d longed to hear and had despaired of ever hearing again. She placed her head on his shoulder and allowed him to take her hand and press it against his dead heart. “He said you’d come here tonight,” she said. She stopped dancing and took off her hat. The black ribbons and feathers trailed in the sawdust. Her green eyes flickered with yellow. “Who said? What do you mean? I didn’t plan to come here.” “Drusilla told him you’d be here when the moon was full. He told me to wait for you.” Spike froze. Every muscle cramped tight as his eyes darted around the room. Angelus must be here somewhere, watching, waiting. “What’s his plan?” She took his hand. “I’m supposed to walk you out into the alley. He’ll be waiting. He wants to kill you when Drusilla isn’t around.” She knew about Drusilla. Spike didn’t want her to know about Drusilla and how he’d spent the past years trailing around after his dark plum. He didn’t want her to know about the trail of blood and bodies he’d left behind night after night, even though she was a demon herself and must have done more than her share of killing. Now that he’d found her again, he wanted desperately to cling to some tiny sliver of the good man William had been, but the remnant was gone. It didn’t matter. They would have something else, a century or two of something dark and bloody and full of terror. “Let’s go. He can’t fight both of us if we stick together.” “I can’t fight him. I can’t.” Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth trembled. She turned her head and refused to look in his eyes. Then, he understood and his heart broke all over and his anger flamed up in his silent heart. Emma was here to betray him. She would lure him out into the alley where Angelus would ram a barrel stave or the handle of a shovel through his chest and rid himself of Spike forever. She would betray him for Angelus who she loved. “I thought you loved me. You said --” “I never said, Billy. I never said I loved you. I couldn’t be so cruel.” Her hand touched his face. His heart burned. She was lying. She must be lying because Angelus told her to lie to him. “It’s not true. You loved me.” She said nothing, did nothing. “Then, why? Why chase after me? Why act pleased to see me? Why draw me on? Why kiss me and touch me?” He clutched his hand in her hair and pulled hard as his anger blazed. He kissed her hard. He made it hurt. “I didn’t have any money. You must have known.” He shoved her away. “You were so kind, so sweet. I knew you would help me escape. My mother arranged for me to be with men. Important men, rich men, whoever who could pay for my company. I wanted to get away. I saw you at the store that day and you were so sweet, fussing over scarves and things for your mother. I knew you’d never hurt me. I thought you might marry me and be kind to me. Was that so evil? I would have loved you if I could.” “Let’s go. Your lover is waiting for you.” He turned and headed for the door without looking back. “Wait! Don’t go out there!” “Why not? It’s why you’re here.” Spike picked up a bottle and smashed it against the doorframe. He gripped the jagged neck as he went out into the night. The busting glass sounded loud in the night air. He wanted Angelus to know he was coming. Angelus stepped out of the shadows into the circle made by the gas streetlamp. He slapped a flat, splintery stake in his hand. “I believe, Willy, your wheel of destiny has taken a spin for the worse.”

Chapter #11 - Last Mistake

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” ================================== Chapter 11 – Last Mistake Angelus stepped out of the shadows, slapping a stake in his hand. Spike fought Angelus many times over the past three years and he’d learned many things. He’d learned the painful thuds of Angel’s fists as they slammed into Spike’s body. He’d learned the hard kicks of his boots and the ripping agony of his fangs. He’d also learned that he couldn’t beat Angel, not in a one-on-one slugging contest that Angelus favored. So, he did the one thing he could do better than his beef-bodied sire. He ran. Angelus swung at him with his plank of wood and missed as Spike streaked past him and ran into Brompton Road. He wanted to lead Angelus away from the tight, dark alley where his sire would have the advantage of his formidable muscles. He gripped the broken bottle hard. Why hadn’t he grabbed a chair leg as he left the pub? His first mistake. The road was black and empty in the foul weather and a blistering wind shrieked between the buildings and blew out the gas lamps for blocks around. Sleet coated the paving bricks with a treacherous film of ice. The moon was cloaked in fog and ice clouds and no stars shone. He ran. He ran and listened for footsteps behind him. He heard the tapping of Emma’s heeled button boots scrambling on the bricks after him, but there were no clomping boot sounds that could have belonged to his sire. He heard a clang as something hit a copper gutter. Angelus had jumped to a roof and was traveling above Spike’s head. He was up there, plodding along, waiting his chance to drop on Spike and crush him with his weight. Spike altered his course to the middle of the brick pavement. He kept running. He’d never beaten Angelus before, and he had few advantages. Angelus was big and tough and heavy. One brutal blow from his fist could paralyze a vamp for a week. A kick to the head could drop a draft horse in its tracks. Spike was vampire strong, but not strong like his sire. No. He’d have to rely on speed and tricks. He’d take out Angelus in the first few minutes of the fight or he’d lose. Tonight, losing meant death. Permanent and bitter this time. No coming back. No cheating the reaper. Emma ran up to him and tagged his arm. “Wait, Billy.” He shoved her hand away and continued to run forward through the icy air. “Get away from me!” He heard the scrape of her boots and the rustle of her black dress as she stumbled and fell to the pavement behind him. Angelus dropped from the roof of a building a half block ahead of Spike, his long black cloak billowing out like a mourning sheet. He landed hard, but kept his balance. “Jaysus, Willie. I never knew you could run so fast. It won’t do you a bleeding bit of good. It’ll just piss me off.” He twirled the cumbersome slat of wood in his right hand, weaving the board in and out of the cold fog like a thick, dull needle. Spike skidded to a stop and looked for a more favorable fighting zone. There, a stable in the mews behind a dress shop. If he could make it to the stable, he could fight inside with his back to the wall and still have plenty of room to dance around and avoid the big bastard’s fists. His face crumpled into the mask of a monster. He’d need all his vampire strength tonight. Before Spike could run into the stable, Angelus launched the slat. Spike flung himself in to the ground, but the jagged point stabbed him in the side. Bloody hell! Wounded already and he hadn’t thrown the first blow. He clawed the board free, ignoring the blood-spurting wound and held the slat like a spear in his left hand, bottle in his right. Angelus approached with his hands held out. “Where you running to, Willie? I thought you liked an all out fight. Nothing but fists and fangs? A fight you know you aren’t going to win?” Angelus smiled. He still wore his human face. His dark eyes and his plain face, dead white in the dark street, mocked Spike. Angelus didn’t need vampire strength, not to kill Spike. Spike giggled. He giggled when he was hurt or frightened. He giggled to annoy Angelus. He crouched with his weapons, keeping his body weight low, for the kick he knew was coming and edged toward the stable. Emma skittered between them, facing Angelus. She latched onto him and put her hands around his neck. She kissed his mouth feverishly. “Please Angel. Let him go. You don’t have to kill him. He’ll leave town. He said he’d leave.” She glanced over at Spike. “You’ll go tonight. Won’t you, Billy?” Angelus grabbed a fistful of Emma’s hair and threw her across the street. “Don’t interfere, my dead rose. Boys only tonight. Besides, Willy is going to unleash it.” Angelus walked over to Spike casually, holding his hands in the air. He smiled and looked away, as if to give Spike a chance to strike his best blow and even up the odds. Spike feinted forward, striking with the wood slat. Angelus slapped it away with his right, and slugged Spike in the gut with his left, then backhanded him. Spike’s head snapped hard to one side and he choked as the rotten beer he’d drank earlier came back up. He spat out the beer and smacked Angelus in the head with the board. He caught Angelus off balance and knocked him down. Spike clubbed his skull with the wood and reached over with the broken bottle. He swiped at Angelus’s exposed neck cutting a thin line that spurted blood, but not deep enough to kill. Angelus was too fast. He rolled to his feet and grabbed the plank out of Spike’s hands. The plank splintered in Spike’s hands and ripped away chunks of skin. Spike had no time to worry about his wounds as Angelus kicked his jaw and stabbed the board at his face. Spike ducked and ducked again as Angelus swung the board in a circle and cracked him on the shoulder. Spike skipped away, then turned to run into the stable. The stable was dark and musky with the smell of straw and horse sweat and manure. The horses cried and kicked their stalls as the vampires ran inside. Horses hated vampires. Unlike humans, they had no difficulty identifying the undead. Spike was not bothered by the dark. There was enough light to see everything he needed to see. He ran to the far wall and turned, his back against the wall. He spat out a loose tooth, wiped the trickling blood from his mouth and licked it off his fingers. He’d started this fight on an empty stomach. His second mistake. If he made another, it might be his last. Angelus strolled into the stable as if he had all night to beat the crap out of his wayward offspring. “A wee bit dark in here, don’t you think?” He pulled a small cardboard box out of his coat pocket and took out a lucifer. He struck the match on the sandpaper strip, held the match down to light the balsa wood, then held the match up and lit a black cheroot. He took three puffs, taking his time, letting Spike know he was in no hurry, and flipped the cigar behind Spike. It hit the floor and ignited the bed of straw. “I prefer a bit of light with my killing, don’t you?” The small flames spread, eating and chewing the straw. The horses kicked their stalls and cried in fear. Spike backed away from the fire. He saw a shovel leaning on against one of the stalls. If he could reach it he could keep Angelus at bay, perhaps get past him. He rushed for the shovel, but Angelus beat him to it. His sire swung the shovel and cracked Spike’s skull with the metal blade, dropping him to the floor of the stable. Spike jumped to his feet in time to catch a rib-breaking slug from the shovel across his back. He turned and kicked Angelus in the face. His sire’s head snapped back from the force of the blow, but he recovered. He smiled at Spike. “That wasn’t too bad, childe.” He swung the shovel handle like a quarterstaff and shattered it across one of Spike’s knees. Spike yelled to cover up his scream of pain and staggered forward. They exchanged slugs, right punches, left crosses, kicks and chops. The fire consumed the straw and licked up the posts and wooden stalls. The horses screamed with fright and reared and stabbed their stalls with their front hooves. They twirled in their boxes in panic. Emma appeared at the entrance and slipped into the shadows. Was she there to help Angelus finish him off? Angelus cut off Spike’s thoughts with a hard blow to his jaw. Spike snatched at the remains of the shovel handle, but Angelus grabbed the shaft and jerked it from Spike’s hands. Spike punched Angelus in the gut. Angelus, holding the handle between his big hands, ran it under Spike’s throat and slammed him against a wall. He leaned hard against the handle, crushing Spike’s adam’s apple. Emma leaped out of the shadows and onto Angelus’s back. Her face crumpled and ripped into her vampire image. “Stop it! You’ll kill him!” She tore at Angelus’s eyes with her clawed hands, forcing him to release Spike to fight her. Angelus backhanded her away and she slammed against one of the stalls and slid down to the floor. “I think you’re missing the point of the fun this evening,” he said. Emma sobbed and wiped her hand over her eyes. “Please. Let him go.” Behind Angelus’s back, but not out of his hearing, Spike tore away a stall post. The bottom end was already flaming as the fire spread. He stabbed the flaming end at Angelus, but Angelus ducked and slashed Spike with a round house kick that knocked his feet out. The fire roared up the walls and smoke filled the room. Outside the building Spike heard the frightened yells of humans sounding the alarm and assembling a bucket brigade to contain the fire. Two men came into the barn with burlap sacks in their hands to lead the horses out. “What the hell are you doing?” one of the men shouted. He flung a sack over one horse’s head and led him out of the stall. Angelus grabbed the man’s arm and tossed him into Spike. Angelus ran to the flaming back wall of the stable and crashed through in a reckless leap that left a jagged hole circled with fire. He disappeared into the black shadows. Fire blazed up to the loft, igniting bales of straw and hay and punching through the roof. Cool night air poured into the building and fueled the fire into giant sheets of flame. A gang of men appeared in the stable, hustling out the remaining horses and splashing buckets of water onto the flames. The silvery bells of the fire company clanged in the distance. Spike picked up Emma and dragged her through the hole into the cold night air. Flames caught Emma’s dress and streaked up the black train. Spike beat the flames out with his hands, scorching his fingers. Angelus appeared from the shadows. “Isn’t that touching? Our Willy saving the girl who betrayed him.” Spike roared and attacked Angelus with his fists. Angelus responded, pounding Spike’s face over and over and over again with his rock hard knuckles. Spike’s face dissolved into a mask of blood and torn flesh, but he kept fighting. Angelus grabbed his skull and popped his forehead onto Spike’s nose, crushing the cartilage and sending a fresh stream of dead blood down his face. Spike slammed his knee into Angelus’s crotch. He brought up his knee again and again as he gripped his sire’s shoulders to keep him from falling. Spike released Angelus and he dropped to his knees in the mud and manure that dirtied the alley. “You rotten fledge,” Angelus said. He got to his feet and cradled his testicles in his meaty hand. “I’ll cut off your cock and skewer it on your damn fangs.” Spike staggered to his feet and kicked Angelus in the head. He kicked him in the head again, knocking him all the way down. While Angelus lay in the alley moaning, Spike looked around. A wooden fence. He stumbled to the fence and ripped away one of the fence pickets. Angelus got back to his feet and tackled Spike from behind, shoving him into the fence. A picket broke through Spike’s ribcage and missed his heart by an inch. He dropped the picket in his hand and roared in pain. He rolled onto the ground and jerked the picket out of his chest. When he crawled to his feet, Angelus was standing a few paces away, his arm dropped over Emma’s shoulder. “You can’t beat me, bucko. Hand me the stake and I’ll finish you off quick.” He held out his hand. Spike raised the fence picket, lunged forward and brought it down in a swift, killing arch. As the picket came down on Angelus’s breastbone, Emma threw herself on Angelus’s chest. “Don’t Billy!” she cried. Too late, Spike ran the stake through Emma’s back and split open her dead heart. Emma stiffened under the blow, her hands in rigid claws against Angelus’s chest. For one moment nothing happened. Then, her skin and hair and clothes turned into black crust and crumbled away, leaving only her whitened skull and skeleton. Her bones shattered into dust and her ashes puffed and sifted away on the frozen night wind. The picket fell from Spike’s hands and splatted on the muddy ground. “Emma!” His vampire face vanished and his pummeled and bloodied human face appeared. He dropped to the ground, sobbing. “Emma.” Angelus took out a cheroot and a match. He lit the cigar and took a puff. “I was planning to kill you tonight, but I think I’ll let you live. It’ll be fun watching you suffer over this bit of fluff.” “You right bastard. You took her away from me. You killed her.” Tears and blood mixed and trailed pink streaks down his battered white face. “Why there’s hardly a thing on this black Earth I enjoy more than taking things from you, Willie Boy.” “I would have been good to her. I would have taken care of her.” Angelus slapped Spike on the shoulder. “A bigger bollox never put his arm through a coat than you. You could have no more taken care of the lass, than I could walk on the sun. Why, when Drusilla plucked you out of that alley, you didn’t know your cock from a cooker.” “I killed her. I killed my Emma.” Angelus pulled Spike to his feet. “You always kill the one you love. Let’s get fluthered.”

Chapter #12 - Only This

DISCLAIMER: Joss owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged. SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to nmcil for her inspiring banner. You can see more of her fabulous work at href = “http://www.whedonworld.com” Thanks to everyone who took the time to review and sorry for the long hiatus before the final chapter. =================================== Chapter 12 - Only This She touched the white package and scooted the black ribbon off with her fingertip. The tissue paper rustled and fell away. A small tin object, a bird, nested inside the paper. It had been crushed flat and the metal around its neck torn. It had been pretty once, but it was ruined. Why had he kept it? She recognized the sound of Spike’s boots as he came through the sewers. Buffy snatched up the box, crammed the bird and the photographs back into the box. Spike’s footsteps on the cement outside the crypt came closer and stopped. As she shoved the box back into its place and replaced the stone, she heard the rasp of his lighter and the sound of him sucking hard on a cigarette. To her relief, he’d stopped just outside the crypt, giving her time to put the box away without being caught. She plopped back on the bed and composed her face. *** He stopped outside the crypt. She was here. He couldn’t smell her or hear the beat of her heart, but he knew. His whole being vibrated with excitement when she was near. It was beyond love, beyond thinking or experiencing. It was the collision of atoms singing from some other dimension, calling to his long dead heart to awaken for the mirror to the broken slivers of his missing soul. He heard her soft footsteps. She was walking on her toes to keep from making any noise. She wanted to surprise him. Maybe she’d sensed him, too. He sighed. More likely, she heard him, clumping his boots on the cement floor of the sewers. He heard the scrape of a stone, then her steps and the squeak of the mattress springs as she got into bed. His bed. He took out a cigarette and flicked his lighter. The sound of the stone meant she’d been snooping in his hidey hole, looking at that fool box he’d been dragging around with him for the past century. A bad ass vampire like himself shouldn’t be such a sentimental fool. *** Spike came in and sat down on the bed. He sat very close, without touching her. He didn’t have to touch her to make her tingle all over. She wanted to scoot closer so he’d put his arm around her, but a faint feeling of guilt and the possibility he’d heard the scrape of the stone as she put it back in place made her hesitate. “Been snooping around, have you, Slayer?” Buffy’s face burned red. Busted. “Me? Of course not. Why would I care about your stuff?” Her eyes cut to the stone. Was the stone a little out of place? She couldn’t remember how far it stuck out before she moved it. He drew another drag on his cigarette. “Cause you love me.” He knew she’d looked through his stuff and he didn’t care, but leave it to Spike to over interpret a little case of the nosies. “I never said that.” “Didn’t have to, pet.” His fingers brushed her neck, lingering on her bite scars, and slid down the neckline of her top. “I know you don’t want to admit it.” “Okay, I looked at your pictures.” Pictures of you and your murdering friends. “Not much to show for a century of kicking around.” He flung away the butt of his cigarette, the red tip carved a fiery arc through the air. She didn’t have much more herself, not of things that counted, besides her sister. Spike didn’t even have that. She caught herself feeling sorry for him and pushed the feeling away. It wouldn’t do to feel sorry for Spike. An emotion like that could let in other feelings. Feelings she didn’t want to have. He held out his hand and she placed her tiny fingers in his palm and let him enclose her hand in his own. She hesitated. She wanted to know, but she didn’t want Spike to imagine her curiosity meant something more. He would build a mountain of hope and longing on the thinnest shard if she let him. But, he was her lover, well her sex partner, and she could ask things without stirring up trouble, couldn’t she? “Why’d you keep the bird? Is it magic?” “A bit of magic, I suppose. More of a reminder.” “Of what?” What could be so important that he wanted to think about it more than a hundred years later? Spike suddenly seemed very old to her. He pulled her close for a kiss. “If I catch a bird with holly green eyes, I should never let her go.” She squirmed herself into his arms, interested for once in Spike as an item of friendly gossip. “There was a girl, wasn’t there?” “There was a girl,” he said. He studied her for a moment. “Yeah, Cherchez la femme. You want to know?” She’d never before wanted to know details about William. What was there to know? He died, he became a vampire and he killed and killed and killed. Killed his family, killed his friends, killed strangers. Killed for food, killed for fun, killed for convenience, for boredom, for sex, for thrills, killed for the hell of it. He was drenched with blood. He was saturated and soaked in gore. He rolled and swam and bathed in blood. But here was something from before the blood started to gush like a river through Spike’s existence. She could know something about William that wouldn’t turn her stomach and make her hate herself for being here tonight. She nodded. “She was a Yank, like you. Blonde hair, green eyes, pretty as a sunny day. Sang as sweet as any bird ever did. I loved her. Thought she was going to change my whole sodding life.” “There’s always a girl with you, isn’t there?” “Can’t help it if women fall for me.” He grinned and tickled her and pinned her to the bed. She should let it drop. She should stay with the pleasant moment of a secret shared, but she couldn’t. “What happened to her?” His smile disappeared and he rolled away. “Angel. Angel happened to her.” The pleasant moment vanished. “I don’t want to talk about Angel. I don’t want to know about all the evil stuff he did or all the evil stuff you did, either.” “He did it because he wanted to hurt me. Told me so. He bragged about it.” She was a fool. She knew better than to ask him about the past. There were no pleasant moments for them, no fond memories for Spike, or Angel either, no mementos untainted by death and destruction. “Shut up. I don’t want to know. I’m sorry I asked.” “More convenient for you that way? If you don’t know anything about me, then you can keep believing I don’t love you.” He didn’t get it. She knew he loved her. Part of her had known for years. He loved her more than anybody had ever loved her before and more than anybody ever would love her. Angel didn’t begin to love her with the obsessive twisting desperation Spike loved her. Love had nothing to do with it. He didn’t get it because he didn’t know that every morning she woke up and wondered, was this going to be the day she’d have to kill him? He was behaving himself today, but how long would it last? How long would it be before she had to rip her own soul to shreds as she thrust a stake through his heart? She touched the splintery dry wooden stake that was lying in the bed next to her, hidden from his eyes by a rumple of blankets. “I don’t want you to be real. I don’t want any of you to be real. Not you, or Angel or Bob from the bank. It only makes it harder when I have to kill you.” “Got it all planned out, do you? One day old Spike is going to return to his wicked ways and you’ll be there. You’ll slip in, stake in hand.” His blue eyes snapped and the muscles in his thin face twitched. He reached across her lap and picked up the stake and touched the point to her rib cage. She’d made him angry and she’d only wanted some little piece of him to convince herself that he wasn’t all bad, not always bad. What was there to say, after all, but yes? One day, he’d go back to the dark side and she’d be there and she’d have to kill him, or maybe she wouldn’t be able to kill her lover this time. Maybe, he’d kill her. Maybe, she’d let him do the killing. “What do you want from me, Slayer?” She wanted everything from him, time and love and happiness. She wanted things she’d never have and he’d never be able to give, so she settled. She took what he could give in the little time they had. “Only this,” she said. “Always this.” She pulled him down on top of her and kissed him hard. The End.