drunken 'i love you's on top of the world

Title: A Symphony of Memory
Author: lillianmorgan
Pairing: Gen fic, Spike-centric
Setting: Future-fic
Rating: PG (for swearing)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
A/N: Written for the darker_spike Dickens and Christmas challenge.
Like so unbelievably scraping in under the wire (and so unbelivably disorganised on my part, that this hasn’t been beta-ed ETA gillo and yourlibrarian have ably stepped into the breach with beta help - thank you muchly kind ladies!) that the ink’s still wet on the parchment. I *really* wanted to get this written because I have had the idea since November but, sadly, the writers’ block to go with it. Flump me with the mistakes you find! ETA Think I've been flumped enough, thanks *g*

A Symphony of Memory

The year is 2046. The future does not belong to us. We are prisoners to its voracity...

Staff One – Overture - Sonata in D Minor

He had been running too long and this he knew. His body but more significantly his soul knew this too but time is the destroyer of hope when loneliness is your captor. When no-one else you know is alive.

On this occasion, he’d endured a narrow escape from the Purge. He’d managed, despite his best intentions, to get caught in the crossfire between a Resistance guerrilla attack on one of the Purge’s outlying fortifications. His Minder had ordered a large delivery of Black Market goods which could only be sourced from the edges of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart’s Empire. Tricky thing was, that these places tended to harbour the dangerous elements as well, the elements that traded on a language of warfare and death.

And the irony. Oh the bleeding irony, was that he had also got mixed up in a snowstorm. That might have suggested to him that the season was winter. But he had only really been able to judge weather accurately before the Great Drought. Now the vicissitudes of the sky simply had a mind of their own and waged war on the earth, rather than gave it succour.

Now he was lying low, riding out the danger and the cold in a tavern beyond the back of beyond, the goods secured in a hiding place in his room and musing his way around a rather despicable pint of blue beer. Time was, he remembered it well, when he’d enjoyed pints across the globe, sampled the different textures, tastes, sensations and noted with great alacrity which ones got the humans drunk the quickest. But these new fangled times brought hardship, restrictions on travel, restrictions on life (even to those who weren’t, in the truest sense of the word, living). And, bathetically, blue beer.

The girl (and he rather jumped at that particular fact) serving him was dressed simply, in a brown shift, tied at the waist with rope, and barefoot. She could have looked like she was impersonating a sack of potatoes, were it not for the places where her bones jutted out instead of soft, sinuous fat. But this tavern was run by two Jagwar demons, who were Sympathisers, which could only mean that she had been caught up in human trafficking. And that, too, would explain the nasty rope marks branded into the skin surrounding her wrist.

He tried to smile at her, but somehow his lips wouldn’t bend. Despite his passing for human, which might appease her, she probably knew, like him, that no-one was as they seemed, and dropping your guard inevitably meant death. Vampires had long since preyed on the good will of humans, and so they always would. She placed the pint in front of him, silently, averted her eyes and moved to the next table. He would not have given her another moment’s thought (he couldn’t, not anymore) were it not for the younger girl who ran up to her. She was pure, dressed in blue, and unshackled unlike her sister. She stood before Spike, and smiled. He had always had a way with young girls – which was most unfortunate for her.

Memory danced with him then and flung a gauzy, soft material across his face, and in the places he could see, he dreamed. Of a girl. With long brown tresses that framed her face in loss and defiance, blue eyes that looked upon him with pre-pubescent desire, and hands that had placated him with the gift of unconditional love.

“Mind,” the serving-girl whispered in urgent tones to the Dawn-look-a-like, pushing her back to the room behind the bar, but it was too late. The demon clientele had smelt the air tinged with nubile, fresh teenaged flesh and had begun to murmur.

The serving-girl returned to stand beside where Spike was sitting but her eyes were jittering everywhere across the room. It didn’t take much more than a few minutes, before a Renflem demon got to its feet and roared. It was ugly, as all demons are prone to be in the eyes of a human, with reddened horns that curled from the top of its head to its neck, an enormous snout and cloven hooves designed to crush.

It staggered toward the bar, and the small, Jagwar demon behind the bar, held out its hand. He received a bag of gold and held open the door, behind which the girl was whimpering.

“No!” screamed the serving-girl, and ran toward the bar, but she was backhanded by the Jagwar’s mate. Her limp body flew across the room and she landed, obligingly, at Spike’s feet. He looked down at her, as she tried to heft herself up, tears overflowing from her face.

“Hush, pet,” he whispered, against his better judgement and grabbed hold of her arm. “Or you’ll both die.”

“But she’s my sister,” argued the girl, twisting in his impenetrable clamp-hold.

“Right, but who’ll tend her afterwards?”

“Will there be an afterwards?” she countered, still persisting in her jerking movements to get away from his hands.

“Might be. That’s why you need to hold still. Preserve yourself.”

“What good’s that for me?” she whispered, but her words were drowned out by the screams of her sister. Spike swallowed and turned his head.

“Too late now, in any case.”

**

He mounted the stairs with feet far too heavy to bear. He wondered if his conscience rested in his feet at this moment for all they were causing him grief. He shook his head. He couldn’t get involved in petty human disputes. Not now, not ever, not since … besides, he had his own problems. And keeping outside the radar of the Purge was one of them.

He unlocked the door to his room, first priority checking on the goods. Still there, still safe. Nearly two hundred years and he knew how to keep things safe. Could have made a damn fine petty thief if things had been different.

He stretched himself out on the rickety bed, placed his hands behind his head and, noting the stillness about him, decided it might be feasible to get a bit of kip. Just a bit, though.

Stirring from slumber, he felt a presence in the room. He peeled his eyes open, as if they had been sealed shut, and when he focused he saw a girl. No, not just a girl, the girl. The one who had died at the hands of the overzealous Renflem demon.

“I died,” she whispered. Her voice came at him, like an autumn breeze, tender at first but biting once it reached the bones. Softly, behind her, he heard an echo, light and flimsy in its delivery, “She died,” followed by another, deeper and duller in resonance, “I died.”

“You didn’t save me.” The first voice intoned.

“You didn’t save her.” The second voice whispered.

“You didn’t save me.” The third voice grieved.

“My body, broken and bloodied.” As the dead girl spoke the words, the faces of the two apparitions in the chorus gradually appeared behind her and Spike gasped in remembrance.

“Her body, broken and bloodied,” whispered the second girl.

“My body, broken and bloodied,” shouted the man.

“My name is Elektra. And you did not save me,” screamed the girl, rushing toward him, her ghost-body passing through him like an electric shock.

“My name is Dawn. And my sister died because of you,” cried the second, and Dawn’s body shook and shimmered out of reality.

Spike sat up and cried, “No! Please don’t!” grasping at the air around the last ghost’s body.

“My name is Liam. And you killed me.” Angel’s sheath-like body flickered around Spike, taunting and diving at him, until he gave Spike release and rose to the ceiling like smoke from a fire.

Spike threw himself back upon the bed, and shook his head in grief, crying, “No, no, no,” over and over until he could no longer force the hoarse whispers from his throat.

He turned over in the bed, wrenched his eyes shut, willing sleep to deliver him from his misery. But when he opened his eyes he was no longer in the bedroom.

A voice called to him, “Well, hello there. And welcome to Wolfram and Hart.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staff Two – Largo in B Flat Minor

He sat up, amazed and well beyond perturbed, and promptly fell through the desk he had been perched on. Looking around him, he identified the surroundings as those belonging to the girl once called Winifred Burkle. He was sitting in her lab inside the Wolfram and Hart offices of the early twenty hundreds. He recognised them, but that didn’t stop his eyes tripling their size in shock as he tried to attune himself to the change.

“Not exactly what I had in mind either,” said the woman, standing opposite him. “Would have been nice to land in a jacuzzi in Maui. But, apparently, this is all about you.” Then she added with sarcastic humour, “Champ.”

“What?” was simply all he could find in his vernacular to say. The room was exactly as he remembered it. Or imagined it. Because this could all be a dream, his mind playing another round of poltergeist hootenanny.

That was when he discovered that he wasn’t resting against the desk from which he had fallen off, but rather through it.

“Not bleeding again!” he roared, watching as his hand passed through the floor.

“Shame about that, really. But what can you do? I can only appear to you in the offices formerly known as the LA Branch of Wolfram and Hart. Your mind takes you back to one of your happier memories here. Apparently that was with Science Girl. You know, I really should call you out on that. What is it with that fucking girl? Is it the glasses? It’s the glasses, right? Makes you all wanna protect her. Lousy taste in women all you English guys have.”

Spike frowned and this time, focussing his energy to remain on rather than through the floor, he trained his eyes on her. She was good-looking. Hell, she was good-looking. And he wasn’t just thinking that because he hadn’t had a decent lay in … not even thinking that. Tits bulging, eyes glittering, legs sheathed in black silk up to her armpits. Spike smiled, but he knew her instantly. She was dressed to kill.

“Don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced, pet,” he drawled.

She clapped her hands. “Good one, Spike! That’s the guy we all know and love. My name’s Lilah Morgan, Attorney at Law. And, thanks to you, Charles Gunn owes me a coupla hundred bucks.”

“Charlie?” Spike asked.

She grinned at him, like a feral cat, rather than a sex kitten, and continued, “You’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, Spike.”

He blinked, then straightened himself up. He wasn’t going to let this hoity-toity jumped up bitch push him around –

“You’ve been running away from the Purge and the other minions of Wolfram and Hart like you’re a little fraidy cat. You’re like a cat that’s been neutered, all pathetic, balls chopped off, more like. Wolfram and Hart are really not very happy with you at all. But best of all?” She leaned toward him, and brushed her lips across his cheek.

He felt that, he bloody well felt that. Then he smelt her lips frosted in peach-scented lip gloss as they slithered their way across his cheek. He urged himself not to, but he couldn’t help turning his face to meet her lips.

“Best of all?” she breathed across his lips, quirking her own then stepping back to stand over him. “We’ve been having so much fun watching you. You’re providing such amusement to the team. We had a great Christmas feast last year because of all the money that was flying around the office. And we want to do it again this year. Not that we’re great gambling types, but you know, gotta find your fun somewhere, right?

“But this time, I got a lot of money says that you’re gonna stop running from Wolfram and Hart. You’re gonna stand and fight back. Right?”

Spike stood and walked toward her. “Yeah?” he drawled. “Thought you worked for Wolfram and Hart?”

“Did I say that?” she asked innocently, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. “Your memory’s obviously playing funny tricks on you Spike.”

“What’s all this about?” he growled, trying to grab her arms. His own fell through her body and he tumbled forward.

“I was told you had a terrible temper. Geez, they weren’t lying there. Got yourself in all sorts of knots, haven’t you, Spike? Need to get them untangled so you can work things out. Gotta think about the important things in life. The things that keep you fighting.” She started walking away from him, toward the exit. She turned back and smiled.

“Wait!” he yelled trying to run toward her, but his feet kept slipping through the floor.

“Oh and Percy says hi!” she trilled, before disappearing down the corridor.

“WAIT!” he screamed, but it was too late, he was falling and falling and falling and –

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staff Three – Minuet in E Flat Major

He was in the Magic Box. He knew that not just from the telltale surroundings, but also from the fact that he could sit on one of the tables in the back area. Could sit there and swing his legs effortlessly back and forth, back and forth and when he wanted to he could hit his leg against the corner of the table and listen with glee to the resounding ‘thunk’ that echoed around the room. No more non-corporeal bollocks for him, thank you very much.

It looked the same as his memory was trying to convince him. Before Red did her thing and brought Hell to Sunnydale. He could maybe even place the time precisely to the odd and fragrant condiments on display. He’d lurked about enough, when trying to do anything but pay attention to the damned Scoobies and their mitherings. It must have been early on in the Magic Shop days because he could still count the number of newts’ eyes to exactly –

“Having fun?”

He spun around, half expecting, hoping, really dreading to see her or maybe her sister, but instead it was someone … better?

“Tara?” His voice was incredulous and wavering in anxiety.

“Spike,” she nodded, then smiled and wrapped her arms around him. “It’s been too long.”

“You’re telling me, pet,” he said, then, quite without meaning to, he forgot about restraint and laughter escaped from his body. “You’re telling me.”

She stepped out of the embrace but kept her arms wrapped around his own. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m looking alive. Or rather, not dust.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes dancing, that were too soon covered by her framing fringe.

“What do you mean…?” he asked. His face creased into a frown and he was slapped in the face with an anxiety he knew he should have felt from the beginning.

“Oh Spike,” she said, instantaneously and he wondered if it was her witchly ways or something more sinister that had picked up on his unease. “I didn’t mean to … I mean I w-w-wanted to … it’s supposed to be about you.”

She hung her head and the smile was wiped from her face. “It’s not good when I stutter, Spike. I’m nervous. About what’s to come.”

“Pet?” Despite his worry, the chivalric side of him that emerged at the sight of a distressed woman flew to the surface. He patted her arm, and gave her a lopsided grin, before raising his eyebrow and turning the smile into a smirk.

She punched him in the arm. “I’m not falling for that, mister. We’ve got important work, here. Important things to discuss.”

“We do?” he asked. “Perhaps we should discuss how your heartbeat’s dashing itself out of your ribs?”

She stepped away from him and spread her arms about her. “Remember … do you remember this place … I mean not the Magic Box, because I’m sure we both remember that, but I mean this exact place, this exact moment in time. What it meant to me? What it meant to you?”

He shook his head and tried to form words that he couldn’t even comprehend himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, luv. This is all a dream. It’s not real.”

“It was real, what you did for me on that day. What the others did. How we stood as one.” Her face shone with beatific grace upon him and he felt all tension swoon from his body.

“I don’t … understand …” He felt himself moving as if through molasses, as if he could hardly think or feel or be able to exist unless he was moving at minus velocity.

“We all remembered what the most important thing is in life. The reason why we fight. Not for money or fame or the need to be right … but for something much richer, much more important. You taught me that. Buffy taught me that. We all taught each other that.”

She turned to him, and brushed tentative fingers down his face. “You’ve not much further to go, Spike. Not much further. I hope I could give something back to you … to repay you for your kindness.”

She stepped from him and walked toward the exit, swinging the door open, the chime of the doorbell echoing inside and outside his body. “Remember we’re all watching you. She’s watching you.”

And she passed through the door and into light. And Spike could only think to scream, “No! Don’t leave me!” before all became black.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staff Four – Scherzo in A Minor

The stone floor was cold against his cheek and all about him was blood. Blood from the market, the pigs’ and cows’ and sheep blood running as it had for years down the floor and out into the drain system of a clogged up Victorian London. But this time, there was human blood. A massacre. The sweet tang of fear and horror clung with such vigour to his senses that he nearly wept. It had been so long since he had been this side of a massacre, too long.

A foot kicked him in the ribs, a dainty foot, but nevertheless one that caused his bones to sing in pain. “Well, get up.”

Bloody, buggaring, bleeding hell.

“You do look a dishevelled mess,” she said, eyes hard as flint, nose sniffing in disdain.

“Darla,” he greeted. “Got some tricks for me too?”

“Hardly, dear boy. That’s not my sort of thing really is it?” She stepped forward and without warning kicked him in the shin. Well, he thought, as he hopped about on one foot and raining curses upon her, she never did anything with a warning.

“I am so disappointed in you. So disappointed.” Her voice juddered in a rage that ate into his bones, his marrow and his soul.

“You don’t deserve to be alive,” she continued. “You don’t deserve to feel the ground upon which you walk.”

“He does then?” Spike asked, knowing the answer before the question was posed.

“Yes, he does. Of course he does. He is brave and strong and fighting for what he believes in and - ” She stopped suddenly and a flimsy mask fell across her features. The rage that had filled her up, vanished and a snide smile took its place.

“Dear boy,” she cooed, cupping his face in her hands. “Do you remember this place?”

“Why do all you bints sodding well ask me that?”

“A question with a question. You must know then.” Her voice dived in and out of a playful, treacherous tone.

She tapped her foot and he realised that she was waiting for him to tell her. He pulled himself up as tall as he could go and decided to stare her out.

That lasted for all of forty-five seconds.

“Spittlefield Markets,” he said, all in a gush. “Site of our first massacre. Where you and Angelus and Drusilla brought me. As … the four … as a family.”

“William,” she pronounced, clapping her hands in mock celebration, “I see you haven’t lost all of your faculties.”

“So?” he asked, spinning around, “why here?”

A disgruntled sigh forced itself from her body and she slapped his cheek. “Insolent boy. Do you learn nothing?”

He shook his head in disbelief, then turned angry. Taking a step toward her, and weighting his voice, dripping with menace, he said, “I am not that same vampire, that you knew Darla, if I want to, I could - ”

“Did Angel, for he was Angel then, did he ever tell you about my boy?” Contrarily, Darla’s voice was light and effervescent, as if she had been transported somewhere else.

Spike stopped stock-still and, in surprise, waited.

“Perhaps he introduced the boy as his own. Angel was good at that wasn’t he, bending the truth to suit his purposes?

But the boy, such a sweet, devoted, messed up boy. I gave him the gift of life. I gave him my body so he could have his own. I gave him - ”

She stopped, and in the very first moment of his entire existence, Spike witnessed a tear welling at the corner of Darla’s eye. As if she recognised this too, she spun around on him.

“And you!” She yelled, taking a fist to his chest, and with each word beating and beating against him. “You insolent, degraded, good for nothing, lowly speck on my boot who has refused to help him -”

The pain took hold of her and finally, she collapsed against him. Spike could not summon the energy to do anything but gather her in his arms.

They stood together for many minutes, Darla heaving tears from her body, slowly but surely ebbing and waning as Spike brushed his hands down her luscious curls, a thing he had always dreamed of doing, but in this moment wished somehow that he was not. But he was, and emotion filled him so that he was complete.

He felt her body tense, and she jerked her head away. “You’ve got to go to him, Spike. Think about your family - ”

But her voice was wrenched away from him, he was nowhere and then somewhere. And with that he woke with a start in the bed in the tavern and felt, disconcertingly, a presence in the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staff Five – Finale - Rondo in G Major

He peeled his eye open a fraction, and recognised the girl from the tavern. The girl who had lost her sister at the hands of a demon. A girl seeking revenge on the end of a stake.

She lunged toward him, hoping the dark would act as benefactor and screen her intent, but his vampiric eyes caught her movement and he parried her attack with a practised efficacy. He disabled her progress, wrapping his body around hers, and knocked the stake from her hand, watching it soar across the room and land against the wall.

He should have been furious and he should have snapped her head from her body in repayment, as he had countless times before. But he didn’t.

Was it the night’s travails that made him go against his better judgement? The weird visitations that had been forced upon him, the memories distilled, disturbed, fractured through lies, honesty and the day-to-day meanings we find in the middle.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know, but with a grudging realisation of what he should do, he instead wrapped his arms around the girl and rocked her wailing body until she subsided into sleep.

When dawn came, and brought with it the usual cloud-heavy skies, perfect for all sorts of demons to exist under, he rose from the bed and gathered his belongings. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but the girl stirred and opened her eyes.

“Did you kill me?” she asked. Then softly, almost too serenely to bear, she whispered, “Am I in heaven?”

“No,” he muttered, “on both counts.”

“But…?” She gasped and could not finish her sentence.

“I’m leaving,” he said, a cold finality edging his words. “I know of a place. A group. Guerilla fighters. You would … be safe there. They’re all human and they would take care of you. If you come with me … if you trust me … I will take you to them.”

“You didn’t kill me,” she said, her voice still swept up in a dream.

“Pinch yourself and you can tell, luv. Or do you want me to prove it to you?” He grabbed at her, and she cowered. He was angry, at himself, at her, at the world, at the death of so many loved ones. But there was one still alive. He would go there.

“This group,” she stammered, clasping her arms around her body, “they’ll look after me?”

He nodded, taking the question as an assent, picked her up from the bed into his arms, and walked from the room in long strides without a backward glance.

**

He had always been a tracker, and so it was not difficult to find them. When he did and he was nearly staked on sight, he was grateful for the girl’s presence. She acted as intermediary, explaining their situation, their flight and journey, the weight of his soul.

The fighters were rough and hardened with experience, covered in the dirt of the earth and the war, and so they trussed him up and slapped him inside their hide-out, a disused 1940s bunker underneath the ground. They kicked him about a bit, too, for he was a vampire and that was what they did.

When he entered the bunker, he caught the sounds of celebration. Singing, clinking of glasses, laughter. If it was winter, then could that mean …

He was forced against the cold steel wall by two of the burly men, their overwhelming humanity pressed against his own body. Two more walked away down a corridor, their footsteps echoing around him.

He could not tell how much time had passed, but when they returned, he discerned a third pair of shoes. He was spun around and before he could see anything or anyone, he was kicked to the floor. A boot was placed upon his back to still any resistance.

“The vampire asked to speak to you, El Chefe. We were to stake him, but he brought a girl with him who said he has a soul. Does he fit the description? Perhaps you have other orders?”

“Thank you,” said the man. “You have done well. But now you may leave us.”

“But - ” began one of the soldiers. From Spike’s vantage point on the floor, he could not tell what passed, until fingers found his arms, unwrapped his restraints and he was lifted to stand in front of an older man. He was decorated in age with grey hairs and wrinkles, but his blue eyes spoke of intelligence and fortitude.

“You came,” was all he said. “Why now?”

“It’s Christmas,” Spike replied, looking the other man directly in the eye. “And Christmas is a time for family.”

The man coughed, but proceeded, “Will you stay?”

Spike nodded. Then sighed wearily and said, “I’ve kept away too long. I realise that now, and I’m very sorry for that. My place was here by your side. Fighting.” Spike hung his head in submission, but not to be mired in the error of his previous stance, he lifted his head after a few moments and summoned one of his trademark smirks. “But I’m impressed by what I see. Your father always told me to guard a perimeter. I see you’ve learnt that particular lesson well.”

The old man, who was called El Chefe by those who surrounded him, but in another life was given the name Connor, which means much-wanted, strong-willed, smiled.

“And your mum,” Spike stuttered, “mustn’t forget your mum. She’d be right proud of you too.”

“My father said something as well,” Connor replied, “about not forgetting her. I see you were both under her thumb.” He laughed and slapped Spike on the shoulder. “I don’t completely trust you Spike, but will you do me the honour of joining us in our feast?”

“It would be my honour,” Spike said, bowing slightly and following as the other man lead him to the celebration.

Finis