Grosse Pointe Buff

By TalesOfSpike

Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy and all the other members of the Sunnydale crowd belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Fox, and so on, and so on. Grosse Point Blank was written by Tom Jankiewicz, D V deVincentis, S K Boatman & the vastly talented John Cusack. It is of course owned by Hollywood pictures and Caravan Pictures and not me. I’m ripping them both off for no profit whatsoever, other than the happies I may get when and if you lovely people review.

Note: Flashbacks are shown in italics

Chapter 16

Just for old times sake, Spike decided to swing past his old locker. He stood in front of it for about five seconds with the dial in his hands, smoke curling up from the half-finished cigarette between his fingers. Then, the combination came back to him. He opened it up and found it bare of books and other odds and ends. Either no-one was using it this year, or the owner had taken the precaution of clearing it out before the homecoming hordes returned. The years had added layers to the stickers used to adorn the inside, but here and there a corner peeked through. Just as he was about to shut it, a figure emerged from the adjacent stairwell.

All Spike had time to notice was the gun swinging toward him. He grabbed the assassin's arm before his body even came into view, slamming it into the lockers three times before Luke's grip loosened enough to let the weapon fall to the brightly waxed floor. A stray kick was enough to send it halfway down the corridor. By now the larger man had overcome his surprise at being caught out. Pulling his injured hand from Spike's grip, he kneed the blond in the kidneys from behind with an agility that belied his size. Spike found himself pinned against the lockers with his back to his opponent as more kicks rained in. Craning his neck, he twisted his left hand until the red-hot tip of his cigarette pushed into the other man's eyeball. Spike felt himself freed as his counterpart let out a furious bellow.

Turning to face his aggressor, Spike fell into a defensive stance. The two men traded kicks and punches for what must have been less than a brutal minute. Spike used his speed and the other man's limited vision to his advantage, but every time the other man managed to hit, his strength made it feel like a hammer blow. Finally, Spike managed to sweep the legs from under his teutonic opponent. He landed awkwardly, spraining his wrist as he fell with his back against the row of lockers. Spike pounced, using the moment of disorientation to smash the man's head back against the lockers repeatedly. Even then the Basque managed to fight back, his undamaged hand grasping at Spike's throat. Using his right arm to hold his attacker pinned against the ranks of cabinets, Spike reached into his suit pocket with his other hand, pulling out his only weapon. Flicking off the cap that bore Scott Hope's name, he stabbed the pen into the other man's neck, aiming for the jugular. When the hold on his throat eased, Spike sagged forward watching the blood that was spreading through the body's white shirt.

This was the point where Buffy came looking for him, running in her eagerness to get back to him. Spike's gaze travelled from her shocked face to the bloodstained pen in his hand and the body next to him.

"It's not me, Buffy. It-"

He watched as her face crumpled and heard her incoherent sobs as she ran to get away from him. He heard her, and he heard Xander's muffled tones as he met her on the stairs, only managing to slow her headlong flight.

Xander came skidding into the corridor, the same look of shock appearing on his face as had been on Buffy's. He looked from Spike's bruised and bloody face to the body on the floor.

"Hey. Is that- Is that his- that guy's blood?" he asked.

The question seemed to rouse Spike from his trance.

"Yeah. A thousand innocent people get killed every day..." He got to his feet and started pulling down a large paper banner from the wall.

Xander watched as Spike placed the banner on the floor at an angle to the body. He couldn't help asking even though he already knew the answer. "Is this guy dead?"

Spike continued on as if the question had never been raised, starting to roll it so it was wrapped in a spiral of paper. "But a millionaire's pet goes boom, and you're marked for life... Give us a hand, here."

"Okay," answered Xander. Even though he was probably in shock, he couldn't help but find his friend's efficiency in dealing with dead bodies slightly chilling.

Spike pointed at a cloth banner that had hung over the corridor even when they were at school there. "Pull that down," he told Xander as he continued to wrap the corpse in its paper shroud.

"How'd he die?" Xander asked passing the cloth to Spike. The blond grabbed the cloth, using it to mop up the spilled blood, and then wrapping it around the dropped gun before pushing the bundle in behind the corpse's head and neatly tucking in the ends of the paper.

"He's a notorious terrorist. There's a contract out on my life."

"He is dead, though?" Xander asked, even as he helped with the last of the rolling and wrapping.

"D'you think this is an exercise in oversized origami?" Spike asked sarcastically before his voice softened. "He's dead, Xand. It was me or him." He took a breath and pointed at the end of the parcel Xander was holding. "Look, are his feet covered?"

The music got louder as they half carried the body downstairs and half slid it down the banister. They stumbled toward the boiler room, and between the two of them, managed to launch the corpse into the depths of the glowing industrial sized furnace.

Spike let loose a stream of very British epithets as he pushed the furnace doors closed, but whether it was because he burnt himself on the hot metal or because of the whole situation, was anyone's guess as far as Xander was concerned.

"Thanks. Nobody's gonna come lookin' for this guy. Come on," his friend told him. Spike's arm fell around his shoulder.

Xander watched the water flow red as Spike rinsed the blood from his hand. The two of them looked a mess, ties removed, shirts rumpled and innocence gone. By the time they made their weary way to the free bar, Xander was more than ready for the double whisky he ordered. He waited while the bartender fetched it and Spike's club soda.

Spike was asking everyone in the same zip code if they'd seen Buffy. He managed to make it sound conversational, just a polite inquiry. 'Nobody's seen her, you follicly-fried idiot. What did you think she was going to do? Make a detour to inform everybody in the auditorium that her boyfriend was a homicidal maniac while she ran for her life? If she had any sense, she was in the next state over by now. And so should you be,' Xander thought to himself.

He took a sip of the fiery liquid and walked up to Spike with his right hand outstretched. "Hi. I'm Xander Harris. I'm in construction. What do you do, Spike?"

Spike's gaze flicked from Xander to the bartender, to Scott Hope who still stood exactly where Spike and Buffy had left him earlier, and to the few others who stood nearby before he looked sheepishly at his shoes, unable to answer.

"What now? Chase the girl?"

Spike shook his head. "No. If you see Buffy, just tell her I'm sorry."

It took a second for Spike's meaning to sink in, but when it did the brunette walked off in disgust. This was it. This was all there was. He'd disappeared for ten years. Come back. Made both him and Buffy accomplice to murder, and now he was just going to leave without even giving Buffy as little of an explanation as he'd given him.

Spike pulled some ice from a bucket that rested on the bar, dropping it into a handkerchief so that he could hold it against his split lip. With a last effort at civility he stumbled from the room. "Take care of yourself, Scott. Thanks for the pen."

Scott looked up from his whisky glass. "Yeah, sure, no problem."

~+~

Spike lay on top of his hotel bed, propped up against the headboard. He flicked through the channels, feeling like he was in the video for The Wall except now there were even more channels of shit to choose from. After about twenty, he gave up on finding anything and pulled his mobile headset from into place, pressing speed dial with one hand and flicking channels with the other. A recorded message came over the line.

~+~

Willow Rosenberg lay cuddled up in a warm cosy bed with her significant other. She stirred as the phone rang, trying to shake the sleep from her system in case one of her patients was having some sort of crisis. She stretched, listening to the recorded message and waiting to see who the caller was.

A flat monotone voice followed hers. "Doctor Rosenberg, it's Spike Blank. Listen, I just wanted to tell you that I won't be coming round any more." A look of annoyance settled on the redhead's face, and she crawled out of bed. "Things are going really well here. Everything's worked out better than I thought, and I don't think our little chats are really helping." Willow picked up the cordless handset and headed to the en suite bathroom as the voice droned on. "I don't think you really take our sessions seriously, and I want you to take a deep breath and realise-" The rest of Spike's message was lost as the handset settled to the bottom of the lavatory cistern. Replacing the heavy porcelain lid, Willow smiled smugly to herself, pleased that she'd stood up to Spike's bullying tactics and toddled back to bed.

~+~

"I want you to realise... that this.. is.. me.. firing.. you." Spike drew out the phrase, enunciating every word before he pulled off the headset, which would have broken the connection if it hadn't already been broken.

The knock at his room door made him reach for his gun, and he crept to the door in case another killer waited on the other side, just hoping for the smallest noise to let them know where to shoot. He pulled the door open the smallest amount that would actually let him see who was there, holding the gun at waist level, ready to shoot if need be. Instead he found himself pointing the weapon at Buffy.

She looked hunched up and miserable, her arms wrapped around her as if for warmth, even though the weather wasn't cold. Spike pulled the door wide, ushering her in and dropping the gun into his jacket pocket. She looked at his battered face up close for the first time. Her question came out as a whisper. "He was going to kill you, right?"

"Yes."

"It wasn't the other way round?"

"No. No. I didn't want that to happen."

"I-is it something you've done?"

Spike took a breath, and then another before he answered. "It's something I do... professionally. For about five years now." He used his sleeve to gently wipe a tear from Buffy's cheek as he spoke.

As he finished, Buffy's mouth fell open with a gasp as she put the pieces of the puzzle together. "But you were joking. People joke about the horrible things that they don't do." She backed away from him into the middle of the room her hands held out in front of her to stop him closing the distance between them. "They don't do them. It's- it's- You-"

"When I left I joined the army, and when I took the service exam... my psych profile fit a certain... moral flexibility. I was loaned out to a CIA sponsored program, and we sort of found each other. That's the way it works." Spike bent his head this way and that as he spoke trying to keep eye contact even when Buffy dropped her gaze. It made him look a bit like a small dog trying to look endearing."

"So you- you're a government spook?"

"Yeah, I mean no, not any more. Thing is, I kinda realised all that's just irrelevant really. I mean when you talk about nations, governments, it's all just public relations, really."

"Don't. Just don't." Buffy cut off Spike's rambling. "Don't start rationalising and theorising. Just tell me about the dead people. Explain the dead people." She didn't look hurt any more. She looked betrayed, betrayed and pissed.

"Well, it's kinda complicated. In the beginning, you need a reason, some sort of principle that you believe in. With me it was maintaining unchecked aggression. Other guys were into live free or die, but you get the idea...

But what happens eventually is that you realise that all that is, is a line they feed you to make you willing to do what they want. But by then you're not just willing to do it, you're trained to do it, and you want to do it. You get to like it." Spike tried to backpedal when he saw the look of horror on Buffy's face.

"I know that sounds bad-"

"Yeah. You're a psychopath..." Buffy backed away almost as far as the room window.

"No. No." Spike sputtered knowing he was losing her. "A psychopath kills for no reason. I kill for money. It's a job- That doesn't sound right... Let me put it another way... If I turn up at your door, chances are you did something to bring me there. You should see the files on some of these wankers, pet. They read like a demon's resumé.

Look, love, I... I can't do it any more. I've lost my taste for it, completely. That's why I came back, you know. I wanted to see you. Start over, leave all that behind."

"Oh, so I'm part of-" Buffy gave a hiccup that in her near hysterical state could have been either a sob or a laugh. "I'm part of your romantic new beginning. Right?" She advanced on Spike, the hostility in her voice causing him to give ground before her. He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off before he could. "How come you never learned that it was wrong? That there are some things you do not do- You just do not do in a civilised society."

"Actually-"

"Shut up. Just shut up. Everything about you is a lie. Everything. You're the one with the demon's resumé. Stay away from me." Buffy stormed around him and headed for the door.

Spike lunged after her. "Buffy, don't go!"

"Don't you get it Spike?" Buffy turned to face him, her eyes full of fury, as she held the door open. "You don't get to have me. There are some things that are just too big to be forgiven."

All Spike could do was watch as she slammed the door behind her on the way out.

end of chapter 16

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