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crack_van2009-01-31 11:11 pm
moscow-watcher.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2009-01-31 11:11 pm
Entry tags:
Long Day's Journey by Anaross (PG-13)
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: genfic, Buffy/Spike
Length: 180,000 plus words.
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anaross
Author Website: LJ Memories
Why this must be read:
Alternate season 5 of "Angel": Powers That Be bring Spike back under the condition that he is bound to Angel to help him on his journey. There is a secret clause in the contract: Spike shouldn't see Buffy (while she has no desire to comply). Have Powers That Be sent Spike to Los-Angeles only to torture Angel? Or maybe their goal is to disclose Senior Partners manipulations and to bring Connor back? Each chapter is written on behalf of different character and their tales interweave as they put together fragments of a conspiracy. Long Day's Journey is a superb character study of all Angelverse regulars; it's a well-plotted detective investigation as various characters try to find out who Connor is and why he's so important to Angel's journey; and, last but not least, it's a poignantly beautiful love story in which Buffy and Spike switch their traditional roles: he becomes unattainable and Buffy has to fight for her love.
All the way to London, I got more and more annoyed with this Spike thing. You know, how he refused to see me. I wasn't going to just sit back and take it, just let him decide that without consulting me. So I started with the heavy ammunition– I put Dawn on the case. She was a bulldog, and I knew she would get information out of him one way or another, if she could just get in his face and give him that glare of hers and make her demands. He was never able to resist her when she wanted something.
But she couldn't get away from school for a few days, and I couldn't wait that long. So once I was settled in Giles's flat near Russell Square, I started thinking about Spike, and what he was like, and what mattered to him. Whiskey and sentimental movies and axes. He liked axes. And punk music and British football.
Giles had a state-of-the-art computer and broadband access, and so I spent a couple days going from one website to another, looking for Spike. Now, granted, he wasn't a big techno-guy, but that last spring, he used to-- in those times he was sane-- get on Willow's laptop and check the sports scores online or download some music. Sometimes he'd use her Amazon account to order DVDs and videogames. (Willow went ahead and paid the bills. She can be really nice, you know.) So I knew he knew how to surf the web. And he couldn't have changed that much. Okay, so he didn't want to see me, or so Angel said, and that was a big change. But he still had to like the Ramones and Manchester United.
In between meetings with the Watchers and the slayerettes, I kept trying to find Spike online. I had some free time Sunday morning-- late Saturday night in LA. Vampire hours. And I finally tracked him down at the Manchester United forum. He wasn't hard to identify. Maybe no one else would recognize him, but I did, because he was using a combination of his real name and the year he was turned. will1880. And Spike, well, he did always have his standards, and even when he was calling someone a bleeding stupid dickhead who wouldn't know a banana kick if it were shoved up his arse, he made sure to spell everything right.
I just sat there for a minute, staring at the screen as the debate unfolded in front of me. I could almost hear his voice as I read his words. Quickly I made myself an account and entered the forum. And I sent him a private message:
lookslikeposhspice: So how about we go somewhere and chat?
will1880: Your server or mine?
It made me so mad. Just that quick, he's flirting. I could be anyone. I could be some skanky ho. I could be some skanky-ho guy. But I held my tongue, or my finger, while he got us a chatroom (and when did he get so good at internet hookups, I wanted to know). It was just like my dream. A chat window with Spike. Only in my dream, I wasn't furious.
When he came back with some sexy line, I typed:
lookslikeposhspice: You big jerk. You won't even talk to me, but you go off somewhere sneaky with anyone who asks.
There was a moment of silence, and I thought he was going to sign off. But finally:
will1880: You don't look like Posh Spice.
lookslikeposhspice: I got news for you, dummy. Neither does the skanky ho you thought you were chatting with.
will1880: Yeah. Well. I'm off. Can't talk to you.
I typed fast, panicking.
lookslikeposhspice: No, wait. I just want to ask--
will1880: No. Sorry, Slayer. Can't talk.
Sorry-- at least that was sort of an improvement, even if he followed it with Slayer, which he always called me when he was mad at me.
lookslikeposhspice: No, wait. Giles wants to talk to you.
He didn't say anything. But at least he didn't sign off. I yelled, "Giles!" and a minute later he appeared, panting, at the office doorway. "You didn't try to print, did you? I told you not to print anything. The firewall interprets it as a demon invasion, and freezes–"
"I didn't try to print. But I've got Spike on chat, and he keeps trying to leave, and I just want to know--" I sucked back a sob. Giles hated tears. "Why he doesn't want to see me. Why he's so mad at me."
Giles took off his glasses and then put them back on. "So why do you need me?"
I rose from the chair and moved away. "You talk to him. Ask him. Maybe he'll tell you."
"Buffy--"
He was going to say no. I said, hard and fast, "Giles, to save the world and you and all your stupid slayerettes, I sent him to his death! Do you understand? And if he's mad at me because of that, well, it's your fault, and you owe me. So sit down and type, or-- or-- or I'll take all the slayerettes to Marks and Spencer and pay for everything with my Watcher credit card!"
He sat down quick and stared at the screen. "I am not going to use that nom de plume."
"Well, I didn't want to use it either, but I had to consider my audience. Open up another account, I don't care."
Giles rapidly did as I bid, and in a moment he was typing at Spike.
watch2040: Arsenal rules, you fuckhead. Man U sucks gutterwater.
I guess that's something he'd wanted to say for a year or more. These guys and their dumb football rivalries. And I guess Giles was right, because Spike leaped for the bait.
will1880: Ha! What happened to Chelsea? I thought you were a Chelsea man, but you're like a rat deserting a sinking ship and swimming over to another ship and climbing on board, huh?
watch2004: Better than a rat trapped on a sinking ship with the likes of Gary Neville!
I read over Giles's shoulder as they went on and on-- both of them typing fast, in perfectly punctuated prose that marked them both as men of a time where punctuation really counted, which, like, made sense with Giles, but Spike? Finally I poked Giles in the arm and told him to get to the point. Ungraciously, he broke off another long paragraph of grammatical insults.
watch2004: Buffy wants to know why you won't talk to her. Tell me quickly, because I have some statistics from the last match which might surprise you.
will1880: I know she's reading over your shoulder.
I growled at this, and Giles cast me an annoyed glance.
watch2004: You know she won't let it rest. Give over, mate. Resistance is futile.
Maybe it was the un-Gileslike endearment that won Spike over. But as I watched, his words appeared, letter by letter, on the screen.
will1880: I won't talk to her because I don't want to talk to her. That's all. Time to move on.
Oh. Oh.
That hurt. He wasn't supposed to hurt me. We had an agreement. He wasn't supposed to hurt me.
Giles was glancing up at me now, sympathy and irritation on his careworn face. "Now what?"
"Get up," I ordered, and he got up, grumbling a little at how I should remember he wanted a bit of time at the end of the chat to unveil his Arsenal statistics and demolish Man U forever.
Long Day's Journey
Pairing: genfic, Buffy/Spike
Length: 180,000 plus words.
Author on LJ:
anaross Author Website: LJ Memories
Why this must be read:
Alternate season 5 of "Angel": Powers That Be bring Spike back under the condition that he is bound to Angel to help him on his journey. There is a secret clause in the contract: Spike shouldn't see Buffy (while she has no desire to comply). Have Powers That Be sent Spike to Los-Angeles only to torture Angel? Or maybe their goal is to disclose Senior Partners manipulations and to bring Connor back? Each chapter is written on behalf of different character and their tales interweave as they put together fragments of a conspiracy. Long Day's Journey is a superb character study of all Angelverse regulars; it's a well-plotted detective investigation as various characters try to find out who Connor is and why he's so important to Angel's journey; and, last but not least, it's a poignantly beautiful love story in which Buffy and Spike switch their traditional roles: he becomes unattainable and Buffy has to fight for her love.
All the way to London, I got more and more annoyed with this Spike thing. You know, how he refused to see me. I wasn't going to just sit back and take it, just let him decide that without consulting me. So I started with the heavy ammunition– I put Dawn on the case. She was a bulldog, and I knew she would get information out of him one way or another, if she could just get in his face and give him that glare of hers and make her demands. He was never able to resist her when she wanted something.
But she couldn't get away from school for a few days, and I couldn't wait that long. So once I was settled in Giles's flat near Russell Square, I started thinking about Spike, and what he was like, and what mattered to him. Whiskey and sentimental movies and axes. He liked axes. And punk music and British football.
Giles had a state-of-the-art computer and broadband access, and so I spent a couple days going from one website to another, looking for Spike. Now, granted, he wasn't a big techno-guy, but that last spring, he used to-- in those times he was sane-- get on Willow's laptop and check the sports scores online or download some music. Sometimes he'd use her Amazon account to order DVDs and videogames. (Willow went ahead and paid the bills. She can be really nice, you know.) So I knew he knew how to surf the web. And he couldn't have changed that much. Okay, so he didn't want to see me, or so Angel said, and that was a big change. But he still had to like the Ramones and Manchester United.
In between meetings with the Watchers and the slayerettes, I kept trying to find Spike online. I had some free time Sunday morning-- late Saturday night in LA. Vampire hours. And I finally tracked him down at the Manchester United forum. He wasn't hard to identify. Maybe no one else would recognize him, but I did, because he was using a combination of his real name and the year he was turned. will1880. And Spike, well, he did always have his standards, and even when he was calling someone a bleeding stupid dickhead who wouldn't know a banana kick if it were shoved up his arse, he made sure to spell everything right.
I just sat there for a minute, staring at the screen as the debate unfolded in front of me. I could almost hear his voice as I read his words. Quickly I made myself an account and entered the forum. And I sent him a private message:
lookslikeposhspice: So how about we go somewhere and chat?
will1880: Your server or mine?
It made me so mad. Just that quick, he's flirting. I could be anyone. I could be some skanky ho. I could be some skanky-ho guy. But I held my tongue, or my finger, while he got us a chatroom (and when did he get so good at internet hookups, I wanted to know). It was just like my dream. A chat window with Spike. Only in my dream, I wasn't furious.
When he came back with some sexy line, I typed:
lookslikeposhspice: You big jerk. You won't even talk to me, but you go off somewhere sneaky with anyone who asks.
There was a moment of silence, and I thought he was going to sign off. But finally:
will1880: You don't look like Posh Spice.
lookslikeposhspice: I got news for you, dummy. Neither does the skanky ho you thought you were chatting with.
will1880: Yeah. Well. I'm off. Can't talk to you.
I typed fast, panicking.
lookslikeposhspice: No, wait. I just want to ask--
will1880: No. Sorry, Slayer. Can't talk.
Sorry-- at least that was sort of an improvement, even if he followed it with Slayer, which he always called me when he was mad at me.
lookslikeposhspice: No, wait. Giles wants to talk to you.
He didn't say anything. But at least he didn't sign off. I yelled, "Giles!" and a minute later he appeared, panting, at the office doorway. "You didn't try to print, did you? I told you not to print anything. The firewall interprets it as a demon invasion, and freezes–"
"I didn't try to print. But I've got Spike on chat, and he keeps trying to leave, and I just want to know--" I sucked back a sob. Giles hated tears. "Why he doesn't want to see me. Why he's so mad at me."
Giles took off his glasses and then put them back on. "So why do you need me?"
I rose from the chair and moved away. "You talk to him. Ask him. Maybe he'll tell you."
"Buffy--"
He was going to say no. I said, hard and fast, "Giles, to save the world and you and all your stupid slayerettes, I sent him to his death! Do you understand? And if he's mad at me because of that, well, it's your fault, and you owe me. So sit down and type, or-- or-- or I'll take all the slayerettes to Marks and Spencer and pay for everything with my Watcher credit card!"
He sat down quick and stared at the screen. "I am not going to use that nom de plume."
"Well, I didn't want to use it either, but I had to consider my audience. Open up another account, I don't care."
Giles rapidly did as I bid, and in a moment he was typing at Spike.
watch2040: Arsenal rules, you fuckhead. Man U sucks gutterwater.
I guess that's something he'd wanted to say for a year or more. These guys and their dumb football rivalries. And I guess Giles was right, because Spike leaped for the bait.
will1880: Ha! What happened to Chelsea? I thought you were a Chelsea man, but you're like a rat deserting a sinking ship and swimming over to another ship and climbing on board, huh?
watch2004: Better than a rat trapped on a sinking ship with the likes of Gary Neville!
I read over Giles's shoulder as they went on and on-- both of them typing fast, in perfectly punctuated prose that marked them both as men of a time where punctuation really counted, which, like, made sense with Giles, but Spike? Finally I poked Giles in the arm and told him to get to the point. Ungraciously, he broke off another long paragraph of grammatical insults.
watch2004: Buffy wants to know why you won't talk to her. Tell me quickly, because I have some statistics from the last match which might surprise you.
will1880: I know she's reading over your shoulder.
I growled at this, and Giles cast me an annoyed glance.
watch2004: You know she won't let it rest. Give over, mate. Resistance is futile.
Maybe it was the un-Gileslike endearment that won Spike over. But as I watched, his words appeared, letter by letter, on the screen.
will1880: I won't talk to her because I don't want to talk to her. That's all. Time to move on.
Oh. Oh.
That hurt. He wasn't supposed to hurt me. We had an agreement. He wasn't supposed to hurt me.
Giles was glancing up at me now, sympathy and irritation on his careworn face. "Now what?"
"Get up," I ordered, and he got up, grumbling a little at how I should remember he wanted a bit of time at the end of the chat to unveil his Arsenal statistics and demolish Man U forever.
Long Day's Journey