New Year's Resolutions:
part five
by Josie_h
Notes
Spike - evening 27 Dec
Minus the satchel, Spike was dressed as he had been the previous evening.
The only other variation, being a black ribbon rather than a rubber band
containing his hair, the change for no other reason than the band broke as he
tied the ponytail.
Spike made his way to the common, deciding en route, that he would need
to be able to see the faces of the audience if he were to successfully spot
‘the boy’, and quickly fixed on a cover story if caught in close proximity to
backstage.
Stealing a notepad and three HB pencils from a local all night store, he
quickly scribbled a set of ‘open ended questions’ regarding poets-of-note on
the first page and marched up the hill to the small amphitheatre-like rise at
the south end of the park.
As it turned out, Spike need not have bothered with the pilfering. There were
only around 150 patrons scattered across the lawn area designated for
‘audience’. Spike easily spotted Xander seated on what looked like a plastic
sheet as the vampire wandered across the grass toward the recital.
He stalled, undead heart attempting a beat when he spotted that familiar,
yet oddly different face.
He changed plans, deciding that, as Xander had perched himself toward the
central rear of the crowd, he could content himself with a profile view of his
former ‘brother-in-arms’.
He watched the boy for some time. Noted that he was here alone, then
worked his way through to the forming and dismissing of at least six reasonable
scenarios for making contact… all of which ended in imagined disaster.
Spike listened to a number of the contemporary ‘artisans’ deliver their
own, what he considered average, material, then was genuinely pleased by
Xander’s smile when the first blues ‘set’ began. In that musical interlude, he
took the risk of moving closer to his former friend, and enjoyed the idea that
he really had been right in all his research of Xanman and a Boston presence.
He noted that a beard had obviously been grown post the ‘corporate photo’, but
the man looked good.
As his muse contemplated various complimentary terminology for the
attractive brunette, someone began to read a particularly and very personal
favourite poem from his beloved Byron. A poem he’d recited to both Xander and
Angel on their last evenings together in vastly different circumstances. A poem
found amongst Byron’s papers after his death, and one that was so personal to
Spike, that the world reduced to the deep baritone voice of the reader booming
the stanzas out to the audience in that moment:
“I
watched thee when the foe was at our side -
Ready to strike at him, -or thee and me -
Were safety hopeless - rather than divide
Aught with one loved - save love and liberty.
I watched thee in the breakers - when the rock
Received our prow - and all was storm and fear,
And bade thee cling to me through every shock -
This arm would be thy bark - or breast thy bier.
I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes -
Yielding my couch - and stretched me on the ground
When overworn with watching - ne'er to rise
From thence - if thou an early grave hadst found.
The earthquake came and rocked the quivering wall -
And men and Nature reeled as if with wine -
Whom did I seek around the tottering hall -
For thee - whose safety first provide for - thine.
And when convulsive throes denied my breath
The faintest utterance to my fading thought -
To thee - to thee - even in the grasp of death
My Spirit turned - Ah! oftener than it ought.
Thus much and more - and yet thou lov'st me not,
And never wilt - Love dwells not in our will -
Nor can I blame thee - though it be my lot
To strongly - wrongly - vainly - love thee still.”
By the final line he looked up to see Xander’s place empty and realized
he was crying, just in time to register an emotion filled voice behind him
whispering “God Spike, if it’s not you then *please* don’t turn around.”
He hesitated for a second, then turned.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Xander - evening 27 Dec
Xander had begun his on foot journey toward the Common in good humor,
stopping only briefly to procure a pack-of-three ‘heavy duty trash bags’ from a
late night shop – his experience at the cemetery on his second day in this city
reminding him that ‘snow’, or even just ‘ground in winter’, did not equate to
‘dry’ in anyone’s estimation.
He was fairly early, so chose a central spot, though still far enough
back that if he found a need to leave early, he could do so without being too
obvious.
Xander sat through the apparently obligatory reading of ‘The Ride of Paul
Revere’, followed by a ‘by rote’ rendition of the Declaration of Independence
recited by a person he swore had been borne post Y2K, then genuinely enjoyed
the first ‘set’ from a local blues band who’s lead singer vaguely reminded him
of Oz.
As the music struck up, he began to look around the audience. It was
obvious that some on the hill that day were regulars not tourists. The more
than ample picnic baskets, warm rugs and ground level fold out seating, a give
away for Bostonians used to enjoying this type of ‘civic service’ at Christmas.
There were a few students – apparently they came in ‘huddles’ with associated
backpacks full of illicit beverage that was, from time to time, being extracted
and imbibed at speed. And then there were a few others…
He noted one slim young man in a ‘great coat’ picking his way through the
crowd, and tracked his progress for long enough to mark a few other key
details: the confident stride; the slim stature; the generally attractive
‘look’.
His curiosity piqued, Xander graciously accepted the opera glasses from
the elderly couple next to him, but turned his attention to ‘that unknown
student’ rather than a focus to the stage.
What he saw caused him to draw breath. He somehow knew it was the
individual who had bumped him so rudely the previous night. And his ‘wiggins’
meter left over from Scooby days cranked up to emergency levels.
The hair and clothes might have differed from his old friend, but the
facial features were unmistakable. Cheek bones to die for, full pout on lips so
familiar, and the blue eyes unmistakable, all so convincing that Xander was
*sure* it had to be Spike. But it made no sense?! Spike had dusted, the
Hellmouth had closed. He berated himself for the wishful thinking but as the
Byron piece began he was suddenly no surer that he was right in this
assumption, than of anything else in existence.
Xander handed back the tiny binoculars to their owner with a nod of
thanks, then moved to a position directly behind the young man he’d been
observing. He was suddenly conscious that the poem being read was one that
Spike had recited by heart in their last days. He weighed odds only a child of
the Hellmouth could consider – Angel had come back from Hell, Willow made the
switch from trying to end the world to being one of its most powerful wiccan
protectors, and Buffy had come back from the dead… twice… so why not Spike?
Xander was now close enough to the long haired ‘student’ that even from
behind, he could make out the pouting lips moving in time with the words of
Byron, indicating at least a close familiarity with the poem. It was then he
took what could only be described as a leap of faith…. He sidled up behind the
preoccupied audience member and whispered, “God Spike, if it’s not you then
*please* don’t turn around.”
He stood back then watched with some amazement as the perfectly
remembered and adored crystal blue pair of eyes turned to meet his, now quite
self conscious, albeit one eyed gaze.