This Is The Sound, a buffy: the vampire slayer fanfic

Author's Note: Yep. This *is* another song fic (your favorite, I'm sure). I can't help it--they're just so easily inspired! The song is "This Is The Sound" by American Hi-Fi (great CD: The Art of Losing) and it'll be between ()'s because I still can't understand why italics never work for me on ff.net. Oh well.

Well, I'm taking you back to season six, just after As You Were, where, in my opinion, everything changed.

P.S. Don't worry. I won't be taking you through any classic "bathroom scenes."

This Is The Sound

For being a crowded, teenager-ridden, all-too-trendy night club, the Bronze had its dark and dank little corners; not for the first time, Spike was glad of it.

Tucked into a small table under the thin, metal stairs that lead to the balcony--*Don't go down that train of thought*--Spike mentally coached himself--*It only leads to derailment.*--he sat, eyes pointed towards the band on the stage, but unfocused and glassy. He almost wished he could blame the glazed gaze on the alcohol he'd been nursing for the better half of the night and not on the watery wall of tears that had been threatening his Big Bad image for the past few days, but unfortunately, the cheap beer had little to no effect on him.

*Might as well be beer-flavored water* he smirked to himself. *Then again, knowing Americans, wouldn't really be too surprised if it was.*

A flash of blonde caught his eye, as if her unbidden image had been conjured by his subconscious thoughts. His vision remained solely fixated on the dance floor--on her--when the band slowed the tempo down and soft chords filled the smokey air.

(Empty hearts can fill an empty room

Because of you

The sky above remains clear and blue

It's nothing new.

The radio keeps playing static or your favorite songs

And why does everyone keep on bringing me back to you?)

She was dancing, back to him, her evenly tanned arms wrapped around the construction-hardened muscle that was Xander Harris. Spike didn't spend a moment worrying about their possible connection--he knew the nature of their friendship and, perhaps more importantly, the nature of Anya's devotion. In fact, he didn't spare a moment to think. He just watched.

He wished he could stalk out of there, leaving his tab to grow ever longer, and retreat to the quiet haven that was his charred, ruined crypt. He wished he could weave through the people on the sticky dance floor and tap Harris on the shoulder and ask with a smirk, "May I cut in?" He wished that he didn't know his--and her--reaction to his presence. But perhaps most of all, he wished that the song would play forever and some higher power would take pity on him and allow him to sit there, in his dark little corner, and watch her dance until he died and the earth faded away.

(And this is the sound of the broken down

And this is the last train home

...the underground

And this is the fall--don't catch me if I fall

Just catch me when I fall back to the ground)

*Fat chance.* he scoffed, dismissing his romantic whims while flagging a waitress down. Ordering another beer and a shot of something foul, his eyes never left her. He imagined that the crowd had parted to allow him a better view of her black leather-clad hips that swayed to the nostalgic melody. Not for the first time since she had impulsively butchered her hair, Spike winced at the short spray of blonde that protruded from a messy bun fastened at the nape of her slender neck. During the short-lived moments when Buffy wasn't screwing his English brains out or hurrying out the door, he would lie there with her in his arms, content to merely finger-comb her golden tresses. His inner poet used to fancy that during those quiet respites he could hear Heaven sing.

(Lightening crashes all around me now

I hear its sound

Broken down wings can carry us to where the people stare

Fall asleep against the windowpane

Outside the rain covers everyone

Now we're never gonna see the sun)

He knew, with everything he was, that this was the end. She had left no doubt in his mind, no room for him to cajole, wheedle, or seduce her into changing hers, that it was unequivocally over. He knew her strength, the inner well from which she drew daily just to keep going, keep living, and he saw that strength supporting her frame as she delivered the relationship's final blow. It was a mercy shot, to put a pained, writhing thing out of its misery.

//"...And it's killing me."//

It killed him to even -think- of causing her pain.

//"I'm sorry..."//

Sorry for what? Causing his insides to churn when she left--and she always left--and inducing the endless pain of suffering her absence? Making him feel more alive than he ever did in his 26 years of human existence? Giving him something to keep him motivated when the daily torture that was his new reality began to settle in?

(And this is the sound of the broken down

And this is the last train home

...the underground

And this is the fall--don't catch me if I fall

Just catch me when I fall back to the ground)

Spike was no longer aware of the empty bottles that littered the round table, the lull of human pulses that usually thudded away, torturing his caged demon, or the lit cigarette that slowly burned towards the filter, forgotten in his hand. He didn't see the crowd, didn't see the band, didn't see Harris--she was the only left, filling his mind, infusing his senses, clouding his consciousness.

(And if you wanted to stay I'll have you any day

And if you wanted to stay I'll have you any way)

The moment was shattered like a fragile glass sculpture that had been hurled to the ground when the song ended and Buffy turned towards him to make her way off the dance floor. She had walked almost two-thirds of the way towards his darkened alcove before pausing, a hesitant look of trepidation wavering opening on her face. He held her stare--God, what else could he do? He was lost in it--and tried not to choke on the stale beer-water when she purposefully continued forward. A foot away from him, within reach, she stopped, an unreadable expression playing on her visage.

"Back for another go, yeah?" Spike sneered, but when she didn't respond, he realized that the snarky remark had never made it past his lips. He was frozen, paralyzed by her presence.

The world seemed to flow backwards, like there had been a hole gouged through the world's temporal fabric, when the barest ghost of smile ventured out onto her face.

"I've..." she started, her voice barely above a choked whisper, "I've... Missed you, Spike."

He stared at her strangely, wondering if he was finally drunk, when he was jarred out of his stupor by the electricity of her hand upon his.

"Take me home, Spike," she pled. "I want to go home--with you." With those words, he knew she was pledging her entire being to him, begging for more than just an escort to Revello Drive. The invitation was accepted wordlessly and she threaded her fingers through his. Lifting his cold, white hand to her lips, she kissed it softly, sealing the unspoken promise. She was finally his, and he hers. All was right, if but for that moment in time.

...But when the band finally stopped and she disconnected herself from Xander, Buffy looked Spike's way--and then exited another.

(

And this is the sound of the broken down

And this is the last train home

...the underground

And this is the fall--don't catch me if I fall

Just catch me when I fall back to the ground...

...And this is the sound.)

End

Author's Note: In case you were wondering, the only part of the description that probably coerced you into reading this that was accurate is that it's set after As You Were. Yes. I lied.

Damn marketing scams!

~SarrChasm