Of Space and Time

Crossover between Angel and Dr. Who. Set early Season 5 of Angel, while Spike is still incorporeal, and pre-new-age Dr. Who.

Disclaimer: If you recognise them, I don’t own them. Spike and Buffy belong to Joss Whedon, and Dr. Who to the BBC, and any others who’ve been given rights over them. Sad but true. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and is strictly not for profit.

You know? I’ve just about had enough of bloody Angel and his band of bloody henchmen. And henchwomen. Although one of those henchwomen might turn out ok, if Angel stops pulling her strings for a minute, anyway.

As if it’s not bad enough to be stuck here, probably the last place on earth I’d choose, Angel just takes every opportunity to make it obvious that I’m not welcome. Not that I can actually do anything. I mean, fight? Forget it. Can’t even open a bloody door, although I can walk through walls, so that’s some consolation.

It’s a funny sort of reward, you know? I mean, I didn’t save the world for the reward, so maybe I shouldn’t complain, but getting sent back as a ghost? Getting sent back to bloody Angel when I can’t even bloody his nose when he annoys me? That’s torture of a particularly devious kind. He doesn’t like me, and the feeling’s mutual, but the way things are, there’s nothing I can do. Looks like I’m destined to watch others fighting evil while I’m reduced to being a cheerleader, minus the pompoms. And I never did get the point of cheerleaders anyway.

I need to get away. And there’s only one place I want to be, and that’s with Buffy. Unfortunately, there’s a problem. Every time I try to get away from Angel, from the Wolfram and Hart building, from Los Angeles, I reach the city limits … and then I’m dragged back as if I’m on an elastic leash. It’s bloody disorientating, I can tell you. So, no Buffy. She’s in Rome, of all places. The Poof didn’t want me to know, but I sneaked a peek in his diary. He turned over the page pretty quickly, but I’m faster.

I reckon I’ve irritated Angel just enough for today. Annoying him is the only thing that’s keeping me sane just now. The problem is that, since I haven’t got anything else to do, I might just overdo it to the point that he manages to ignore me. And it’s no fun annoying someone who’s ignoring you. Or worse, he could put the resources of Wolfram and Hart to getting rid of me completely in a way that definitely wouldn’t include giving me a body and a one-way ticket to Rome.

So, in an effort to find something … anything … else to do for a while, I’m going for a walk. Lately, I’ve tried a lot of the streets around here looking for some sort of diversion, but I’ve found nothing. I’m not your sitting and watching type of guy – never have been. I need to be … doing something … and the more physical, the better, although getting physical without a body? I haven’t worked out a way to do that yet.

I take the lift down to Wolfram and Hart’s lobby area. As usual, it’s thronging with people – most in smart business dress, all apparently busy. They don’t even give me a second glance. I suppose the news that I’m bloody useless has made the rounds here.

Still, not having a body means not having to worry about sunshine, so I step out of the door and into the street. So far, so good. Turn right this time. The problem is that, just around this building is boring. The headquarters of evil lawyers doesn’t seem to attract interesting neighbours.

I turn right at the first intersection, and left at the next. Beyond not going the same way I’ve been before, I don’t have any particular route in mind, although, as I wend my way towards the seedier parts of town, it occurs to me that there’s bound to be a strip club or something around. Maybe that’d be … nah. That’d just remind me of another one of those things I can’t do any more. Bugger.

It’s over an hour later when I finally spot it. It’s one of those things that looks so ordinary that I almost don’t see it at all, at least until I realise that, while it might have been ordinary fifty years and five and a half thousand miles away, it’s bloody well out of place here.

I move faster, keen to investigate, but wary of it too. At last, I reach it. I touch it. Well, I put my hand onto it, and it disappears inside it.

I take a deep breath – well, no, not really, having no actual lungs, but the intention’s the same – and I walk through the door.

Now, here’s the odd thing. It’s a Police Box. Used to be all over Britain in the days before mobile phones and radios. But this one? Not what I expected. Not at all. In fact, it looks more like the bloody Tardis. In fact, that’s exactly what it is, if I’m not mistaken. Which, of course, I must be. Either that or I have finally gone mad as a result of my current predicament. I briefly consider whether being haunted by an insane me would be more irritating to Angel than the standard variety, but decide it doesn’t matter.

Used to watch Dr. Who back when it was on – at least when we had access to a telly and when Dru and I were in England. Special effects left a lot to be desired, but it was gripping stuff. Dru was bloody terrified of the Daleks too, let me tell you.

I take a look around. No one here. There’s the main control room thingy, and that looks pretty familiar, and then there’re other rooms off that.

About now I’d pinch myself if I thought it’d do any good at all. Dr. Who’s a TV show. He’s not real. But here’s his Tardis, complete with all the extra space inside, and it’s sitting in bloody Los Angeles!

I hear a noise, and flatten myself against the wall just outside the control room. I hear someone moving around, so I decide to take a peek.

Don’t recognise this one. What am I saying? It’s not bloody real, but this Doctor isn’t one of the ones I’ve seen on TV. He’s tall, lanky, dark haired, and when he spots me, he’s got this huge and completely manic grin.

“Hello,” he says, cheerily, as if he’s in the habit of finding vampires-turned-ghosts in his time machine.

I don’t know what I expected from him, but a cheery ‘Hello,’ wasn’t it. He doesn’t even look surprised, and if he doesn’t look scared, then that would be because, compared to the Daleks, I probably do look a bit tame.

“You don’t look surprised to see me,” I offer.

“Surprised? Well, I wasn’t expecting you if that’s what you mean. But I’m 900 years old. Nothing much surprises me any more.”

“Look,” I say to him. “I’m getting worried about my sanity here. This looks like the Tardis. You know? Dr. Who? BBC Series. I hear they’re going to make a new one. Read it somewhere. But …”

He’s nodding with an irritating enthusiasm as I speak.

“You’ve heard of me! But then you’re English, so it’s maybe not so surprising. And you’re right, they’re making another series. I’ve just finished consulting over the scripts, but they don’t listen to me. Always telling me the real stuff is too fantastic and no one would believe it. Still, the royalty payments will come in handy.”

“So, what’re you trying to tell me? That you’re the actual Doctor. This is the actual Tardis?”

“I’d have thought that the evidence of your own eyes would do that,” he suggests.

“Wait a minute! You’re not the doctor, you’re from … somewhere up north. Yorkshire or somewhere.”

“I am from up north, but then, lots of planets have a north.”

I need to sit down, but there’s nowhere handy, so I just stand there, trying to hold on to whatever sanity I’ve got left. The ‘Doctor’ meanwhile, is apparently ignoring me, and doing something on that console that controls the Tardis.

“You’re pretty unique,” he says at last.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to work out what you are. Not a physical being certainly, or you wouldn’t have been able to get in. But you’re not a ghost either. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like you.”

“Don’t suppose you have,” I agree.

“Mind telling me what happened?”

“Don’t rightly know. I was in Sunnydale – on the Hellmouth. I was helping the Slayer, there was an apocalypse, she needed someone to wear an amulet and she asked me. I closed the Hellmouth, but got burned up in the process. Then, I turned up in LA, as you see me.”

“I heard about that. Thought I might have to take a look at that whole tangled mess for a while, but then the humans managed to sort it out without my help. You do that surprisingly often. So, you’re a hero?”

“I suppose,” I agree, ignoring the part about being human.  “A bit like you.”

He looks as though he wants to argue that point, then changes his mind. “What’s it like?”

“What? Being a ghost?”

“You’re not a …”

“I know. I’ve been told. It’s got its good bits.”

“Oh?”

“Walking through walls.”

“Is that all?”

“Pretty much,” I admit. “Most of the rest of it I could do without. It’s not even as if I can go anywhere. I’m stuck here. Every time I try to leave this city, I’m dragged right back again.”

“That’s harsh,” he agrees. Then he grins that grin again. “So, you’re inside my Tardis, and I don’t have any pressing business at the moment.  How about a ride? It’s a pretty special way of travelling; maybe it can get around your problem. Where’d you like to go?”

“Italy,” I say without thinking. In fact, I thought I’d said it to myself but the fact that he obviously heard contradicts that.

“More specific?”

I realise he’s serious. “Rome?” I suggest.

“Ok, but I need a time too. When would you like to go to Rome?”

“Now?”

“Now as in you want to go right now, or now as in that’s the time you want to arrive?”

“Both?” Right now, any attempt to hang onto what’s left of my sanity seems like too much effort, so I decide not to bother.

He fiddles with something, and then there’s this familiar noise. Well, it’s fairly familiar. The TV show was higher pitched, I think. Wait. It’ll probably be easier if I just don’t think.

The sound gets louder, and I feel a lurch, and the Tardis starts to fade around me. It comes back again, clear and in focus, and then it fades again. I know what’s happening – I’m being left behind. I’m about to yell at the Doctor, but he shuts down the Tardis and we’re back where we started.

“No good,” he informs me. “You were fading away, being left behind, I suppose.”

My disappointment’s greater than I expect. “That’s ok, mate. Thanks for trying.”

“Wait a minute. If you can’t travel in space, is there somewhere you’d like to travel in time?”

I think about it. LA doesn’t have a lot going for it. Never did like it as cities go. Then it hits me.

“1995. Let’s say, November 1995, end of the school day. Hemery High School, if you can do it.”

“You want to go to a school?”

“Not inside. I just want to …”

“You can’t harm anyone, can you? I mean, according to that scan I did, I don’t see how you could, but …”

“Completely bloody harmless, I am. Unless you’re worried I’ll corrupt the kiddies with my bad language.”

He grins at that, and again I get the impression that there’s something not quite right about that smile. He shrugs his shoulders, and sets a new destination.

This time, it’s different. No fading, just the regular, pulsing noise, and a minute or so later, he announces our arrival.

I walk towards the door.

“It’s locked, I’ll …” he says, but I just keep walking.

Outside, I turn around, taking in our surroundings. As I do, I spot, across the road, a building sporting the title ‘Hemery High School’.

“I forgot you don’t need doors,” he says, over my shoulder.

The real Tardis seems to work better than the TV version, because that one never seemed to take the Doctor where he wanted to go. As I’m watching, the kids start to pour out of the building. I move closer, determined not to miss her. There’re so many of them, and she’s so tiny, that I’m sure she’ll get past me, but at last, when I’m convinced that I’ve missed her, there she is, at the centre of a group of girls all listening as she prattles on about … I don’t know.

I’d forgotten she was ever that young. Not that she’s old now, but … she’s seen things humans shouldn’t have to, borne responsibility that would cause most to crumble. It ages people. Not that it gives them wrinkles or early middle-age spread; it’s just a look they get. I’m so used to seeing that worldliness on her face that I’d forgotten how young she was when I first met her, and even that was a couple of years from now.

Seeing her again brings everything back. I remember afresh everything I love about her. I can see the events that shaped her from the child I see now to the woman she is today. And I remember the last time I saw her, back in Sunnydale, at the Hellmouth. And I remember what she said and how that made me feel.

And then I notice it. She looks up, as if she’s heard something or felt a drop of rain, and she’s scanning the area. What I felt was the tingle that tells me there’s a Slayer around. I reckon she’s just been called. She doesn’t know what it was, of course. No doubt the Council of Wankers’ll be in touch some time soon and ruin her innocence. Her eyes rest on me, and she studies me for a moment. I give her my cockiest grin, then run my tongue along my teeth. Her cheeks go a lovely shade of pink and she looks away.

One of her friends says something about being late, and they’re off, out of the school and down the street, and I’m left with the Doctor. I go to follow, but he steps in front of me.

“You can’t,” he informs me.

“Can’t what?”

“Change anything. That’s the Slayer, isn’t it? The one who shared her power with so many girls?”

“Yeah,” I agree.

“She’s a legend, you know. Off in the future, she’s the most revered Slayer of all time, at least among those of us who know what a Slayer is. If you change anything, it might all happen differently. You can’t risk it.”

I know he’s right. More important than the fate of the world is the fact that, as of this moment, her time to enjoy what’s left of her childhood is limited, and there’s no way I’m going to shorten it further.

“You ready to go back?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

I follow him back inside.

Back in my present, the Doctor opens the door for me.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know, but my sanity copes better with people walking through doorways rather than doors.”

“So, Dr. Who’s real.”

“Of course I’m real. You don’t think the BBC could have made up something as brilliant as that, do you?”

I smile at that. Of course, he’s right. The stuffed shirts at the BBC would never have come up with an idea like that – especially not back then.

“So, what’re you going to do?” he asks.

“Long term? I don’t know. Short term? I think I need to find someone to help me make a phone call.”

“Well now. Maybe I can do that.” He pulls a mobile phone from his pocket. “What’s her number?”

The number’s printed on my brain, of course. Some things are too important not to memorise. I tell him. He holds the phone to my ear, and I hear the ring tone. At last, someone answers. For the first time I consider the time difference. She sounds sleepy, but it’s definitely her.

“Buffy?”

“Who is this?” she demands.

“Buffy, it’s Spike.”

There’s silence. When she speaks again, her voice is shaky.

“You can’t be Spike. He’s …”

“I don’t know how or why, but I turned up in LA. No body, kind of like a ghost, but I’m here.”

“If you were Spike, you wouldn’t be phoning me, you’d be knocking on my door.”

“Tried to, Pet. At least, I tried to come to Rome. Look, someone’s helping me make this call, and I get the feeling he’s got better things to do. I’m sort of tied to LA and Wolfram and Hart, so that’s where I’m going. Ring Harmony – she’s Angel’s PA. Or ring Angel, and ask him what’s going on. Better still, ring Fred. You might get more sense out of her.”

“I will. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and if I find it’s all a hoax …”

“Buffy, it’s really me. And Buffy?”

“Yeah?”

“I did believe you. At the Hellmouth. I did believe you.”