tabaqui | Amnesia!fic! And assorted maunderings...

Amnesia!fic! And assorted maunderings...

Wednesday, January 25th, 2006 12:48 am

Hallo!
Yes, I'm being...bad. Scaling Heaven isn't done and neither is *this* but i just - wanted to post! And

reremouse ~~enabled~~ encouraged me, so...

I gave in.
Heh.

I also wanted to do that '10 Things' meme about how you know it's a

tabaqui fic, but I could only come up with two! Or maybe one. Hrmmmm. Ms.Mouse had a few more, so i'll do that first... Chime in, if you like!

1.Gratuitous insertion of personal likes: lemon drops, gingerale, scallops... Spike or Xander likes these things.
2.Food. Everywhere. All the time.

Rere said - and i am so paraphrasing -:
3.Quotes from poems/books.
4.At least one mention of Alice Cooper.
5.Gratuitous mention of Connor or Oz.

Drat. I've forgotten the rest! OH! I've got another!
6.Watership Down!

*ponders*
Nope, i'm stumped. Anyone? I think it's neat to have a 'style' that is actually recognizable, marginal as it may be.

And now, the fic.

reremouse and

_beetle_ ~~bullied~~ ~~enabled~~ encouraged me ruthlessly until i gave in, so it's for them, of course! And the look-see/once-over/critique is always Ms. Mouse's duty.

darkhavens gave me some Brit-beta, and the title is from a line from 'Titus Andronicus'.
Enjoy!

As If We Should Forget We Have No Hands

When Wolfram and Hart had folded up like a cheap Chinese fan - Angel was not supposed to win - things had gone from bad to...pear-shaped. Gunn had survived, Lorne had disappeared, Lindsey had come back a la Lilah, and Wes was...around. Sort of. Sometimes. And Angel... Well, Angel hadn't signed his Shanshu away after all and Spike had stared at him, utterly gobsmacked for a good five minutes. Then he'd got him to the ER with Gunn, called Giles and gotten drunk. Really drunk. He told Sunny at the Peppermint Stick that if she could make him pass out from orgasm he'd give her five thousand bucks. She could, and he did, and he did, once he came to. The next day. It was all too much, really, and Spike spent a lot of time at the Peppermint Stick or up on the roof of this or that really tall building, just - keeping out of it.

Connor joined him sometimes and he fell back into the Sunnydale routine - patrols, visit a demon bar, check out a crypt or two. Connor loved it, Angel tolerated it - Illyria proposed genocide from time to time and Spike took to sneaking out and meeting Connor at La Mort. Trendy and obnoxious but nobody from the revived AI would be caught dead there, so it was perfect. Connor asked him one night if Spike wished he had gotten to be a real boy, and Spike had just laughed at him - told him he was too busy living to start dying now. Connor had laughed too, a questioning look in his eyes, but it was true. Spike had no intention of shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon, and Angel could have the bad teeth and rheumatism and erectile dysfunction. Nothing there to tempt any right-thinking demon, even a souled one.

The Watchers decided, after the great End of the World Death Match, that Angel really was a good guy after all and that maybe they should help. So a trio of Slayers was dispatched, and then Buffy and Spike found himself at the club or his miserable little flat more and more often, avoiding the Hyperion like the plague. Somehow, Wesley had managed to divert the budgets of several Wolfram and Hart departments to a Swiss bank account and about a month after the law firm went down a courier had arrived from Zurich with papers and passcodes and everybody was suddenly a millionaire. Wes had even taken care of Spike, which made running into Wes' corporeal-but-still-not-right self in the halls of the hotel not quite as awful as it could be. (Sometimes Wes looked fine - sometimes he looked like the moment he'd died.) Spike didn't really like the dead days, so he took his shiny new credit card and he drank a shot with Wes and Gunn down in Wes' old office and then he was out of there.

Vegas seemed like a good idea, at least for a while. At least until he could figure out his next move. He didn't mind the odd patrol - the occasional saving of the damsel in distress. He didn't even mind the thwarting of world-endings and the execution of uber-baddies. It was something to do, after all, and he'd gotten into the habit of keeping the world spinning and the fools in his path alive. But he was restless and a little bored. After two weeks of winning on the tables - it was easy when the cocktail of scents from your opponent practically spelled out 'bluff' - he gave up and gave in and called Andrew. During the whole psychotic Slayer debacle Andrew had told him - in between rhapsodizing about souled vam-pyres and the Watchers and Rome - that if he needed a job, call him. Anytime. So Spike did, and Andrew said yes, they did have some jobs that needed that 'special touch'. Then he'd said that there were always dark deeds that the true Champions couldn't do but Spike, of course, could, and Spike had hung up on him. But then he'd booked a flight to London and went to say goodbye to Sunny and Connor.

Spike was a Champion - more than rat-eating, alley-lurking, tried-to-end-the-world-a-couple-times- 'cause-I-got-shagged Angel was, that was for sure. At least he wasn't running on guilt and hubris. He just - didn't want to spend his unlife keeping the sheep safe. A little culling would strengthen the flock. He wanted to do...

*Something better - something different. Something...effulgent. Only without the actual flames, this time.*

Spike did eight jobs in nine weeks and Andrew was right. These were nasty little jobs that you couldn't possibly do if you were looking at the world through your rose-tinted, Pollyanna-brand spectacles. Or if you had your head up your rose-scented arse and there was no way even Wes would have stooped to most of them. But they were necessary - Spike always made sure of that - and they paid well. And he got to move, to go, which had always been his problem, anyway. Too much time in one place - one city - one mood and he was ready to make some noise. Do a little damage. Having to scramble for transport and shelter in rinky-dink airports and war zones and desolate, gods-forsaken holes was interesting. A challenge and Spike breathed deep and plunged in head first. Honed some long-forgotten skills and wore the shiny off that card. He hadn't had so much fun in years. Not since Prague - not since Dru. Not since - oh, so many nights and deaths and fights ago, when things had been less complicated and more...visceral. He kinda liked getting the visceral back. And the jobs kept coming.

Late September in London was wet and cold and fogged and Spike breathed it and swam through it and felt whole in his skin again. He hadn't actually been back to the city for nearly a year - not since he'd started working for the Council - but it was, ever and always, home. Something inside of him settled when he walked the familiar streets - even his demon seemed to stretch and purr a little. Spike had four days of whatever he wanted until the next job - something in Marrakesh, they were waiting on the right moon phase. 'Whatever he wanted' turned out to be a room at the Savoy and some heavy-duty carousing in the London demon underground. Did enough high-grade alcohol and uncut smack to make the Charing Cross station look like Mars and nearly went to sleep under the Waterloo Bridge until some extremely lucky and well-meaning tourists 'saved him from drowning', found his key and dragged him home to the Savoy ten minutes before daybreak. Spike fell face-first onto the bed and didn't move for two days.

Andrew woke him up with a pot of tea and a tray of croissants and jam and clotted cream and about a thousand little fiddly spoons and plates and cups that all jangled like badly-tuned bells in Spike's sensitive ears. Plus there was the head of security from the hotel who had had to open the door and was standing tensely by, asking if he needed to call 999 or the hotel doctor. Spike rolled over and stared at them both and then realized that everything he was wearing stank of demon sweat and the Thames. He pushed himself shakily to his feet and started to strip - the security guard lasted to the jingle of Spike's belt-buckle coming undone and then fled. Andrew retreated to the sitting room and Spike spent thirty minutes lathering, rinsing and repeating and then just standing there, hoping the hot water would pound the headache out of his head along with the shampoo. It didn't, of course, but he felt marginally less like ripping Andrew's head off when he got out. He put on his Savoy monogrammed robe and got his cigarettes and lighter out of his coat. The smokes were fused together with river-water and he threw them down and scrabbled for the last pack in the carton on the dresser - shook the water out of his Zippo and stalked into the sitting room. Andrew was perched on the edge of the couch, a scone held in his hands rather like a squirrel holding a nut and Spike lit his cigarette and called the front desk - arranged to have his kit cleaned and then hung up.

He slumped down in the easy chair and stared while Andrew compulsively nibbled the scone. Strawberry jam was dripping between his fingers and Spike could see a dollop of cream on the expensive Savoy carpet. "So? My four days isn't up - what're you doing, coming in here and waking me up?"

"Actually your four days were up yesterday," Andrew said, and Spike tried to mentally count back to when he'd arrived. He couldn't.

"Huh. Everything's a bit of a blur, really. Well - suppose I'm off to Morocco, then?"

"No, no, there's been a change of plans. We sent another of our dark operatives to Moroc-co. We've - run into a bit of bother with Xander," Andrew replied - trying on his 'lofty Watcher' voice. The crumbs and shred of jam festooning his upper lip rather spoiled the effect.

"Xander? What's he done now?"

"Ah, well, that's not exactly the case. I believe it's more of a 'what has been done to him' situation." Andrew licked his fingers clean and then opened his briefcase - pulled out several different colored folders, spreading them over the coffee table and getting the corner of one in the ginger marmalade. Spike just groaned in frustration. The appearance of colored folders was never a good thing.

Ten hours later Spike was on the 9 o'clock Thai Airways flight to Hanoi, settled into a darkened First Class cabin that he'd bought out himself. He wasn't in the mood for company and didn't feel like dodging questions or even talking. He just wanted to have a drink or two and read over the files he'd finally physically snatched from Andrew's hands. Harris'd been doing the same sort of odd-jobs Spike had, only with less killing and more following up strange reports and checking on newly-placed Slayers and Watchers. And somewhere in Vietnam he'd stopped checking in. When Spike saw why he'd been in Vietnam, he felt a slow burn of anger in his gut. Three newly-contacted Slayers gone missing, one found dead and mutilated in such a way as to suggest pretty black fucking magic. Why the Council had sent Harris to investigate some magical baddie who was killing Slayers, even untrained ones, was beyond him. Spike threw the folders down in disgust and got another drink - stared moodily out the window next to him until, somewhere over Calcutta with dawn pinking the skies, he finally shut the blind and settled to sleep.

Vietnam was wet and hot and crowded - muddy and dripping. He'd been there years before with Dru, dodging Viet-cong and French soldiers and going for a memorable helicopter ride one wild night in the middle of the monsoon. They'd had a gay old time but they'd had to get new clothes every other day and Dru's pretty silk underthings had never been the same again. Spike was pretty sure his boots would take a good week to get back to normal and he stared down at them as the car he was in juddered over the sad excuse for a road, dodging a pothole on the right only to bottom out in one on the left. ABBA was blaring from the radio and the driver bobbed along, chain smoking and cursing and babbling at Spike. Gesturing out at the low, black clouds and slanting sheets of silver rain. Spike had no idea what he was saying and didn't give a fuck. He was pissed off and tired and already sick of the smell of mud and cow dung and whatever it was that everything was pickled in, over there. It seeped out of the driver's pores and Spike lit his own cigarette as a defense. Tail end of the rainy season and the land was green and thick - teeming with life in every puddle and every huddle of little houses.

Spike wanted to go home, where life kept itself decently hidden behind concrete and steel and tinted glass - didn't attach itself to your sole and grow, for fuck's sake, like the mold growing along the edge of the taxi's window.

Son La was west of Hanoi by about four hours. Or maybe six, or maybe ten. He hadn't been able to get a straight answer at the airport and suspected that it depended on the conditions of the road and the amount of money he was willing to spend. To get Harris and get the fuck out, he was willing to spend a lot. He was willing to pull some strings and get a helicopter to fly them out except there probably wasn't a place to refuel between where Harris was and Hanoi, and crashing into the steaming undergrowth wasn't Spike's idea of a fun time. Once had really been enough.

The village itself was fairly large and it took the driver a few minutes of aimless circling to finally find the hospital. Spike looked out at the brick-and-wood building and sighed - pushed open the door and stomped across the morass of mud and water to the covered porch, rain easily getting past his coat collar and trickling down his back. Several old men - wizened and nearly toothless, sticklike arms and legs huddled around fleshless ribs - squatted near the doorway, smoking and chewing betel nut. As Spike approached the door they shifted minutely, looking at him out of the sides of their eyes. One made a gesture with his fingers, spitting, and Spike snarled involuntarily as the ward skittered over his skin. The sooner he was out of there, the better.

The building was clean inside, if too crowded. The scent of sickness was nearly overpowered by bleach, and clusters of family were gathered around the sick, tending little cooking pots on Sterno stoves and talking quietly. There didn't seem to be much staff and Spike wandered around for a while until he nearly ran into a round-faced little doctor in tan slacks and a white coat coming out of what looked like a records room.

"Hey, you the doc? Are you -" Spike pulled the damp slip of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it. "You Nguyen Sahn?"

"I am Dr. Nguyen, yes. Can I help you?" His English was very clear-cut and precise, as if he'd learned it from a tape.

"Yeah. I'm - William Pembroke." Using that name still grated, but he had to be official here - had to get Harris out because when the Council had finally tracked him down, he hadn't had a passport anymore. Or anything else.

"Aah! Yes, of course." The doctor turned and called softly down the hall and a moment later a pretty girl in a nurse's uniform came out of a doorway and walked rapidly up to them. She had a clipboard with a sheaf of papers stuck in it and Spike gritted his teeth. Stuff to sign, stuff to read, just - stuff. Too much stuff. His suggestion to Giles, via Andrew's cell, that he go in and just kidnap the man had been tut-tut'ed and ignored. Going through channels was the Watcher's petty revenge, Spike was sure, for turning up undead once again.

"If you'll just come to my office, we can take care of the paperwork," Nguyen said, smiling with white, crooked teeth out of his cherubic face and Spike wanted to vamp. See how eager he'd be to sit in a cramped hole of a room and shove papers at him then.

But he didn't. Despite everything that had happened, he wouldn't leave Harris in a place like this, affected as he was. It would be too cruel, even for him. A thought that made Spike even grumpier, because sod it all, he was supposed to be evil, soul or no soul. Supposed to be something other than the soppy git he'd let Dru take and turn and teach.

It took almost two hours to fill out everything and twice Spike had to call London and consult with Giles - call the American consulate in Saigon and the embassy as well to hash out the finer details of it all. Halfway through the local police came in and kibitzed from the sidelines and it was, over all, a right royal pain.

"Right, then - that's it? We done?" Spike asked, grinding out his umpteenth cigarette, and the doctor sat back and scrubbed at his eyes with his fingertips.

"Yes, we are done. Let me take you to your friend now. The officer will accompany you back to Hanoi." Spike looked up at the skinny man in the rumpled uniform - grimaced when he grinned at Spike with discolored teeth. He reeked of sweat and pickled vegetables and Spike thanked Christ he'd gotten some money changed in Hanoi before he'd come out. The officer would not be coming along if Spike had to give him every last cent he had.

"Right. Let's get moving, yeah? Got a schedule to keep."

"Of course," Nguyen said - rose and gestured for Spike to follow. The officer wandered along behind, smoking a foul little pipe and leering at the nurses. The rain still pounded down outside and it was near sunset, Spike could tell. Getting a little chilly as the sun slid invisibly down behind the clouds. The doctor led him down a hall and then another and another, and Spike smelled dust and rodent droppings - a drain that wasn't working and mildew. Spike grabbed the doctor's shoulder and jerked him to a stop - jerked him half around, anger making his muscles knot.

"Here - where the bloody hell are we going? Where've you stuck him?"

The doctor blinked mildly up at Spike, sorting through a ring of keys. "He has nightmares. His screaming was disturbing the other patients. We had to separate him."

"By putting him in some bloody dungeon? Bastard -"

"He's not in a dungeon," Nguyen said - shook his head at the officer who looked as if he might try and intervene. Spike hoped he would - it'd save him some dosh, anyway. "This part of the building is older, but it is not unpleasant." Nguyen turned, shrugging - slipping out of Spike's lax grasp and walking a few more feet, stopping in front of a dark-wood door. He pushed a key into the lock and it clicked open. The door swung out on oiled hinges and Nguyen made a small bow in Spike's direction. "Here he is, Mr. Pembroke."

Spike glared at the doctor for a moment and then he strode into the room. It was small, but the walls were whitewashed and smooth - the board floor clean. There was a cot in the corner with a ticking-covered mattress and a tangle of blankets - no pillow. A wide, barred window dominated the far wall, bamboo shutters pushed open on either side. Hills of deep green fell away and away beyond the sill, rolling and thrusting like a dragon's back. The clouds were lifting from the horizon and a thread of mellow gold showed all along the western sky, turning the air and the falling rain to a rich verdigris-gold. Xander was curled on the floor by the window, his arm on the sill, his chin propped on his wrist. He turned slowly as Spike came in, and the light gilded his eyelashes and the oddly short hair. It gilded his too-pale skin and made his single eye a hollow as dark as the empty socket beside it.

Spike wanted to say all manner of things, but the mild, empty gaze kept all but the simplest from coming out of his mouth. "Harris. I've come to take you home."

Xander looked Spike over - looked at Nguyen, who had come up on Spike's shoulder and was nodding, smiling widely.

"I guess you know me then," Xander said, and his voice was low and a little hoarse. Unexcited.

"Yeah, known you for years," Spike said, the tightness in his muscles getting a little worse, because... Well, because. He tried a little fake cheer. "C'mon then. Miles to go."

"Before we sleep," Xander said, and stood up. "Someone told me that poem was about dying."

"I suppose that must be so, then," Spike said, and Xander walked past him and out the door.

Xander fell asleep about a mile into the journey, wrinkled plastic bag clutched in his hands. His 'things', as the doctor had said. Things that the nurses - who obviously doted on Harris - and the doctor had given him. A t-shirt, a toothbrush, a pad of cheap paper and a pen with Mickey Mouse on it - several packages of sesame candy with gaudy yellow and green labels. Spike refused to think it was pitiful and instead studied the sleeping man in the near-total darkness of the car's interior.

Xander had lost weight since Spike had seen him last - dysentery, Nguyen had said - and the points of his wrists and the curve of his collarbones pushed sharply up against his pale skin. He'd been found with a couple of broken ribs and a gash on his head, and they'd shaved his scalp to stitch it up. Someone - one of the doe-eyed nurses, Spike was sure - had clipped the rest and trimmed it all as it grew so Xander's dark hair was mostly all the same length. It stuck up in spikes and tufts, glued by humidity and rain. Spike thought it suited his new, thinner face. He looked like a teenager, slumped against the cracked vinyl of the car's back seat, dressed in flimsy cotton pants and an old Oxford, the sleeves rolled up and the collar moth-eaten. Cheap rubber flip-flops on his feet and a tightly woven bracelet of some sort on his left wrist. It was too small to go on over his hand - it looked as if it had been tied there.

Spike lit a cigarette and glared for a moment at the driver, who was eating something out of a tin, driving with elbows and knees and burbling along to a local pop band. Spike wanted to reach over and punch the radio - punch the driver. Wanted to use some sort of magic to get them back to the States or London or wherever and turn Harris over to his friends - get back to his life. He didn't want anyone depending on him right now, and Harris was nothing but dependant, lost as he was. His whole past scrubbed clean - his future more than a little uncertain. That was for the witch and the Slayer and the Watchers to fix - that was for Dawn to cry over. Spike - had things to do, even if he didn't entirely trust the Council since they'd sent Harris into the fucked-up situation in the first place. When Harris hadn't done his once-a-week check-in, it had taken days for the Council to sort itself and get their Asian contacts going. Days and days longer to follow Harris' trail - to find who he'd spoken to, and where he'd gone. He'd disappeared somewhere between Mai Chau and Son La and a farmer had found him in his fields, sick and bloody and incoherent - naked. The Slayer he'd been checking on had disappeared without a trace. Son La was the closest village with a hospital and it had been three more weeks before officials had put two and two together and connected the missing American with the fever-wracked, raving man they'd had to tie to his cot most nights.

Xander murmured in his sleep, fingers clutching slick plastic and then going still. Spike could hear his heart, steady and a little fast - could hear his lungs, which were wheezing just a bit. Touch of pneumonia, maybe, or maybe the strain of the broken ribs still - hard to say. They'd be mostly mended by now, if Nguyen knew what he was doing. Five weeks - nearly six - before Andrew had got Spike on a plane and Spike shifted and sighed and flicked his cigarette butt out the window - wrapped his coat a little closer around himself and settled back. He didn't move when Xander turned in his sleep, seeking - something. Warmth maybe, but Spike didn't have any to give. He didn't push Xander away though when he curled into Spike's side and stilled, one foot tucked under his knee and his forehead pressed to Spike's shoulder. It wasn't so bad.

Special Mention: Extra hugs to my girl

piratepurple. *hug hug hug*
Hrmmmmm...i feel like i'm forgetting something...

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