BUTTERCUP
By Victoria Hayrabedian

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Buffy universe, Basingstoke or Spike. Two of those belong to Joss, FOX and Warner Bros., and one belongs to, er, Great Britain. I think you can figure out which is which. I do, however, own Liz. She mine, all mine, bwahahahahahahaha!
SUMMARY: Liz goes to Basingstoke to visit an 'old friend', and makes a discovery that doesn't bode well for future events.
SERIES: This is set August 29th, 1999, which put it, um..... about five months before the events of "Homecoming". It's set in that universe.
SPOILER: Eh. This is set after "Lover's Walk", but before "In the Harsh Light of Day", or however that episode was entitled. Not much of a spoiler - more for "In the Dark", if anything.
RATING/WARNINGS: Possible heretical references in here. Not much of a rating - PG-13, if I have to push it, for naughty language.
ARCHIVING: Those that have permission for my "Homecoming" story/series, go ahead if you want it. Everyone else, please ask.
FEEDBACK: Honest feedback welcomed. Constructive criticism welcomed. Flames will be fed to my feng shui candles.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
1. Please be warned that this story features Liz, who's my creation. No ifs and buts about it. I've done my level best to not make her into a Mary Sue, but no promises. Do tell me if that's what's happened, as then I can get rid of this bit of the universe! *laughs* I'm very difficult to insult, honest. ;-)
2. Any 'disrespectful' references to Lord God made in this little story are the words and views of the characters featured, and *not* my own point of view. In other words - don't complain to me about them, I don't agree with them anyway. ;-)

*****

In the beginning, there was darkness.

And so it would be in the end - when Armageddon arrived, darkness would consume the land once again, and the Plague of Man would be removed from the face of the earth.

Liz, of course, had not been around for the beginning, nor did she plan on being around for the end. There was something intrinsically creepy about 'the end of the world as we know it'. What would be on TV for starters? No, she liked her world intact, thank you very much. {{Fat lot of good it does me,}} she thought, fiddling with the clasp on her bag. {{Might as well stake meself now; it ain't gonna get much better than this.}}

That was a truly depressing thought.

She was sitting on a train supposedly bound for Basingstoke - in reality still delayed at Waterloo station - and was reading a week-old copy of "Woman's Own". *This* was the blissful eternity offered to her by her sire?! If the bugger wasn't already twice dead, she'd have hunted him down and made him eat his balls. {{Oh, yeah. Unlife is flippin' sweet.}} She glared out through the window as a family with too-chirpy young children piled in and decided to sit all around her. {{Ya couldn't 'ave chosen a different set of flippin' seats, could ya, ducks?}} God, but she was hungry. She'd had a snack just before leaving, but the bloke must have been on something the weekend previously, because he'd tasted distinctly odd. Spoilt her appetite something rotten --

And, now, it was back with a vengeance. {{Get them blimmin' kids away from me afore I lunch on 'em!}}

"Phew. I thought we weren't going to make it!" Their mother had decided to put herself in for the role of appetizer, it seemed. She grinned far too cheerily at Liz and dumped a baby bag underneath the table, shoving it halfway under Liz's feet.

The vampiress glared at the offender with unrestrained venom in her eyes, letting her human mask slip deliberately, ever so slightly. {{Run little girl, run . . . . .}}

Three seconds later, the family had relocated to another group of seats, trailing apologies and observations about a wider table in their wake.

{{God. Can we get a flippin' move on, already?}} She didn't exactly have all night. . . . in fact, it was damned lucky she even had a bit of the night. The first train after sundown, and it had to get delayed. It was the equivalent of getting stuck in rush hour first thing in the morning when you wanted to get somewhere really quickly. {{I *knew* I should have drove!}} Too late to do anything about it now, though.

With an exasperated grunt, she shoved the lever by her right armrest down, reclining in her seat and closing her eyes. Not much chance of vampire hunters on the 7:45pm to Basingstoke..... correction, now the 8:13pm to Basingstoke. Liz wondered if at this rate they'd get there by 10pm.

*****

"London Waterloo to Cardiff, via Basingstoke .... Milton Keynes .... and Winchester ..... is departing from .... platform 5." The voiceover droned on, out-shouting every other person on the concourse. To be fair, seeing as Basingstoke had a fairly small station, there weren't really that many people to drown out. Then again, evening rush hour meant that what people *were* there were loud and tired enough for three each.

9pm, and rush hour at Basingstoke. {{Can this day get any better?}}

As if on cue, the heavens opened up over Liz's umbrella-less form and managed to pour quite a few gallons of rainwater over her head before she ducked back under the station canopy. {{You just *had* ta think that, didn't ya, Liz? Ya couldn't think 'o somethin' decent. . . . .}} Warily, she hailed a cab and jumped in, careless of her flying bag and the mobile clipped to her coat pocket. {{Sod it. If they get done in, I'll get new ones. }} Right now, though, she just wanted to get inside the cab.

"Where you going', miss?"

A Londoner. Strange. . . . .

"Uh. . . . . Shallcross Cemetery?" She kicked her shoes off and drew her bare feet up under her. {{God, I'm cold.}} In those four brief seconds, she'd managed to get herself completely drenched. Casting a glance pointedly downwards, she frowned. {{What did I ever do to you?}} A thought occurred, and she glanced up sheepishly at the roof of the cab afterwards. {{If it was *you*. . . . uh, never mind.}}

At least the cabby knew where he was going. It took them barely twenty minutes to get there, and although it was all uphill, the fare was still only £4.50. {{Amazin'. A cab fare under a fiver.}} For a Londoner, this was akin to a small miracle. "Thanks, mate . . . . . uh, keep the change," Liz called out over her shoulder, climbing out of the cab, bag in hand.

And then there in front of her, damp and alive with the recent rain, was Shallcross Cemetery. Gothic was too strong a word to describe the architecture, perhaps, but it was the first word that sprang to mind nonetheless. Wrought iron gates curved menacingly around beatific stone angels, their hands help up in supplication, their robes entwined with years of weeds and wild flowers. People tended the recent graves, looking after their relatives' resting places, but hardly anyone came here to look at the old forgotten graves anymore. There wasn't anything interesting about it for the modern generation. You'd be lucky to get them to visit full stop, let alone get them to clean the place up. So it lay abandoned, graves overrun with vicious wild flowers and gravestones overturned by storms and floods and neglect, with no one venturing too far into this forgotten cemetery.

There was a child's toy propped up against the nearest stone -- a small plane, propeller almost unseen under the thick growth of nettles that covered it. Doubtless that was why it had been abandoned. Or perhaps it was the cemetery itself that had frightened the toy's owner away, so that the small red plane had been left among the dead. In any case, it was there, cluttering up the place.

Thoughtfully, Liz stooped to pick up the small toy from its cradle of tall nettles, wincing slightly as they burned her skin. Not much of a reaction, but a reaction nonetheless. It made you feel alive in a way, despite the years' account of your death. {{Getting' sentimental in me old age. . . . .}}

Still, she tucked the muddy toy into her shoulder bag, wrapping it in the grey pashmina she'd forgotten to take out of her bag the night before. Doubtless the cashmere would be stained beyond belief, but. . . . . {{Sod it. I can always buy myself a new pashmina.}}

She walked on quickly, ignoring the broken glass that littered the footpath. Vandals and hooligans had visited here recently it seemed, leaving behind them a trail as out of place as breadcrumbs. {{Yeah. Hansel and Gretel turning up to visit the old witch's resting place. Why the fuck am I even here?}} Well now, *there* was a question she had no interest in answering. Best not think about it too much. Just move. Quickly.

Before her, the cemetery unfolded from its prison of neglect. Wrapped in weeds and abandonment like Sleeping Beauty's garden, the years shrank away under her feet, leaving her just a child again, looking around her surroundings in bewilderment. Beautiful, this. Beautiful the chipped fallen angels, their hands broken at the wrist, their wings brown with mud and dried streaks of rain. Wonderful that such beatific images of God in all His splendor would be so readily left to His mercy. Beautiful to see that he *had* no mercy, not even for those praising Him.

Strange that she felt sad, then. Strange that she didn't feel the need to add to this desecration of the dead. {{Maybe because you *are* dead, you stupid bitch. Get a fuckin' grip!}} Useless poetry, here in this forgotten place. Do what she had to do and then *leave*, as quickly as possible.

It would be a whole lot simpler if she knew exactly why she'd come here, though. {{Pointless, Liz, you take the whole night off to come here, and you don't know what the fuck for. Sor' it out, girl!}}

And just around the corner would be --

Would be...

D*mnit, she couldn't even *think* it. {{Pathetic. Get a grip.}}

"Get. A. Grip."

{{Yeah, Liz, get a -- what?!}}

One thing Liz *didn't* do was talk out loud in a baritone. Which was strange, since someone in this cemetery was doing that....

Never a fool, Liz immediately stilled herself, waiting. No sense in giving away her position if that ?someone' was an enemy -- and the chances were, he was. No human ever came here -- especially after dark.

The voice continued, sounding faint with distance and rain and regret. "You just turned up ta. . . . pay yer respects, is all. Nuthin' to it. Ya did the same fer, fer, fer the rest, didn't ya? Right then. So stop being a bloody nonce and get on with it. "

Too much. Liz peered carefully around the dank foliage, thanking whoever had sent the rain for soaking up the dry twigs littered around. A male figure wrapped in a long leather coat paced in front of one of the most overrun graves, scowling at everything. Even without the bright light of the rising moon, Liz could see who it was.

{{*William*?!}} Spike -- formerly William -- continued to scowl uselessly at the grave, unaware of his audience. "Ain't no big deal," he muttered again, running a hand through his bleached hair carelessly, leaving streaks of mud through it. He looked thinner than Liz remembered, his gaze darker, angrier. She wondered irrationally if he'd run into Angelus recently.... last she'd heard, they both been in the same area of California. Well, the Boca del Inferno drew vampires like honey drew flies. They lusted after the power of the Hellmouth -- little wonder that both sire and childe would find their way to it eventually. Strange that Spike would venture back here, though.... after everything that had happened in London, strange that he'd come back.

"I'm not here," Spike informed the gravestone, as if for Liz's benefit. "See? I'm in bloody Basingstoke, I ain't in London. Just comin' 'ere to pay my respects, is all."

{{Right. I got ya, childe. I got yer. Now, why I think that yer not convinced of that yerself?}} Almost unbidden, the second thought popped into her mind. {{And why would ya be payin' *respects*?}}

Spike continued to glare at the gravestone, as if it was somehow to blame for his temper. He gave up the pretence of dignity after another second and, obviously counting on the assumption that there was no one else around, dropped to his knees heavily, resting clenched fists on the damp earth in front of him. "Damnit.... I just -- I -- please.... help me," the whisper came, more child than killer. "Two years that bloody poof's been around, an' I can't take it anymore. Maybe that's a weakness, but I don't care. Not after Drusilla -- I...." He sighed. "Please. I need to kill him, and I can't like this..."

{{God!}} Damn Angelus that he should cause this! Damn him that his beautiful childe should be so broken, so abandoned, that he looked like he'd been born in this place! {{Sleeping beauty,}} Liz's mind whispered traitorously. {{Sleeping beauty with poison in the waking kiss.}} Damn Angelus with what he'd done to his childe, with his soul and his curse and his Goddamned righteous indignation. {{Righteous indignation, hah. That's snobbishness with a halo. And you were always a snob, weren't you Angelus? Even when you were in the gutter, you thought you were special. . . . }}

Damn him, anyway.

What had he done to Spike? Obviously nothing recent, or the brat would have run to Liz straight off, wherever she was, even in London. Perhaps especially in London. It may have been the nightmare cradle, but it was a cradle nonetheless. If Spike had been in trouble, he would have run back home, whatever state 'home' had been in.

No -- something here had been building for a while now. Was this a pilgrimage for him? Liz moved forward imperceptibly. It certainly looked like it. To whom else -- and to *what* else -- would William kneel? He knew who had saved him, whom he could count on. And Angelus had never filled either role.

{{What's wrong, childe? What's so wrong that you have to come back here, and not have it out with Angelus straight off?}}

Silence answered.

After a minute, Spike straightened from his silent communion with the earth. No doubt he felt better - no doubt he would go back home, now. Or whatever he called home these days. {{What is it about the Hellmouth that gets all these kiddies all riled up?}} Liz wondered, rubbing at the tired muscles in her neck. {{Plenty of power elsewhere -- why do they all flock to the sun?}}

Dimly, Liz wondered where Drusilla was. She hadn't heard that those two had gotten back together, but she'd assumed.... looked like Spike was here on his own, though. Just as well. Liz doubted that she'd have heard that honest plea for savagery if Dru had been around.

{{And you want savagery, don't ya childe?}} He'd been tempered recently, she could see. The spark that had made him such a beautiful creation had been dulled with continued exposure to his sire's self-righteous pontifications. Whether as Angel or Angelus, that was one creature that knew exactly how to make his childe feel about three inches tall.

Spike shook his head slowly, as if trying to disprove her inner monologue. "Bye Liz," he whispered to the gravestone, then stood. "I'll kill him eventually, you know." There was steel in his tone, if nothing else.

Liz smiled wanly. Something was coming, that tone promised, something bad. There would be a showdown eventually..... whatever else happened. {{I know childe, I know.}} Her smile grew wider. {{I'll be waiting to see that.}}

Almost as an afterthought, Spike thrust his left hand, full of offerings, forward. "I brought ya somethin'. As a gift, like. I, uh, I figured you'd like 'em. I mean, that's what I remember from ya..." He left the gift-- whatever it was -- on the grassy earth in front of the broken stone, then swiftly turned on his heel and marched out, head held high.

Liz watched him go thoughtfully. {{What's Angelus been doin' to ya, childe?}} No matter. She'd find out sooner or later..... she had doubted that Spike would be able to go for long without confiding in her, and here she was being proven right. Maybe she'd have to come back here more often, to wait. Might be interesting, for a while.

But for now.....

She crept forward, smiling as she saw the familiar headstone. The name was gone completely, as were the years marking a forgotten life. Better that way, she supposed. Everything fades with time, and people were no exception. Of the rest of the inscription, only a few words remained intact, and most of those were covered in mud and dirt. One, though, had been carefully cleaned, the earth eased away to see the torturous engraving that proclaimed, "Beloved".

{{Beloved. Indeed.}} She smiled at this, and the smile got wider and wider as she looked down and saw what Spike's 'gift' to her was -- what he remembered of her. Laughter bubbled forth as she reached out a hand gently to touch one of the bright yellow petals.

{{Figures, William. Figures.}}

*****
End "Buttercup"