Chapter 38: No Future
awesome banner by Sotia aka ssddgr
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A/N: If this story was faithful to canon, it would take about an hour to get to Sunnydale from LA via the provided means of transportation (= 2 hours by car). However, this is super-AU, and pffft, these people don't have two hours to spare. So, 40 minutes round trip it is! Thank you in advance for not getting all Comic Book Guy about it.
A/N #2: Thanks to Dampers for the once-over!
"Who are you?"
Spike didn't miss a beat. "Who do you want me to be?"
Sitting in her gym's locker room, mesmerized by the magazine article, she said, "Zeitgeist."
"Oh. You heard about that?"
"I do know how to read."
"God, I hate the press," he groused. "What are you doing flipping through finance rags anyway? Shouldn't you be reading Utne, or Nonprofit Weekly or somesuch?"
"Why didn't you tell me about this?"
"I..." He exhaled noisily. "I wanted to surprise you."
He'd stupefied her. "Mission thoroughly accomplished."
"Not quite," he said, and let that hang in the air for a second. "Can I show you something?"
* * *
As the helicopter landed on the Pratt building, Buffy considered worst-case scenarios, most of which entailed a fatal crash, and Lindsey finding out that way. Why did she say yes to this?
The hatch door opened, and she thought, That's why.
The mere sight of Spike made her whole body hum. It didn't matter what he wore anymore -- a black suit this time, with a lilac shirt and a deep plum tie that complemented his hair, and yes, he did look great in purple, but that wasn't the point -- it was him. His presence. And the way he smiled at her...
Anyway. "I have to be back by one-thirty!" she shouted over the propeller's racket as he helped her aboard. "No whisking me away to faraway lands, got it?"
"Sorry," Spike said, tapping his headset. "Can't hear a thing with these on."
She opened the headset and said into his ear, "Promise me you'll get me back here by one-thirty. PM."
She realized she'd placed a hand on his chest when he touched it, tenderly. Meaningfully.
"Tout pour toi," he said, and she took her hand away.
Anything for you.
* * *
About twenty minutes into the flight, Spike sidled behind Buffy as she marveled at the tiny dollhouses clustered east of the coastline. "Look familiar?"
"Is it supposed to?" They hovered over a rooftop painted with the letters SHS in gold and burgundy. "Sunnydale...?" She looked at him. "Why are we flying over my high school?"
"Did I not tell you it's a surprise?"
* * *
From the landing site, they were driven to a parking lot behind a row of stores on Maple Court. A very recognizable row of stores.
"I don't understand," Buffy said, following him to the back door of her mother's old art gallery, a place she'd always remember as Modern Artifacts. Last she saw, it was a jewelry store. "What is this?"
"Now, it's not done yet, all right? Try and see it for what it could be."
"What what could be?"
"Do I have to go over the meaning of 'surprise' again? Because I can."
"Tch." She nudged him and tried to hide a smile. "Just open it."
Tethering his own grin, he unlocked the door.
The old inventory room was empty but structurally unchanged. Buffy had a flashback: sitting on the floor with her mother, wrapping paintings for return or, if they were lucky, for sale.
He took her hand, and they entered the storefront together.
The walls were unpainted, there was a layer of sawdust on the new cement floors. Two men were installing ceiling fixtures by the front window, another was building some kind of reception area. They chatted in Spanish over the strains of a Latin American pop song.
Spike shut off the boom box, and got their attention. "Soy el jefe de su jefe. What I say goes, so take a five minute siesta, por favor."
They peered at each other, unconvinced.
"Now," he said. "¡Ahora! ¡Ándale!"
As they grudgingly left their stations and filed out through the back door, the crisp, white lettering on the front window came into view:
the joyce gallery
"I got a real forward-thinking curator relocating from New York," he said. "She'll turn this end of town into Little SoHo in a jiff. We're building a door here to connect to the next shop. Bought that for the classes."
She blinked out of her trance. "Classes?"
"Art history and appreciation. Painting, drawing, sculpture... Oh, and uh, here's the first show."
He handed her a brochure.
Joan Mitchell: The Lost Works
"I wanted to surprise you by taking you to the opening." He scratched his neck. "But, surprise'll be ruined if you read about it someplace, and who's to say you'll even let me take you out in three weeks, so," with a sigh, he looked up at the ceiling, "here we--"
She grabbed his head and kissed him.
With a high-pitched, grateful moan, he swept a hand up her back, to her neck, into her hair, and the other dug into her spot, as if to stake his claim.
Oh, Spike. Yes, Spike. Her butt hit the sawdusty reception desk and he kissed a line down her neck, causing strange, random word formations. What was intended as an Oh my God actually came out as, "Mmm my Spike."
"All yours, baby," he growled, and got overzealous. "You know I'm all yours..."
"Ha-ahh," she gasped, stopping him just as his wicked fingers found the dewy spot on her panties. "Not here."
Forehead touching hers, he deflated. "S'all right. Got one more thing to show you, anyway."
"More?" He'd resurrected her mother's art gallery and created a charitable foundation in Buffy's honor. Did he honestly think he needed to impress her any more than that? 'Cause he did not.
He straightened her skirt and composed himself. "Come on."
* * *
The second part of the surprise involved a stop at Pratt Enterprises, where she learned that half of one entire floor had been dedicated to the Zeitgeist Foundation. At least twenty actual people were visibly hard at work, in meetings, on the phone, making his whim a reality.
Buffy was still in shock. "How did you do all this so quickly?"
"Money's a powerful tool," he said, and opened a door marked CEO.
It was a bright, spacious corner office with a great city view and a large, bold abstract painting on one wall. Red and black gessoed strokes, ripped paper... "Is that... Jane Frank? An original Jane Frank?"
"I bloody well hope." He closed the door. "D'you like it?"
It was magnificent. Breathtaking, but... "Do you?"
"Looks like rubbish to me," he admitted without shame. "But I'm told it 'evokes sensations of awe and helplessness'."
Much like the man who bought it. She tore her eyes away from the painting. "Don't you have another office right upstairs? I mean, how many do you need in one building?"
"Oh, this isn't mine."
"But it says CEO." She pointed at the door.
"I'm the head of Pratt, not Zeitgeist."
"Oh. Who's heading Zeitgeist?"
He put his hands in his pockets, and looked at her.
"Oh," she said, stunned. "What?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I, I have a job."
"And I'm sure you're very good at it, but that's just a job. This is..." He gestured around the room, and returned to her. "This is you, Buffy."
She tried hard to focus on the wrong in this, the manipulative angle. "How do you know what's me?"
He counted off on his fingers, "Art, world travel, philanthropy, getting people to see things your way... Stop me if you hear something you don't love."
"I don't know the first thing about running a foundation!"
"You in a leadership position, yeah, that's dead hard to imagine."
It flashed in her mind then: a vision of herself in charge of Zeitgeist... followed by everything that came with accepting such a position. Lightheaded, woozy, she wrapped her hands around the back of her neck and paced to the window, saying, "This is crazy."
"You love the idea, I can see it. You want this."
"I--" She crossed her arms. "You can't just spring this on me, Spike, you can't expect me t..." Running out of breath, she took a moment to recover.
He stepped up behind her, but didn't touch her. "Look, I know it's a shock. I don't expect an answer right away. But if I ran this by you before, you'd have assumed I was doing it for the wrong reasons."
"These are the wrong reasons," she said, turning to face him. "You don't even care about art."
"Does that matter? I care about you, living the life you're meant for. I just want to make you happy, don't you understand? Don't you see that?"
She shut her eyes and shook her head. "You're not supposed to make me happy, you're supposed to make me miserable."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't do what I'm supposed to. Never have."
In a huff, Buffy walked away from him. "God, you have to stop being so..."
"So... what?"
Arms crossed, she turned to him. Several words came to mind, but there was only one she could say when he gave her that melty eye smile. "...Nice."
He approached her again, touched her hair. "Maybe you should start being nicer to me."
"Spike..."
Briefly pressing a finger to her lips, he said, "I'm sending you back to your other life now, and because I'm being so very nice to you, you're going to meet me after work, and be very nice to me."
Buffy felt herself nod. Sex. Sex was simple. Sex she could handle.
* * *
"I love you, Buffy," Spike said, keeping her in thrall, holding her face so she couldn't look away, "I. Love you."
Buffy gasped and struggled.
This wasn't very nice of him. She'd done exactly as he'd asked: went straight to the hotel after work, gave him very nice kisses from head to toe and all stops between, and then she began to ride him, quite nicely, until he overtook her and hypnotized her with his all-consuming eyes while he fervently professed his love.
When he said it a third time, she let out a broken, yielding wail, and convulsed with him.
* * *
"What's the rush, kitten?"
The 'rush' was that she had no desire to hear his thoughts on her I love you-gasm, so she closed her bathrobe tight and said, "I need to shower, and get home before..."
"Don't shower," he hugged her close from behind. "Stay dirty, stay with me. Come see what I've done with the new place."
"It's your place, not mine." She broke free of his grasp.
"I know that," he said, a tinge of boyish hurt breaking through his masculine pride.
"I'm... Please just let me go, Spike. I need time to think, okay?"
He followed her out of the bedroom. "Yeah, well, forgive my hesitation, but the last time I gave you time to think, you nearly ended this. If you hadn't seen that article, I'd be coming after you right now, wouldn't I?"
"Stop!" She spun around to face him. "Stop coming after me! Just stop it!"
"Right," he said, mouth tight and angry. "Go on then, do your little ritual dance. Pick a fight with me or better yet," he spread his arms out, "cry until I back off, then run for the shelter of his loving arms."
She'd seen him this disdainful before, but he'd never hit home quite so well. "What happened to being nice?"
"I'm sick of it. I'm sick of seeing you this close to admitting what we both already know, and I am bloody sick of sharing you with another man."
"You are the other man."
"Is that what you tell yourself to get through it?"
"I don't..." She took a deep breath. "We haven't..."
"You haven't. Haven't fucked him? Your own husband? And why is that?" He stepped forward, getting in her face. "Tears are not an acceptable answer."
She pressed her lips together to stop the trembling, and said quietly, defensively, "I love him."
He cocked his head, raised his chin. "In what way?"
With a scoff, she said, "I don't have to answer that."
"No, you don't. Because I can read the answer all over your face."
"You're wrong! You can't read me for shit."
"Oh! Right! Try looking me in the eye when you say that."
"I love Lindsey and I'm going home to him tonight, and that's all you need to know!"
"Like hell it is!" He grabbed her arms. "You take me all the way in -- mind, body, soul -- and then you shut me out, time after time! I know you want me, I know you want this, I can feel it, but you won't let go of him! Why do you insist on living this lie?"
"Because! It's better than the alternative!"
"Of us being together?"
"No, it's what happens after!" The floodgates broke then, and tears started falling. "Okay? I'm eating all the cake, and there's not gonna be anything left on my plate at the end of this, except me, feeling like shit for what I've done, and I know that, and I can't lose..." her eyes met his for a moment and averted, "everything all over again. I just can't."
"What are you talking about?" He tried to recapture her gaze. "I'm not going to leave you, Buffy."
She looked at the floor.
"Hey. Just because we found each other in an unorthodox way, it doesn't mean we're doomed, all right? The only tragedy here is that he met you first."
"You said it yourself, Spike, we're all gonna lie bleeding."
"Yeah. And then we'll crawl off together and lick each other's wounds, come out of it stronger, and life goes on like it should."
"How long 'til you get tired of me? 'Til you move on?"
"What?" He squinted at her. "What in our history together tells you that I could get tired of you?"
"Your history," she said, sniffling. "Harmony..."
"I didn't love Harmony! Talking to her was like talking to the wind!"
"Yeah well, Darla's the love of your life and you can hardly stand to look at her."
"She is not the love of my life!" He let out a breath and said, softening, "You are."
Buffy stubbornly met his gaze.
"What she and I had... It wasn't love. I know that now."
"And how do you know this is?"
"How can you not know?" He shook his head. "You came along and you changed everything, Buffy. My entire world was about proving my worth. You helped me see it doesn't have to be that way."
A tear slid down her cheek. "I can't be your savior."
He took her hand and kneeled before her. "Let me be yours."
She gasped, shut her eyes. "No... Spike..."
"Look at me," he said, and she did. "I want you, Buffy. All of you."
Her hand shook in his, and he rubbed it with his thumb.
"You don't have to marry me, I just... want you," he said, voice trembling with emotion. "I want to fall asleep with you at night, I want to wake up with you in the morning. I want to take you, everywhere, everyplace I love, show you every little city and vista and café and, I want to take you out. Publicly. I want to parade you down the red bloody carpet and say you're all mine." He tightened his fingers around hers. "I want to teach you flamenco dancing, and Spanish; I want to curl up on the couch with you and do the Sunday crossword or watch bloody telly, I don't care, I want... everything. All of you. And if I can't have that, I..." He tutted, looked down. "Hell, you know I'll take any little crumb you give me. But if you think if I had you, if I finally had all of you, all to myself, I would take you for granted? You're wrong."
She stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide and wet, and she said, "I'm not worth all that."
"Oh, stop it." He let go of her hand. "You've had an affair, you haven't killed anyone. Fidelity is a societal construct, it doesn't mean anything."
"Except to the people you hurt!"
He gave her a scrutinizing head-tilt and said with interest, "Oh, I get it. You hate yourself because you think you've become your father."
She looked away.
"Yeah, that's it. Only that's not what you're becoming."
Sullenly, she looked down at him. "What am I becoming?"
"You're becoming Buffy Summers," he said, eyes sparkling. "A woman who can handle an empty plate, but knows when she doesn't have to."
In the hush that followed, her phone chimed, and her gaze slid in its direction.
"Go," Spike said, relenting. "I've got my crumbs for the day."
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A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.