— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Chapter 21: Dirty Secrets
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sourbuckley [ Read the whole story | Read the last chapter | Chapter list ]
A/N: So! I realized it's much easier to write the next chapter than to attempt to explain character motivation! Who knew? ;D I do entirely appreciate ALL of your feedback, though, even if you were confused beyond all confuzzlution by that last bit. It shows me that you're invested in this story, and I love that. LOVE! (And if you were confused, this should clear things up. If not, I'm just gonna have to cry. You don't want that, do you? DO YOU???)
On that note... you're gonna HATE this chapter. Unless you hate Spike, in which case you may love it. OR you may enjoy it simply because you enjoy story development and are strapped in for this roller coaster (of love) no matter where it goes, and for that I commend you and lick your toes much like a pitbull who appreciates fine champagne and Starbucks™ Verona and floor wax would. Just remember, either way: I AM A SPUFFY SHIPPER. THIS IS A SPUFFY STORY. And guess what? THIS IS NOT EVEN THE MAJOR REVEAL. MUAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAA*cough*
The water had run cold.
Buffy noticed it only when the sound of her chattering teeth interrupted her thoughts. Shivering on her knees on the bathtub floor, holding on to the tub spout like a buoy, she cut the shower off, but couldn't move her limbs until the pins and needles subsided.
Wiping the steam off the medicine cabinet mirror, she stared at her dull-eyed reflection, trying to find herself in it.
Who are you? What did you do with me? How did you make me do those things?
Why does this hurt so much?
It's not like she wasn't privy to Spike's sinister side -- she was privy-er than most. She knew the first day they met that he got his jollies lashing naked girls; she learned in his mile-high bedroom that he had a kink for asphyxiation. But he was so sincerely infatuated with her that even she had begun to reason that there must be a soft, golden light underneath all that darkness.
But there wasn't. Underneath his darkness, it only got darker.
He didn't just whip his hookers. He shackled them to a cross. He tied a noose around their necks. He impaled them on huge, studded phalluses. He...
Whatever the rest of his spiny metal contraptions were for, she refused to imagine. Buffy didn't want to think about that monster or his secret lair or the poor girls he menaced in there ever again.
Because thinking about it hurt her in the strangest, most profound way: it felt like the day her mother died.
Which didn't make any sense at all. She shouldn't be grieving. She should be celebrating! She hadn't lost anything, she'd gained her freedom. After being steered by Spike's invisible reins for nearly two months, she was finally free to pick up the pieces of her fractured marriage and apply every last iota of her being toward making it better and stronger than ever before.
That's why tonight's revelation was a good thing, she convinced herself as she towel-dried her hair en route to the bedroom. It was an overdue wake up call. She could start over right now, tonight, with zero misconceptions, no chance of temptation, no gaudy watches with keys to a Holmby Hills estate etched into their backs...
The Cartier box hit the bottom of the trash can with a satisfying bang. She couldn't believe she'd ever considered wearing that gaudy bauble. If she did, she'd become exactly what he wanted her to be: the happy little adulteress -- no, the kept woman at his beck and call.
"Never," she whispered, slipping into a soft pair of sweats, and a t-shirt Lindsey had worn and left hanging on the door. It smelled like him.
Her phone made a noise -- the particular chime that told her there was a text message waiting for her.
Concluding that she needed a drink first, she opened the fridge and picked out a Corona... but something else caught her eye: the outrageously expensive bottle of vintage Dom Perignon that Spike had given her the night she cooked for him.
She opened it. Let it pop and fizz into the sink. Startled, Huey ran for cover.
"Happy Secretary's Day," she said caustically, and drank from the bottle.
It began to burn the back of her throat and spill down her neck, but she didn't stop until she needed air. Coughing, she wiped her mouth with Lindsey's shirt, upended the bottle over the sink and watched it all bubble down the drain.
She snapped out of it when Huey licked her toes. "Oh! Hey. No. No champagne for you. Bad boy."
Her phone chimed again. She peered at her bag, on the living room coffee table, then looked at Huey. "If that's Spike, I won't read it. It's going straight to the trash. With dog as my witness. Okay?"
The dog cocked his head.
"Pinkie swear," she said, holding out her pinkie. He sniffed it, and followed her to the living room.
Two new messages. The first was from Lindsey, sent an hour ago.
Gonna be a couple hours more so don't wait up to eat. Sorry bout this. I'll make it up to you tomorrow night, promise. Love you babe. x
The next was not from Lindsey. Message from: Will.
Her stomach knotted. Only two options. Read. Delete.
She hovered over the Delete button and, with a sidelong glance at Huey, who had moved on to cleaning the pads of his feet, clicked on Read.
It said:
I'm not the only one with a dirty secret.
There was more to the message. A photograph. Of Lilah Morgan?
Definitely Lilah, in a photo dated last week, kissing a man's cheek in a parking garage.
Buffy had a sinking feeling that the next photo would show her exactly who that man was. It didn't let her down.
Wind knocked out of her, she sat on the couch.
More photos followed, from different nights over the past three weeks. All variations on the same theme.
Obviously, Spike had a PI tailing Lindsey since Paris, but had been waiting for the right moment to spring the evidence on her. Now, in a transparent last-ditch attempt to win her back, he played his only card.
Classy.
He saved the best for last, though. The final photo set, the coup de grâce, was of Lindsey letting Lilah into their office building at 8:29pm tonight.
Buffy looked up at the door and, seconds later, found herself rushing through it.
* * *
Panting, ears ringing, she caught her breath and used her cardkey to enter the darkened office. As quietly as she could, she crept to Lindsey's door, which was slightly ajar. The air smelled of Thai food. Lindsey whispered, and a woman murmured.
Buffy pushed the door open.
Lindsey was sitting at his desk. Lilah was sitting on his desk, beside him, arms crossed. They were both fully dressed. And looking at her.
Lindsey wore the guilt face this time. "Buffy."
She opened her mouth, but had nothing to say.
"Well," Lilah said, taking in Buffy's sloppy, mismatched, just-ran-six-blocks appearance with amusement. "You look nice."
He shut his eyes. "Lilah..."
Getting the message, Lilah took her briefcase off the desk, got her coat and said, "We'll finish this later," and passed Buffy to leave. "Night, Buffy."
Lindsey ran a frustrated hand down his face. "I swear to you, this is not what it looks like."
Whoa. Like father, like son.
He began, "I was gonna tell you..."
"You... You were?" People only tell when they want the other person more... Oh God, was he ending this?
"No. Buffy. I'm not having an affair. I needed her help."
"What kind of help," she said, finally able to articulate a thought, "involves a secret rendezvous with your opposing council who you incidentally used to fuck?"
He exhaled, touched his forehead, closed two folders on his desk and tossed them her way. "This kind."
She approached his desk to get a look at their labels.
PRATT, WILLIAM "SPIKE" - 1998-99
MCDONALD, DARLENE - CORONER'S REPORT
Buffy stepped backward. "What is this?"
"It's what she's been helping me with. Only Wolfram Hart has this kind of access."
"To a coroner's report? Anyone can access..."
"To the real one. Before he had it doctored."
"He...?" Her eyes met Lindsey's, and she barely whispered the name as a chill ran over her skin: "Spike."
"Remember that hunch I told you about?"
A metallic taste in her mouth, she swallowed, too queasy to answer.
"I didn't have the evidence then. Now I do."
"What are you saying, that Spike...?"
"Murdered my mother."
Hands shaking, she opened the folder, and was relieved to find immediate evidence to the contrary. "'Cause of death'," she read aloud, "'smoke inhalation resulting from fire in motor vehicle', how--?"
"That's the fake. The coroner was paid off. Turn the page."
She turned it and read the highlighted words.
MANNER OF DEATH: HOMICIDE
CAUSE OF DEATH: ASPHYXIATION from cloth strap measuring
RESPIRATORY SYSTEM - THROAT STRUCTURES: Trace amounts of semen are present
The folder fell out of her trembling hands to the floor. "You sent me to Paris with him. You sent me to Paris with a murderer?"
"I didn't... I didn't know then. Not for sure, but when I mentioned it to Lilah, it's just... she started to make it come together--"
"You told Lilah before you told your wife?"
"You were friendly with him! Chatting him up in French, with your modern art and your expensive fucking tastes and all that other shit you have in common! You pretend to hate him for my sake, but I see you when he's around... he brings something out in you, this little fire that I didn't even know you had! What am I supposed say to that?"
She stared at him agog. "How about 'Don't go, Buffy! Don't go to Paris because he just might strangle you!'"
"He's not a serial killer -- it was a crime of passion, okay? You couldn't know what they were like together. They'd fight like fuckin' dogs, then they'd fuck for days, then they'd fight again and my mom would storm out. You could hear her raising hell from one side of the estate to the other, every single time. Only this time? She left quietly. In the middle of the night. My mother never did anything quietly."
"Oh my god," Buffy said, eyes watering as she gulped for air. "Oh my god!"
"Hey. Hey." He appeared at her side and pulled her close. "Oh, babe. I didn't want you to find out this way."
Was there a better way to find out your secret lover snuffed out the love of his life, and was reenacting the crime on hired hookers -- to get himself off? "I am so sorry, Lindsey. I'm so sorry."
"What are you sorry about? You didn't know."
"Everything," she said, head on his shoulder. "I pulled him back into your life, I..."
"Shh, shh." He smoothed down her still-damp hair. "It's not your fault. He's my father, okay? I'm the son and heir. It was just a matter of time before this blew up. It is what it is, Buffy. It is what it is."
* * *
Lindsey parked the car in their building's garage. Neither had spoken since they'd left the office, and neither hurried to get out of the car.
"How far are you going with this?" Buffy asked.
"I don't know," he said with a sigh. "None of it was legally obtained, I can't do shit until it's above board. Lilah's working on it, but with his resources, he could keep it in limbo forever..."
She closed her hand over his. "I'll help you."
He looked down at their joined hands, squeezed hers. "Yeah?"
Buffy nodded. "There might be someone I can talk to."
Read on... >>
A/N: I AM IN UR INTERNETZ, DUCKING UR TOMATOEZ.
A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.
@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction