“Bunch of jokeless wonders, with no fuckin’ punch--line there...’cept the one that KNOCKED ME OUT...”
Gray eyes glowed, the corners angled up like a feline scouting the joint.
“Not my forte anyway--I think with my blood…”
He stopped.
Everything, everything led back to her...
Sometimes it’s not the big event itself, but the time in between that can make or break. The old fashioned small moments of your life, when you can be caught unawares. Sipping the odd cuppa when the first bomb drops on London; minding the garden when you hear the screech of brakes from the road out front that always means bad news.
When you don’t have time to prepare or put on your game face--that’s when the native flag is flown in the true colors of the old country. That's when you find out who you really are.
When you’re in the mix, right there, right there caught up in it, when you're right there at the very top of what’s happening it can be so easy to think that this is the moment that requires courage. After all, the action sequence is the money shot is it not?
“Got such a high profile doesn't it then?...”
His hand went absently to his breast pocket, feeling for the familiar box shape that represented relief, a way to ease into this thinking process...no smokes...shit.
So we do this the hard way.
But after this past year, what with every day just being a grind to get through, he would be hard pressed, primped and dressed to say who better deserves the MBE.
Those who play ‘Atlas’ putting their shoulder to the apocalyptic wheel of fortune or those sods, those poor sods who just get up, get up every damn day and go to work, go to their bloody boring jobs--and not only go through that torture daily, but do it WITH A CONSCIENCE.
In contrast…fuck…it’s easy, so bleedin’ easy to just ride the wave that has a will of its own—and with a will of it’s own, it will carry you--just get on top and let it take you and all the shit you can pack in the kit, whatever fits. All the hard work’s been done; all the decisions great and small have been made; and how bleedin’ stupid is it, that the moment that gets the most ribbons, bows, bows, applause and sauce…is really the easiest.
Amazing.
"But I will brag on this; I may not be the sanest bloke on the block--BUT I will do it. I bloody well will do it...I’m not all talk...”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder, sensing someone there.
“But you blokes do all the background work don’t you then? You want to make us think it’s us, it’s me...but I doubt it...I do doubt it...”
“But you can hang on…”
The voice came from behind him or rather from around him or rather—
“Oh aye, ta...and with the bloody best of ‘em...you know its true”
“Yes, I think we do.”
“What I lack...I make up for—“
“More than make up for”—the voice agreed.
“In....what’s the word?”
“Fortitude?”
“Nah...Well maybe, but I was thinkin’...boned-headed.”
He threw back his head and laughed. It was a hard barking sound that snapped at his feline grace and the harshness of it was jangled into tune by the deep musical laugh of the tall woman stepping into the light so he could view, so he could see:..
“Joyce.”
“Hello Spike.”
Her deep voice carried the smile that just skimmed the surface of her face as she continued to speak.
“Determination, singled minded...”
“Boneheaded...”
She laughed again “Reminds me of someone...”
Immediately Spike thought of The Slayer, her image shining before him. Joyce came and stood close behind him to peer over his shoulder to see what he saw.
“God” He breathed, he moaned. ”Joyce...”
In answer she placed her hand on his shoulder.
“God I love her...”
“I know my child” She held on to his shoulder, the warmth from her fingers seeping into his being, calming him, calming him...
“How can anyone love anybody this much?”
In answer and from where she stood behind him she wrapped her arm around his chest and held on until she felt his breathing hitch and a sob break from his body.
“T’snt’ right, t’ain’t natural, must be something wrong with me…follows me everywhere, she does, into my sleep, into my dreams…”
“Oh my boy, my child...”
She kissed the back of his head and pressed her cheek againest his hair and breathed with him until slowly he calmed and his breathing evened--she kissed the back of his head again and slowly relaxed her embrace.
They waited together in silence letting his mind be filled with nothing, the absolute bliss of nothing. When he was ready, Spike turned to face her and said very, very softly...
“Good to see you by the way...beautiful as always an’ all”
She smiled at him. He was always one of her favorites; even back at the beginning. Never knew why, she never really understood or questioned her affection for Spike. Feeding him hot chocolate and conversation, she didn’t find out ‘why’ until much, much later, and how very amazing indeed a Mothers instinct can be--which is why she was here.
“Spike...do you know where you are?”
That wasn’t a question he had considered asking. When in a dream, you don’t stop and bloody well reflect on being in a dream. They only do that in the flicks as a cheap device to let the audience know that it was a dream.
“Spike, do you remember what happened?” Her voice was gentle as she continued.
“How you came to be here?”
The sweet timber of her voice pulled persuasively on the strings binding Spikes memory.
“Do we have to talk about it? Can’t we just—“
“No Spike, you need to catch up to where you are. We need to catch you up. We have a lot to cover.
Her voice, like gentle but firm fingers searching, finding the single string to release a bundle of sticks that fell like spikes and one by one the memories fell over and locked into place.
His voice was horse...”yeah...I’m getting it all now.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve got it.”
The slayer, the soul, the light, the burn...
The slayers image rose before him, he dared not even think her name and thrust it away.
“Not yet...”
“That’s all right, it’s all right,” Joyce soothed, “time enough...So--we were talking about fortitude, free will…”
“Uh...yeah...”
“So, better--that is, more valued, in the long run, in the big picture, better than physical strength, better than skill—“
“Cunning—“
“Intelligence—“
“UH...we might need to debate that one, being bloody stupid can really destroy the world –"
“Poetry, Wealth, power or”
“Love?”
“Is will...”
Beat.
And then Joyce spoke softly repeating the same word but from a different view.
“Will.”
Beat...and then, so very soft...
“William.”
Joyce contemplated him quietly.
He sat for a moment, thinking and then asked simply: “More important than love?”
Joyce considered before answering. “Love is the incentive, the beginning of the All and everything that binds desire to...action. Love is the beginning but without Will--without William.”
Spike’s brow furrowed slightly. “Where you going, Mum?”
She smiled at the familiarity. She liked it.
“Every name, everyone’s name contains the text, the, oh I don’t know, the placard of who they are, of what they can be. And you pick that name before you are born; your soul whispers it, usually to your Mother, or perhaps the closest soul in your spiritual tribe, whoever it is that has the power to name you. That’s how important a name is. Everyone’s name is a gift and guidebook, the all in all.”
Buffy.
The name was there, unbidden, unasked for; on automatic as always.
Buffed up to be shiny bright and best.
Joyce nodded at the thought running through his mind. “Yes that’s right, you’ve got it.”
“And Joyce...joy...”
“Yes, that was my gift; to help keep joy present in my family’s life.”
“Dawn, of course, self evident“
They laughed together at the thought of Dawn; so fresh and almost impudent.
“Nibblet...” Spike sighed. “She pulled herself so far away from me this last year—can’t say as I blame her...”
“Yes, well…with her world constantly falling apart she had to find a way to control it. Everyone’s role kept changing. You’re good, you’re bad, you’re—
“Assface.” Spike interrupted her continuing with the banana nanna name game.
“No, that’s not your given name; a curse from another person doesn’t count.” Joyce explained.
“Well...what about...’Spike’?”
“Well...”
Joyce smiled, (now they were getting to the meat of the mutt that mattered)
“That was your given name being born as a vampire. But think about it. To 'spike' is to take dynamic action, it is decisive force. To use your 'Will'."
“No one laughs at puns anymore Joyce, that’s the comics Passover holiday.”
Joyce and Spike smiled quietly together at this and neither spoke for a long moment as Joyce looked at him and as
she considered him, her eyes glowed warm, wet and bright.
“Well done my faithful and devoted friend.”
The words were unexpected and hung in the air and Joyce’s lips did not move as she spoke them and it was not her voice, but the eternal texture of her love that imbued the words with power. The love he had always felt coming from her--the love of Parent to child, of creator to creation. So easy, she could make it seem so easy. All he had to do was accept--
“So.” Spike didn’t feel secure enough by any means to absorb her words or the embrace behind them and so he said this.
“Well, well...so, this is death. Funny; always thought there’d be…dunno...more, well…walls maybe? Walls painted black with a red parquet floor and maybe posters--Marilynn Manson, Gloria Estafan, The Back Street Boys maybe—“
“Please.” Joyce was indignant. “Did you think you would ever catch me...Me? With my fine aesthetic in a room designed by teenage angst?”
He laughed and then they turned in tandem and looked at the fill-in-the-blank around them—it did. The empty space quietly coalesced and became the missing center for that 10,000 piece puzzle of that dew-kissed English landscape left unfinished on the cardtable in the basement for years and years but now look (oh happy idyllic day!); see each piece come together and watch the blank join hands with colors common and un.
In other words, or rather in a single word: pretty.
They stood quietly together in a large pavilion constructed of marble. The marble was pink, with white and blue veins feeding the expanse to break the monotony of sweet bliss.
The pillars were strong and held the weight of the roof firmly and without question. The pavilion was greeted on all four sides by a sweet green country vista and at the low end of hill, there was a small brook where the sparkle of moving water was added almost as an authors aside.
“Hmm...looks like the English countryside, all green and wet an al’...in the morning maybe, after the rain...”
Joyce elbowed him. “Why Spike…getting a little verclemphed?”
“Feelin’ more and more like William. William and all those bloody boat rides.”
“Ah yes, reaching your hand out to dangle it in the water, fingers just skimming the surface, it felt—
“—Like flying.” Spike finished.
Their attention was caught by the sensation of movement behind the line of trees. There was something out there on the water. It was a small rowboat gliding past.
“I used to like to catch the current, put the oars up and just let the boat go where it wanted as fast or slow as it would...”
Spike’s vocal pattern had slipped back into the idiom of Victorian standard English as he recalled that day, those, summer days...
“Joyce...” Spike wasn’t sure how to ask this,
Joyce waited, her gaze following the boat on the river as it drifted out of sight. “Hmm...yes?”
“Well, it’s a bit confusing, see...” Spike looked inside himself considering. “I can feel my soul, just as clean as it ever was, maybe better, and just the same as when...you know, that thing Buffy gave me, that Za Za Gabor knockoff took hold, but...I can feel the 'other' too. It’s still here. Not as...sharp or demanding but its here. And by all rights the demon should take me to hell. Not complaining mind, or maybe I’m still going to hell, and you stopped by to see me off?”
“Do you believe angels can fall?”
Spike snorted, of course whenever he heard that word 'angel'--it ONLY meant one thing,
“I bloody well do indeed.”
“Then why can’t demons rise?” Joyce asked simply.
Stunned silence and then...
Why not indeed?
"Your demon under the tutelage of William’s character and humanity made a free will choice to crawl up out of hell. Why should you go back? Do you want to go back?"
“NO!” Spike/William said.
“There you have it.”
“So...we’re together now...we’re one person?”
“Souls do combine. They can also divide—into quite a few. Sometimes a soul will do that to guarantee a solid team working towards a goal. This kind of agreement is usually made in-between incarnations. But there are exceptions, improvisations performed in the light of changing circumstance and free will choice. So William and the demon forged an alliance. When and where and how, I cannot see. There is a hall of records if you are interested…”
("Hate research" thought Spike—“no, lets go” pants William)
“….Exactly. And you’re getting along, for the most part. You’ve done a job together that neither could have done on you’re own. So, with your demon becoming an angel—“
“—Uh, ‘nother word if you please Mum—“
“With your demon using it’s free will choice to become a 'good guy'; powerful energy was released into the fabric of time and space.”
“But when did William agree?”
And Spike’s voice trailed off as the image sprang forward and he was there again in William’s body, a single soul feeling what he had been feeling while alive on Earth. That particular state of aloneness, not loneliness, no, instead, it was the feeling of being incredibly singular. With the exception of the love he received from his Mother, he had no real ties to his own world.
Joyce smiled and spoke softly, confidently. “Funny you should ask, let’s watch shall we?”
One of the open sides of the pavilion was filled with this image:
Young William laying flat on his back, hands outstretched trying to touch the tops of the trees scratching the sky.
“You were always looking, being pulled toward...something”
Now the image was of William gazing at Cecily, and one could almost see him closing his eyes—squinting them tight to her worldly imperfections; focusing only on her spirit, her soul, the part of heaven alive in her. And when you look at someone like that, one can only love...
He was destined for heartbreak.
And now, here he was in the barn off the alleyway with Drusilla and...she ‘sees’ him.
Her eyes boring into his, looking for agreement, looking for...
Permission.
Spike considered this information for moment.
“So William... that is…I…” He corrected tightly. “I agreed to all this, the whole bleedin’ setup?”
“In a matter of speaking. William, by virtue of being who he was, who you are, couldn’t help but make that decision on that day in the barn. Perhaps we are all built to break sometimes for the sake of the bigger picture. Who can say? I can’t, because I don’t have access to the records of hell, but I suspect the same might be said for your demon.”
“But all this, all this...to take me where?”
“Well to quote Dawn, ‘duh,’ I’d have thought that was obvious.”
“Just some bleedin’ puppet?”
Joyce’s voice was softer now, “No, no...the script is written, the actors are cast but as in a stage play, a live, living play, things can go wrong, or right…depending on your point of view. Set pieces can fall, and an actor can suddenly decide to say something else--how well you perform your role--that is the element of free will.”
“But...if I’m a…what? A bloody upstart or what all--then even that has been written in--even that is being controlled.”
“But think of it—the dangerous aspect of ‘enter rebel’ always put heaven on edge, No one was ever really SURE of what you might do. It made for exciting theatre I must say. You just claimed your free will more than most do; and of course you had the inclination to be that way from the beginning--but in the end, who can really guarantee what you will do. In the end...who can say?"
“Let’s shorthand this s’alright? So William wants,” Spike corrected himself. “Needs this thing, shining and so bright it drowns him out, and the demon once exposed to it, takes the bait and has the will to make it happen.”
“Pretty close, fairly real. And then there is this: the cosmos need to be fed.” She paused for a moment to let this sink in and then continued.
“Just like any creature or creation the energy released into the body after feeding follows much the same principal as the ALL being powered up by the energy released from the action taken after a decision toward good or evil. ‘Good’ action toward sponsoring creation feeds Light, ‘Bad’ or destruction feeds Dark”.
“So we’re all just a bunch of Weatabix in blood, all our lives, all that love and pain, just snackin’ food for God?”
Joyce shrugged, her gold hair so much like her daughters falling a little over her face.
“Again, it depends on your point of view.”
“Well...don’t think I much care for that.”
“Oh don’t feel too used Spike, you threw the wrench into the works often enough for even heaven to be humbled by its own hubris.”
Spike thought about sulking some more, than sighed. “I’m not one to get off on the comfort of prison, any prison--some do, you know. Some blokes need the walls and bars; makes 'em feel safe, don’t have to work too hard...”
“You are the wild card...”
“Well...yeah.”
“You have quite a little fan club up here you know.”
“Groupies?” Spike leered, his eyebrow arched suggestively.
“Well. More like an audience addicted to a soap opera. Time is, we’d all sit around and watch you for a pick me up.”
“You think the ratings will go down now I’m gone?”
Pause.
“That’s another discussion altogether. First things first--you’ve heard that expression ‘his whole life flashed in front of his eyes?’”
Shit. Spike’s mouth set in a grim line.
“Parties over, eh luv?”
“Well this last year you’ve already completed a lot of that review while still alive...”
“Like some bloody episode of MASH that you keep tuning into to. Every time you turn on the bleedin set it’s that same damn episode, trapped with Alan Alda and his self righteous self analysis. Yeah...definitely BEEN THERE.”
“So lets’ pick and choose shall we?”
Bullocks.
* ~ * ~ * ~ *
