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There was something about the blonde woman that Spike couldn’t put his finger on.
Well, obviously. Can’t put my finger on anything.
Being a ghost, it even buggered up figures of speech.
Fingers and all that aside, there was something powerful and a little bit familiar about her. Lady was in her 20s, rather hot, in a slightly prim, Miss Moneypenny sort of a way, wearing a black dress with lots of drapey bits to it…but her hotness and her stylish outfit hardly made her stand out in this sea of hot chicks in Prada.
Been here too long, if I’m starting to recognise designer labels. Never mind the evil. It’s the sissy, prissy office stuff that’s getting to me.
As Spike was trying to work out what it was about the blonde woman that was getting under whatever passed for his skin these days, she turned and caught his eye. He nodded to her, feeling some gesture was required, and thought she’d leave it at that. But she started to walk towards him, her curiosity clearly piqued. Even if she couldn’t tell he was a ghost, he stood out himself in that crowd, with his leather jacket and not-exactly-legal-issue hair colour.
“Why were you staring at me?”
The direct approach. Got to respect that.
Spike shrugged, but his memory was starting to piece something together that he couldn’t quite make sense of yet. “You remind me of someone.”
Oh yeah. Obviously. Just like every other blonde head I see in a crowd, hoping it’s her…and dreading it, if she saw me like this…
“Right.” The woman’s tone was icy and she made to push past him…but her shoulder brushed right through him. She started, but not as much as most people would. “Oh.” She looked him up and down, reassessing her initial impression of cheesy pick-up artist. “You’re a ghost. Given this is Wolfram and Hart…do you work here?”
“Nah. Just haunt the place.”
“I suppose…you don’t exactly look like an evil lawyer.” She seemed to consider this again. “Not a lawyer, anyway."
“Well, to be fair to you...I was evil, while back before I..." He gestured to his ghostly form, but then regretted it, feeling suddenly exposed. He wanted to shift the focus away. “So. Who are you?”
The woman tapped her nametag, which had slipped underneath one of the folds of fabric. It said “Anne Summers, Director, Midtown Youth Shelter.”
Spike double-took. Summers? Then he triple-took. “Anne Summers?” He chuckled. “What, do you hand out crotchless panties to the street kids?”
Anne looked puzzled.
Probably don’t have Anne Summers shops over here…though, wonder where Buffy got that naughty nurse costume from that time…?
Spike shook his head. “Never mind. So, Anne…you here hoping to part these Wolfram and wankers from some of their cash?”
“That’s the plan,” said Anne. “We need to expand, what with the number of kids coming through each night…we need more staff, more..." She paused. "But, I’m guessing making the pitch to you isn’t going to be much use?”
“Not exactly flush these days,” Spike agreed. He turned his ghost pockets inside out. He paused for a moment, then went on, back to his initial train of thought. “So…like I said, you remind me of someone. We met before?”
“I come to a lot of these,” Anne gestured around at the glitzy crowd.
“I don’t,” said Spike. He cocked his head to one side, trying to picture her face in another setting. “Maybe it was before I came to LA…”
Anne’s memory kicked into gear first. Something in his tone of voice, the dimness of the party lights giving shadows to his cheeks…she remembered. Stairs. Darkness. Excited hope. Then fear. Pain.
She stepped back half a pace.
“What?” said Spike.
Her face was blank now, blank with a tinge of hostility. “I just remembered where we met.”
And now Spike was remembering. Not her, but that look she had in her eyes…fear and defiance, horror and a flush of anger in the cheeks – a blurry recollection of all of them. The women, over the years. The dead women, and the ones who only came close. The ones Buffy saved.
“You tried to kill me,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. Woefully inadequate as comebacks go. But there’s nothing you can say to that.
Anne walked away into the crowd, without another word. He saw her making her way towards a lawyer type, a smile plastered back on her face, ready for some glad-handing.
It left him with a strange sensation of something missing inside. He couldn’t remember when or how he’d tried to kill her .
Though how many ways are there, really? Fangs, hands, blunt object…
He’d remembered all his victims at first, when he got his soul back. But it was all fading, and so much had happened in between. Dying, coming back, all that bollocks.
He wanted to know her story, and he didn’t want to know. He wanted to say sorry, but he knew that wasn’t anything to her. He wanted to be something, but here he was. Air and memories and a nagging sensation that he should feel worse about the things he’d done.
Redemption? That’s Angel’s gig. I just want a bloody drink.
Well, obviously. Can’t put my finger on anything.
Being a ghost, it even buggered up figures of speech.
Fingers and all that aside, there was something powerful and a little bit familiar about her. Lady was in her 20s, rather hot, in a slightly prim, Miss Moneypenny sort of a way, wearing a black dress with lots of drapey bits to it…but her hotness and her stylish outfit hardly made her stand out in this sea of hot chicks in Prada.
Been here too long, if I’m starting to recognise designer labels. Never mind the evil. It’s the sissy, prissy office stuff that’s getting to me.
As Spike was trying to work out what it was about the blonde woman that was getting under whatever passed for his skin these days, she turned and caught his eye. He nodded to her, feeling some gesture was required, and thought she’d leave it at that. But she started to walk towards him, her curiosity clearly piqued. Even if she couldn’t tell he was a ghost, he stood out himself in that crowd, with his leather jacket and not-exactly-legal-issue hair colour.
“Why were you staring at me?”
The direct approach. Got to respect that.
Spike shrugged, but his memory was starting to piece something together that he couldn’t quite make sense of yet. “You remind me of someone.”
Oh yeah. Obviously. Just like every other blonde head I see in a crowd, hoping it’s her…and dreading it, if she saw me like this…
“Right.” The woman’s tone was icy and she made to push past him…but her shoulder brushed right through him. She started, but not as much as most people would. “Oh.” She looked him up and down, reassessing her initial impression of cheesy pick-up artist. “You’re a ghost. Given this is Wolfram and Hart…do you work here?”
“Nah. Just haunt the place.”
“I suppose…you don’t exactly look like an evil lawyer.” She seemed to consider this again. “Not a lawyer, anyway."
“Well, to be fair to you...I was evil, while back before I..." He gestured to his ghostly form, but then regretted it, feeling suddenly exposed. He wanted to shift the focus away. “So. Who are you?”
The woman tapped her nametag, which had slipped underneath one of the folds of fabric. It said “Anne Summers, Director, Midtown Youth Shelter.”
Spike double-took. Summers? Then he triple-took. “Anne Summers?” He chuckled. “What, do you hand out crotchless panties to the street kids?”
Anne looked puzzled.
Probably don’t have Anne Summers shops over here…though, wonder where Buffy got that naughty nurse costume from that time…?
Spike shook his head. “Never mind. So, Anne…you here hoping to part these Wolfram and wankers from some of their cash?”
“That’s the plan,” said Anne. “We need to expand, what with the number of kids coming through each night…we need more staff, more..." She paused. "But, I’m guessing making the pitch to you isn’t going to be much use?”
“Not exactly flush these days,” Spike agreed. He turned his ghost pockets inside out. He paused for a moment, then went on, back to his initial train of thought. “So…like I said, you remind me of someone. We met before?”
“I come to a lot of these,” Anne gestured around at the glitzy crowd.
“I don’t,” said Spike. He cocked his head to one side, trying to picture her face in another setting. “Maybe it was before I came to LA…”
Anne’s memory kicked into gear first. Something in his tone of voice, the dimness of the party lights giving shadows to his cheeks…she remembered. Stairs. Darkness. Excited hope. Then fear. Pain.
She stepped back half a pace.
“What?” said Spike.
Her face was blank now, blank with a tinge of hostility. “I just remembered where we met.”
And now Spike was remembering. Not her, but that look she had in her eyes…fear and defiance, horror and a flush of anger in the cheeks – a blurry recollection of all of them. The women, over the years. The dead women, and the ones who only came close. The ones Buffy saved.
“You tried to kill me,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. Woefully inadequate as comebacks go. But there’s nothing you can say to that.
Anne walked away into the crowd, without another word. He saw her making her way towards a lawyer type, a smile plastered back on her face, ready for some glad-handing.
It left him with a strange sensation of something missing inside. He couldn’t remember when or how he’d tried to kill her .
Though how many ways are there, really? Fangs, hands, blunt object…
He’d remembered all his victims at first, when he got his soul back. But it was all fading, and so much had happened in between. Dying, coming back, all that bollocks.
He wanted to know her story, and he didn’t want to know. He wanted to say sorry, but he knew that wasn’t anything to her. He wanted to be something, but here he was. Air and memories and a nagging sensation that he should feel worse about the things he’d done.
Redemption? That’s Angel’s gig. I just want a bloody drink.
