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.
Thanks to: Belladonna (see immortal-sins.com), kmoody, NeverMindDaria, FloX, Ashione, jaime, tuowei, vette, fangfacey, sita, Scoobies112 and Young at Heart, not forgetting MadRog (www.Sunnydale-Tales.com) for her services as beta.
Notes: Shortish chapter, but it seemed like a reasonable point to pause and go about all my chores for the day (which will probably include trying to work out how to set up a web-site), so rather than keep you waiting…
Quite a few people have commented that they prefer the flashbacks to the main story, but I’d be interested to know whether this is the majority opinion or that of a select few. Once I know I can work out how much detail to go into in the respective sections, so whether you want more teen stuff or more twenty-something bits let me know.
Chapter 6
Spike recognised the expression on her face the second he walked in the door and wondered what the odds were on him getting away with walking straight back out again.
"Sit!" Buffy pointed at the DJ booth’s second seat.
Spike sat. Then he fidgeted, feeling uncomfortably exposed with his back to the booth door and the adjacent viewing window. After a couple of seconds, he turned in his seat to close the blinds on the window behind him.
Buffy glared at him impatiently and rose from her seat to close the blinds on the door. "Since when did you become Captain Para…" She stopped mid-question as she watched Spike abandon his chair in favour of her own which backed onto a solid wall.
"I. Do. Not. Believe. This," she muttered under her breath. Taking the now vacant seat, she prodded a button on the console hard enough to let Spike know she was thinking of prodding something or rather someone else.
"Okay. Let’s see. Pick a random date, shall we? Spring 1990."
Spike looked in panic at the illuminated "ON AIR" sign over Buffy’s head and mentally cursed himself for putting her between himself at the door. He tried to mouth a silent message to her, "Don’t. Do. This." Buffy continued on regardless.
"Two teenagers with the kind of chemistry that few people are privileged to experience in a lifetime and which I have certainly never seen again in the decade since. It’s prom night. One last night to party with that old high school crowd before everyone goes their separate ways. That last romantic evening with your honey, a night that should be filled with happy memories that you can treasure forever. Instead the girl sits in her…" Buffy caught Spike’s eye, effectively pinning him in place as she paused dramatically. "…Seven hundred dollar prom dress." Spike flinched knowing how scarce money had been for Buffy’s family in the wake of her mother’s illness. "Boy never shows up, till now. What do you think I want to know?"
Before Spike’s brain could take over, the words were out of his mouth. "Next week’s winning lottery numbers…Ow!" Given their relative positions, the nose punch had been too awkward, but Buffy could settle for a good shin kick when she had to.
"More like what happened? What made you pick that night of all nights to pull a disappearing act?"
"I don’t bloody know," Spike let his frustration at being set up on air come through in his answer. "You want me to make something up? Come up with some piss-poor psychobabble version of events? ‘Cause I’ve had ten years to think about it, an’ I still don’t have an explanation that’s worth a damn. Alright, pet?"
"No, pet." Buffy’s tone made it clear that his use of the one-time endearment was not appreciated. "It’s not alright. It’s a long, long way from alright, but if that’s all I’m going to get, I’ll have to settle for finding out what finally brings you back."
"P—. Buffy, I thought, you know… seein’ you, maybe some of the old crowd, coming home except, well, home’s sort of not there anymore unless I want to camp in the liquor aisle…"
"The things K Mart will do in the name of free enterprise," Buffy drawled by way of an explanation to her radio audience.
"It was mostly to see you, but it was sort of my shrink that thought I should. It’s all her idea really…"
"Why am I not surprised you’ve got a shrink? Never mind. Rhetorical question… So, your back, about three thousand six hundred and fifty three days late on some sort of therapeutic mission, and you want to make things right between us? Is that about the gist of it?"
Spike shrugged. "Pretty much."
"Okay, so the question now becomes do I co-operate with you in this psychiatrist sponsored quest, or do I kick your limey butt out of here so hard it’s still hurting when you land in merry old England?"
Spike had enough sense to keep his mouth shut at this point, waiting to see what her answer would be.
"No deeply personal revelations you want to share with the listening public before we open the lines for this morning’s phone-in poll?"
Spike’s eyes almost bore straight through her and his jaw clamped so tight that the muscles in his cheek quivered in the way she’d once found adorable. Buffy continued on relentlessly. "Okay people, you know the number. Should a once broken-hearted girl give the guy a second chance at love?"
Picking a phone-line at random, Buffy pressed the button. "Line two. You’re on the air."
"Hi, Buffy. It’s Carole." Spike envisaged some old woman living alone in a second floor apartment, shuffling back and forward in carpet slippers and american-tan panty-hose that sagged into wrinkles about her ankles.
"Oh, hi Carole," Buffy greeted the woman as if they had a long acquaintance.
"I don’t think this guy’s been open with you. He hasn’t told you what happened or where he’s been and he hasn’t even said he’s sorry. I don’t think he’s got any right to expect anything from you until he lays his cards on the table about the past and about his feelings and his intentions for the future. I don’t think you should see him."
"Well, thank you, Carole." Buffy punched another button. "Line four. You’re on the air."
"Yo, dude?"
Spike raised his head and Buffy almost recanted when she saw the look of total humiliation on his face. "Yeah?" he enquired in a voice redolent with resignation.
"Heh, heh, Dude, you know, like that chick is so totally freakin’ hot? Heh, heh."
"It hadn’t escaped my attention," Spike commented tersely, not sure he liked where Beavis was going with this.
"So, like, heh, my question is this, heh, heh, when you were like together, did she put ou—." Buffy violently selected another line.
"Line three. You’re on the air."
In the station wagon outside Forrest stopped trying to wrest the phone from Graham’s grasp. "Say, William, why don’t you come clean? Tell the girl what really brings you to sunny Southern California? Let her know about your little assignment, tough guy?"
Pressing the only remaining blinking button on the console Buffy continued on as Spike scanned the street outside for the source of the call. "Well, so much for the Sunnydale chapter of the Henry Rollins fan club. Line one. You’re our last chance for a shred of sanity."
The drawl of the next caller was so pronounced Spike was sure he was either retarded or in a marijuana induced haze. "I’ve been listening, Buffy, but I don’t hear no remorse. I just wouldn’t give him another opportunity to hurt you again."
"Well, thank you, caller." Buffy pressed the button to terminate the call and turned her head sideways, looking at Spike through her lashes. "If you love somebody, set them free. If they come back to you, they’re probably…" Buffy shrugged apologetically as she enunciated the last word, "broken."
~+~
Spike crossed the road shoulders hunched, heading back toward his hire car, squinting slightly against the mockingly brilliant sunlight. He reached the car but couldn’t bring himself to just get in and leave, not quite yet. A little walk down Main Street and back, that was what he needed, just a little walk in the sun and a chance to regain some perspective.
"Why the hell couldn’t I just have quit while I was still ahead?"
Even with his emotions in turmoil Spike automatically functioned as his training dictated. It was a reflexive action for his eyes to sweep the area. His subconscious processed the continuous stream of information, leaving his higher brain functions free to ponder the final death knell for his long-held romantic-reconciliation fantasy. At least that was the way it worked until his subconscious became aware of an anomaly and pointed out to his conscious mind that the man walking towards him was someone he was familiar with, a familiarity that didn't date from his high school years.
~+~
Luke forced himself to focus on a point in the distance so that he could avoid locking gazes with Blank without looking shifty. Only as he neared the crosswalk, did he allow his gaze to flick from left to right as if checking for traffic. He, like Blank, was always on alert for the smallest detail out of place with its surroundings. That’s why he noticed the two government agents in their stationary station wagon. As he and Forrest made eye contact, both looked away hoping that the other had been unaware of their mutual recognition.
~+~
Spike saw the brief hesitation in his adversary’s eyes and followed his gaze, recognising the men and the car from his visit to the convenience store the previous day. Watching both them and the hulking figure with dirty blond hair as best he could, Spike crossed the side-street, knowing the other man would either be forced to do the same and lose his view of Spike or to expose his interest in the bleach blond.
Whilst Spike pondered the preponderance of professional killers occupying his hometown, he was caught off-guard. There was a slight jink where one shop front stuck out several feet farther than the one behind it, creating a dead zone where someone could lurk unnoticed from Spike’s side and window-shop inconspicuously from the viewpoint opposite.
"Spike? Man." The charcoal-suited brunette reached into his jacket as he called out, causing Spike to whirl round, his hand closing on the grip of his Glock 9mm under his arm. He only relaxed his hold slightly as he realised the other man held, not a gun but a spectacle case into which he was depositing the sunglasses that had obscured his features.
"Spike. It’s —." Spike took in the changes first. The hairline had receded an inch or so at the temples, and he’d lost the effortless slenderness of youth, which had once allowed him to gorge himself on a seemingly perpetual flow of snack food without ill-effect. The suit and tie were decidedly out of place, or at least Spike’s memories told him that they should have been, but there was no mistaking the man before him.
"Xander. You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack."
"Yeah, well, nice to see you, too."
End of Chapter 6