Chapter 7
In the end, they rented a car and drove from Chicago to L.A. They could have bought a plane ticket for Spike to match Deth’s return or called Angel to request the jet, but neither option sat well. She needed time. She needed to experience the space between the two cities. They drove only in the dark and slept in motels during the day—luckily, winter was quickly approaching, so they made good time. Deth was quiet, mostly. She liked to drive. They kept the radio on. Spike didn’t attempt cheery conversation, except for the occasional diatribe against some band or other whose songs were being grossly overplayed. She liked his rants and would sometimes even smile a bit when he really got going. Neither of them mentioned the events that had transpired in Chicago, though it obviously weighed heavily on both their minds.
When they were about an hour outside of L.A., Deth inexplicably pulls off to the side of the road and puts the car into park. She takes a deep breath and then turns to Spike.
Deth: “What should I do?”
He thinks about it a minute.
Spike: “Nothing. I’ll take care of it—anything that comes up, anyone who finds out. Leave it all to me.”
He knows she will—knows she trusts him. He likes being able to take care of her—likes that she’ll let him.
She frowns as she acknowledges this with a slight nod. She turns back to the steering wheel, glances out at the road ahead, then back to Spike with slightly more urgency in her expression.
Deth: [her voice soft, strangled] “What should I do?”
Never letting his eyes leave her face, Spike’s mind spins trying to come up with a satisfactory answer. He looks away for a moment—out through the windshield. What can he possibly say—hang out in a basement for a few months talking gibberish until you feel better? Spend a hundred years in a sewer, eating rats? It’s not her fault, after all—she shouldn’t have to pay like they did. He frowns, then looks back at her.
Spike: “Bury it. Lock it away, as deep as you can.” Ok, so he’s not a bloody therapist.
Deth lets out a breath at his words. She closes her eyes a moment before turning back towards the steering wheel and putting the car in gear and pulling back out into the road.
**
Back in L.A., things quickly fall back into a routine. Well, as much of a routine as is possible when you work for a formally evil law firm, preparing for the next apocalypse. Spike bluffed his way through Angel’s interrogation, claiming it was all a false alarm but never expanding on what the alarm was exactly. Angel didn’t press. He was distracted by the fact that suddenly everything had gone quiet—there had been this big build-up, this expansive momentum toward what he assumed was the coming BIG BANG. But then everything fell silent. The usual, background crap was still around, but it had a random feel. Suddenly, they were back to the sort of business-as-usual, corporate, paper –pushing brand of fighting evil that he’d come to despise. Surely, it was the calm before the storm, but there was no way of knowing when or from where the winds would blow in again.
Spike kept a close eye on Deth. Things were different, surely, but she appeared to be coping better than he’d expected. There was certainly a new quietness, passiveness about her, but nothing so extreme to catch the attention of anyone else. She’d taken a few days when they’d first got back to hibernate in her little apartment with her new pets. After that, she’d gone back to work at Wolfram and Hart, studying texts with Wesley as usual and helping out in the field whenever the situation called for it. She quit her job at Harvey’s—Spike wondered about that, but didn’t call her on it. She always seemed tired and that was her excuse. They stayed on their shifted nocturnal schedule for the most part—Deth had worked it out with Wesley so they overlapped enough. What she hadn’t mentioned to Spike was that she felt she was getting less and less from the texts—less even from the demons themselves. Truth is, she was distracted, unfocussed. Her mind was becoming closed to it. Wes had noticed this as well—she told him she’d been feeling unwell and he wasn’t so very bothered, since things were quiet and life was puttering along without great urgency. Life was puttering along. They did what they used to do for the most part—Deth even smiled and laughed occasionally. They made love every night they were together, which was quickly becoming every night. Not madly, not wildly; her former aggression tempered; her distraction bought with increased effort. Still, considering, it seemed almost normal.
They never spoke of Chicago. He would wait for her to be ready. He didn’t want to break through the illusion she must have created for herself to cope. Not yet. Not until it became necessary.
But then things started to change. Or perhaps it was that they weren’t changing enough. She started spending more and more time in bed—sleeping the days and nights away when she wasn’t at work. Days would pass—she’d call in to work and never get out of those godawful pajamas. Her skin was almost as pale as his, having been shielded from the California sun for too long. She didn’t seem to want to be around her own things anymore—she spent less and less time in her apartment. Eventually, Spike offered to move the aquarium to his place, as she was even neglecting that. “So tired”, she’d say before turning over and pulling the duvet over her head. He didn’t mind having her there all the time—seemed natural to him. But even he knew that these things did not bode well. The thing they never spoke of was festering. She had taken his advice and it was consuming her. Spike finds himself wishing she would just cry like a normal girl or like he did in the early days after the soul. But still, he keeps these things to himself hoping that everything will improve with time.
Scene: Spike’s apartment, sometime after dawn.
Pan to Spike’s bed (looking on from the foot), where he and Deth are in the slow, steady groove of their nightly shag. Under the sheets, you can make out the outline of Deth’s legs wrapped around Spike’s narrow hips, which are thrusting rhythmically. His naked torso is visible above the sheets. His arms are outstretched; his muscles tensed, supporting his upper body, lifted above her. The sounds of low grunts are heard with every thrust, steadily building in intensity. As he nears his release, Spike fights to keep his eyes open to watch her. Minutes before, she’d had a monster of an orgasm—she’d slammed her pelvis against his face as she shrieked in pleasure, her hole pulsing and pulling at his tongue, sucking it in further as he’d continued to wiggle it. It seemed to on forever and was followed by a delicious trickle of juices that he lapped up hungrily, giving his boner new urgency. Now she is still recovering—her white cheeks beautifully flushed, her eyes wide and clear and giving him that look. Moments like these were few and far between, as her focus was often inward or elsewhere. But right now, she had that flash—even that half smirk, half smile—that was herself. As he picks up the pace, he can feel that her blood isn’t settling, but building again. She unwraps her legs, letting them fall outward, though still outstretched, giving him deeper access. Soon they’re both lost in their approaching climax, moaning and grunting and grasping at each other. Spike can’t stop himself from uttering an “Aww, FUCK” as he feels her inner walls clamp down on his cock, making it explode into her. After a few moments of satisfied panting and head shaking, he collapses onto her and in one quick motion, flips over onto his back, pulling her with him so she’s lying on his chest.
She rests her head on his shoulder and says in the usual way…
Deth: “That was fun.”
Spike: “Better than a slap in the face with a wet kipper, that’s for sure.”
This elicits a laugh from Deth and a faux angry nipple tweak.
Spike: [good heartedly] “Ouch—Hey, you’re the one who started with the understatement, love.”
They lay there a moment, feeling cozy and satisfied. A slightly wistful expression descends on Spike’s face. He leisurely plays with her hair and then lifts her chin up and leans in to kiss her. He breaks the kiss and with his fingers still entangled in her blondish-red locks he stares into her eyes and whispers,
Spike: “Tell me.”
She furrows her brow, ever so slightly, and lets her eyes fall to the side, breaking his gaze.
Deth: “No. [beat] I don’t want to.”
Spike: “Why?”
Deth: “It makes you sad.”
He thinks about this a moment, conjuring up memories.
Spike: “Less every time.”
She wonders about this—could it be true? She’s not sure. Part of her resists, not wanting to endure the inevitable silence again. But then there’s the other part that sparks at his neediness; that is happy to give in to it. She decides to be coy.
Deth: “Maybe tomorrow.”
Spike: [her coyness lightening the mood] “Thought we’d covered this—I’m not a patient sort. [beat. His voice dropping—now low, hoarse, insistent] Tell me.”
Deth: [unable to resist his tone, she looks back up at him] “I love you.”
The sides of his mouth turn up slightly, pleased. He leans in for another kiss.
A phone rings. Deth frowns and gets up to answer—it’s her cell phone.
Deth: “Hello? [pause] Now? But it’s the middle of the da…[pause] Right. Sure. [pause] About an hour. Okay.”
She hangs up.
Spike: “What’s that about?
Deth: “Wes wants me to come in this afternoon—something to do with Illyria.”
In truth, Spike had actually set this up—he wanted her to get out and about during the day. Ok, so maybe he was ready to push her a bit…
She climbs out of bed and slowly starts to get ready—a dim frown lurking beneath her usual placid expression. She showers, dresses and makes coffee. Spike does a poor job of feigning interest in the television—he’s watching her, catching each tiny gesture, expression and movement. Everything reveals a growing anxiety as the time for her departure nears. He wonders why? What is she afraid of? She’s too lost in her thoughts to notice his attention and is startled when he speaks.
Spike: “’He sending a car for you?”
Deth: “No. I said I’d make my own way.”
Spike nods. She goes back to drinking her coffee.
Spike: [trying to pull her out of her thoughts for a moment] “So, what was Wolfram & Hart’s conclusion about me, then? “
Deth: [lost] “What?”
Spike: “You read the file—just curious about their take on things.”
Deth: [Coming out of her pseudo-meditation; She doesn’t think twice about his asking—she finds his occasional need for ego-stroking endearing.] “Worthy of their attention, but ultimately too unpredictable to be of use.”
Spike: [sarcastic] “Come on, give it ‘me in nutshell then. No need for elaborative details.”
Deth: “You asked for ‘conclusion’. Besides, I have to…go.”
She puts down her mug and walks to the couch, where her coat is strewn over the arm. She puts it on, throws her bag over her shoulder and then glances over at the bedside table where her iPod is laying. Spike had given her one soon after they’d got back from Chicago—stolen, of course—already had music on it, but it’s the thought that counts. He figured it would help her drown out her thoughts. But like everything else, she appeared to take it to extreme—she always had it on, the little white headphones tucked in her ears anytime she wasn’t actually in bed. Oh well—whatever works. Seeing her gaze, he reaches for it as she walks over to claim it.
Spike: “What you got on this thing, now anyway? You’re not still listening to bloody Eminem, are you?”
But before he can hit a button to see for himself, she snatches it from him (a bit too hastily).
Deth: [shrugging] “He’s angry. I like it.”
Spike: “Yeah, but it’s crap angry. I can give you quality angry if you’ll let me have it for a spell.”
A quick shake of the head as she dutifully puts the buds in her ears and turns to go. She stops briefly at the door, turns her head with a small smile…
Deth: “Bye.”
Spike smiles back and nods. After she’s gone, he slides out of bed, pulls his pants on and lights up a cigarette. Not a minute later, he hears her frantic footsteps and clumsy fumbling of keys outside the door. He rushes to the door and opens it, finding her breathing heavily and shaking on the other side, frantic to get inside. She’s pulled the sleeves her of t-shirt over her hands and one of her arms is draped over her face—she pushes past him into the apartment. He leans over and picks up her bag, which she dropped, and closes the door behind him.
Spike: “What’s wrong?”
Deth: [obviously upset, her hands still over her eyes] “I can’t…I can’t—the light. It hurts.”
Is she crying, or is it just her eyes running?
Spike: “What are you talking about?”
Deth: [her voice is shaking] “The sun. I can’t…it burns. I shouldn’t... Call Wesley and tell him I can’t come until later.”
Okay, this is too much—he decides he has to say something. He pulls her hands from her eyes and grabs her shoulders roughly. He shakes her enough to get her to look up at him.
Spike: [sternly] “This has got to stop. Deth, you’re not a vampire. You’re not like me. The sun doesn’t burn you. It’s all in your head, love.”
Deth: “You don’t know.”
Spike: “Yes I do. Everything you’ve been doing lately—you’re making yourself into something you’re not. Imprisoning yourself. It’s the guilt. I know.”
Deth: [weakly] “But it hurts.”
Spike: “You think it hurts because you think it should hurt. [softening his tone] You’re not a demon—you’re a girl.”
Deth: [calming down, her tone is now mellow, sad.] “Not just a girl anymore.”
Spike: [frowning, he loosens his grip on her shoulders] “You need to stop this.”
Deth: [suddenly looking a bit green] “I feel sick.”
She breaks away and runs to the bathroom, where she throws up in the toilet. He follows her in there. When she’s done, she splashes some cold water on her face. Blotting the water with a hand towel, she takes a deep breath.
Spike: [leaning in the doorway] “Maybe it’s time we talk about this, yeah?”
Deth: “I’m dealing with it.”
Spike: [incredulous laugh] “You’re serious?”
Deth: “I’m not crazy.”
Spike: “Didn’t say you were.”
Deth: “It hurt.”
Spike: “I know.”
They stand there in silence for a few minutes.
Deth: “They don’t do human sacrifice—the Pastuyk. There isn’t a single account of them using humans in any ritualized way.”
Spike: “But they hunt them sometimes.”
Deth: [frowning] “Not the same.”
Spike: “So we’ll look into it when you get back tonight.”
Deth: [fear in her eyes] “Get back? But I can’t…”
Spike: [wanting to push her, but understanding her fear. A compromise…] “We’ll bundle you up—I’ve have some experience covering skin.”
Deth reluctantly agrees. When she’s fitted with a hat, gloves and big sunglasses, they head to the door. As she’s putting her ear buds in, Spike playfully grabs the iPod and hits the menu button. He frowns and looks at her curiously.
Spike: “Battery’s dead.”
She sighs and pulls the headphones off.
Deth: “I lost the charger. [beat] A few weeks ago.”
Spike: [shocked] “What? But I thought…”
Deth: “Listen, I know what you said about drowning, burying—but I need to deal in my own way.”
He is completely floored that she hadn’t been taking his advice, especially when he had become convinced that she was taking it to extremes.
Spike: [bemused, mildly defensive] “So you just ignored me, then?”
Deth: “I love you, but you’re not exactly a paragon of mental health.”
Spike: [He can’t really argue] “Well yeah, but…”
Deth: [reassuring] “You’ve helped.”
She gives him a small smile as she turns to go. In the doorway, she turns back to say:
Deth: “Next personal catastrophe, it’s all you.”
After she leaves, he laughs to himself and shakes his head—perhaps he doesn’t know her quite as well as he’d thought. A refreshing touch of unpredictability.
End Scene
***
[Writer’s note: I have to do some shorthand summaries here…just running out of time…]
Deth makes it in to work without incident, though she continues to cover herself as much as possible every time she is out in sunlight. Before the confrontation with Spike, she had been going to mention it to Wesley—perhaps there was some explanation for her sensitivity. But now she’s not sure that it isn’t all in her head—a manifestation of her guilt. And she’s not about to talk to Wesley about the sacrifice just yet.
As her interpretive skills have continued to decline, she’d been going on more field missions with Wesley and the others as needed. She was still useful in many situations. Oddly, one night when they were out, she was actually attacked by a vampire. Not singled out—they were all under attack—but she was so used to being ignored in such situations. Luckily, she was quick enough to defend herself, but the incident left her feeling even more freaked out. Wesley tried to convince her that it was likely an isolated incident—of course, he was quite fascinated because it could give them a clue about why Deth has never been attacked before, so he quickly took to analyzing every detail of what happened. For the first time in her life, Deth began to feel vulnerable.
**
Scene: Wolfram and Hart—Angel’s office. Deth, Wes and Angel are pouring over some important demon document. Harmony appears at the door, carrying some paper bags.
Harmony: “Your order from Moe’s—I’ve got a corned beef on rye and a Popeye burger, extra rare.”
Wesley: “Corned beef. Thanks, Harmony.”
Harmony: [to Deth] “Oh, so this one must be yours.” She promptly/pointedly lets it drop to the floor. “Oops.” She turns, snottily and walks out of the room. She returns a moment later with another bag.
Harmony: [again to Deth] “Ooh, almost forgot. I asked them to throw in an extra order of fries, because I can really tell how hard you’ve been working to pad out those hips. Enjoy.”
Wesley: [to Deth] “I thought you were a vegetarian.”
Deth: [Walking over to retrieve the bag from the floor.] “Nope.”
Angel asks Harmony to bring him a bottle of blood from the refrigerator in the employee lounge.
They go back to pondering the document. A drop of blood from Angel’s mug falls on the scroll, just as Deth takes a bite of her burger and a big splash of burger juice does the same. Wesley rushes to wipe it off. Deth appears transfixed.
Wesley: [annoyed] “Perhaps we should continue this after dinner. [noticing Deth’s glazed stare] Are you getting something? It is an original…”
Deth: [flustered] “What? Oh. No. Sorry.”
She mumbles something about not sleeping well. She offers to eat the rest of her dinner in the lounge.
A while later, Deth is in Wesley’s office. They’re both reading separate books. Deth starts shifting in her chair. She coughs once or twice.
Wesley: “Are you alright?”
Deth: “Fine. I’ve just had a bug. Or something.”
Wesley: “If you don’t mind my saying, you look awfully pale. Perhaps you should stop down to the clinic on your way home today—you’ve been missing a lot of work these past few weeks.”
Deth: “Went the other day. They took some blood.”
Wesley: “Well?”
Deth: “I’m a bit anemic, that’s all. They gave me some iron pills—told me to eat more meat.”
Wesley: “Oh.”
They go back to reading. But after a few more minutes, Deth starts looking very ill. She stands up from her chair, looking wobbly.
Deth: “I’m gonna be sick.”
Wes jumps up and grabs a wastebasket from under his desk and thrusts it in front of her just in time. Unfortunately, it’s metal mesh (made for holding paper) and so the liquid leaks out the side and falls on the papers littering the floor—it’s blood. Wesley looks up at her, shocked and concerned.
Wesley: “We’ve got to get you to the hospital.”
Deth: [recovering] “No, I’m fine.”
Wesley: “You’re not fine. You’re vomiting blood.”
Deth: “It’s not what you think.”
Wesley: [shocked at her response] “Pardon my confusion, but I can’t fathom how having a stomach full of blood can be anything but a matter of medical concern.”
Deth: “No, it’s just…”
Wesley: “Just what? [not waiting for her to answer] You’re anemic and vomiting blood. I’m calling the medics downstairs.” He reaches for the phone.
Deth: “Please, Wesley. It’s really not a big deal.”
Wesley: [frowning] “Are you going to tell me why?”
Deth: [obviously embarrassed/hesitant to admit something] “I…had blood in my stomach because…because I drank it.”
Wesley: [not quite sure he heard correctly] “Drank what?”
Deth: “The blood.”
Wesley: “Whatever for?”
Deth: [shrugging] “It just appealed.”
Wesley: “It appealed. (?!) Didn’t you find that a bit odd?”
Deth shrugs sheepishly.
Wesley: [trying to understand] “And how did it taste? The one time I had a mouthful, it was rather…horrible.”
Deth: [considering] “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be.”
Wesley: “Interesting. [beat] Of course your body rejected it, as it should. I suppose that’s a good sign. Still, I’d say the matter is far from trivial.”
Deth stands there a moment, looking pensive. Then she blinks hard a couple of times, as if she’s having trouble focusing. Wesley steps over to support her just as her knees start to go—he leads her to a chair.
Deth: “Maybe I should go.”
Wesley: “I don’t quite understand your hesitation to get this looked into. There’s obviously something wrong.”
Deth: [almost a whisper—as if she’s letting Wes in on a secret] “The thing is….I may just be losing it.”
Wesley: “And by ‘it’, you mean…”
Deth points to her head.
Wesley: [with a hint of a smile; sympathetic] “Well, you’re certainly in good company here. Still, perhaps we should spend a bit of time ruling out physical and/or supernatural causes before we declare ‘it’ entirely lost. Deal?”
Deth smiles, relieved—she’d expected him to press her on the ‘why’ and she still wasn’t ready to share that with him.
Deth: “Thanks.”
Wesley: “This could all be related—the dampening of your interpretive abilities, the attack the other night, your...illness. [beat] Yes, quite intriguing.”
After escorting Deth down to the clinic, Wesley is newly motivated to dig a bit deeper into Deth’s story. Months ago, he’d started numerous lines of inquiry, most of which he had never followed up on. It was so hard for him to focus, still. He wondered whether that would ever end—what would it take?
Tbc....