TITLE: Yesterday's Child
AUTHOR: Drusilla
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!
YESTERDAY'S CHILD
* * *
PROLOGUE: DREAMING
* * *
Max has been dreaming.
For the past two fortnights, he has been haunted by the same images-- a petite blonde
awaiting him with every drop of an eyelid, hidden under the obscurity of his consciousness.
Her features are unclear, but her aura and atmosphere clings to his nonexistent body with
such despair and sorrow and need that he stands captivated in the depths of nothingness, his
heart craving for more.
He sees, also, the girl's grave, and it saddens him somehow, that such a divine beauty had
been put to rest so soon, before he could ever have a chance to catch glimpse of her. He
studies the simple headstone in her memory, etched with plain letters forming her name and
a short description of her life which baffles him.
Buffy Anne Summers
1981-2001
Beloved Sister
Devoted Friend
She saved the world a lot.
And tonight, he sees more.
Flashes from her life, it seems, they clutter his head until he opens his mouth to
scream in hot pain. And when no sound escapes, he pants for breath and allows his mind
to take in the images. The girl sword-fighting with a dark-haired man. Her eyes glowing
orange as she speaks some lost tongue with 3 voices. And her broken body lying upon
a pile of bricks, the newly-risen sun flooding her body in all her glory.
The flashes stop, and the images become slower, more real, as if he is witnessing events
in the passing. He sees a small crowd gathered at her funeral during the day, her few
close friends wiping away the tears silently as each lay a rose onto her coffin. He sees,
as the day falls into darkness, two leather-clad men come for her under the moon's veil,
each dressed in a long dark coat and a sullen expression.
The blond one carries yellow roses and weeps brokenly as he lays the bouquet gently to her
bed of earth, falling to his knees, unable to support himself any longer. The darker one
remains standing, stiff and silent, setting down red carnations and straightening again,
his face cold and unlenient.
Max sees days passing. He sees the earth above her grave become overrun with wild bluegrass
and other weeds of sorts. He sees the fresh flowers lain down by the blond man each night;
always in the night. And then he sees the night the man does not come.
When he wakes in the morning he groans, squinting his eyes at the light which escapes his
drapes. His head throbs and he feels as though a million hammers have been pounding
at his temples.
All day he is distant; his expression foretells a type of doom as he stares blankly ahead in
his semi-catatonic state. And when night comes he falls into bed quickly, in anticipation
of his visions.
He sees the same two men, glaring at each other. The taller one growls. "What the Hell
are you doing here?" He spits, sneering.
"To pay my respects." The leaner man replies, stiffening. His accent is a low-class
British.
The first man smirks. "You loved her, didn't you?"
"What's it to you?" The Englishman looks away.
The other laughs aloud. "You're an idiot, Spike. You never touched her, did you? She
would never have let you. And she wouldn't want filth like you polluting her grave."
The man called Spike shakes his head.
"I left because I wanted her to have a normal life. So she could move on and get away from
our kind. Do you think you had a chance with her? Do you think she would stop for a
second to notice you if I was around? The truth is Spike, you never had anything I didn't
touch first."
Fresh tears betrays the blonde's emotions as they dance across his face. He looks back
again at the dark-haired man. "Leave me alone, Angelus." He says lamely.
Suddenly, the taller man takes his face into his hands and plants a rough kiss cruelly onto
the smaller man's lips. His expression becomes somewhat affectionate. "You could be
anything, Spike. Stop trying to follow my footsteps."
The blond man does not reply.
"Look at you, Spike. You're beautiful. All my children are beautiful."
"Dru." The younger one puts simply.
"She came to find you, didn't she? And you sent her away."
"Out of love."
The older man smirks as he walks away. "Out of foolishness." He says, shaking his head.
Max feels himself drift away, his eyes tracing their way back to his world in a blur of
confusion. Something tells him that he has missed the most important part of the
conversation, the vital key to discovery.
He goes on in dreamless sleep for hours, waking at odd hours only to use the bathroom. He
pounds on his head, providing an odd sensation which overwhelms his head's ache at rare
moments, trying to decipher the meaning of it all.
The dark man had referred to the younger one as his child.
It was not possible. They looked roughly the same age.
Could they be aliens? A whirl of memories flies in his head as he tries to recall the man's
exact wording. **Get away from our kind.** He had said. He shakes his head. That
could mean anything. 'Our kind' could mean gangsters. It could mean criminals.
It could mean aliens.
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED... or not.
Tell me whether you think this should be continued!
AUTHOR: Drusilla
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!
YESTERDAY'S CHILD
* * *
PROLOGUE: DREAMING
* * *
Max has been dreaming.
For the past two fortnights, he has been haunted by the same images-- a petite blonde
awaiting him with every drop of an eyelid, hidden under the obscurity of his consciousness.
Her features are unclear, but her aura and atmosphere clings to his nonexistent body with
such despair and sorrow and need that he stands captivated in the depths of nothingness, his
heart craving for more.
He sees, also, the girl's grave, and it saddens him somehow, that such a divine beauty had
been put to rest so soon, before he could ever have a chance to catch glimpse of her. He
studies the simple headstone in her memory, etched with plain letters forming her name and
a short description of her life which baffles him.
Buffy Anne Summers
1981-2001
Beloved Sister
Devoted Friend
She saved the world a lot.
And tonight, he sees more.
Flashes from her life, it seems, they clutter his head until he opens his mouth to
scream in hot pain. And when no sound escapes, he pants for breath and allows his mind
to take in the images. The girl sword-fighting with a dark-haired man. Her eyes glowing
orange as she speaks some lost tongue with 3 voices. And her broken body lying upon
a pile of bricks, the newly-risen sun flooding her body in all her glory.
The flashes stop, and the images become slower, more real, as if he is witnessing events
in the passing. He sees a small crowd gathered at her funeral during the day, her few
close friends wiping away the tears silently as each lay a rose onto her coffin. He sees,
as the day falls into darkness, two leather-clad men come for her under the moon's veil,
each dressed in a long dark coat and a sullen expression.
The blond one carries yellow roses and weeps brokenly as he lays the bouquet gently to her
bed of earth, falling to his knees, unable to support himself any longer. The darker one
remains standing, stiff and silent, setting down red carnations and straightening again,
his face cold and unlenient.
Max sees days passing. He sees the earth above her grave become overrun with wild bluegrass
and other weeds of sorts. He sees the fresh flowers lain down by the blond man each night;
always in the night. And then he sees the night the man does not come.
When he wakes in the morning he groans, squinting his eyes at the light which escapes his
drapes. His head throbs and he feels as though a million hammers have been pounding
at his temples.
All day he is distant; his expression foretells a type of doom as he stares blankly ahead in
his semi-catatonic state. And when night comes he falls into bed quickly, in anticipation
of his visions.
He sees the same two men, glaring at each other. The taller one growls. "What the Hell
are you doing here?" He spits, sneering.
"To pay my respects." The leaner man replies, stiffening. His accent is a low-class
British.
The first man smirks. "You loved her, didn't you?"
"What's it to you?" The Englishman looks away.
The other laughs aloud. "You're an idiot, Spike. You never touched her, did you? She
would never have let you. And she wouldn't want filth like you polluting her grave."
The man called Spike shakes his head.
"I left because I wanted her to have a normal life. So she could move on and get away from
our kind. Do you think you had a chance with her? Do you think she would stop for a
second to notice you if I was around? The truth is Spike, you never had anything I didn't
touch first."
Fresh tears betrays the blonde's emotions as they dance across his face. He looks back
again at the dark-haired man. "Leave me alone, Angelus." He says lamely.
Suddenly, the taller man takes his face into his hands and plants a rough kiss cruelly onto
the smaller man's lips. His expression becomes somewhat affectionate. "You could be
anything, Spike. Stop trying to follow my footsteps."
The blond man does not reply.
"Look at you, Spike. You're beautiful. All my children are beautiful."
"Dru." The younger one puts simply.
"She came to find you, didn't she? And you sent her away."
"Out of love."
The older man smirks as he walks away. "Out of foolishness." He says, shaking his head.
Max feels himself drift away, his eyes tracing their way back to his world in a blur of
confusion. Something tells him that he has missed the most important part of the
conversation, the vital key to discovery.
He goes on in dreamless sleep for hours, waking at odd hours only to use the bathroom. He
pounds on his head, providing an odd sensation which overwhelms his head's ache at rare
moments, trying to decipher the meaning of it all.
The dark man had referred to the younger one as his child.
It was not possible. They looked roughly the same age.
Could they be aliens? A whirl of memories flies in his head as he tries to recall the man's
exact wording. **Get away from our kind.** He had said. He shakes his head. That
could mean anything. 'Our kind' could mean gangsters. It could mean criminals.
It could mean aliens.
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED... or not.
Tell me whether you think this should be continued!