TITLE: "Cracked"
AUTHOR: zero
E-MAIL: zero@zeroimpact.com
DISTRIBUTION: Available at zeroimpact.com. If you want it for your fic
page, just ask.
RATING: R for heaps o' violence aplenty.
SUMMARY: Spike gets a strange visit from Drusilla.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I wish. Grr. Argh.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Much love to Tink, Chelle, and Yahtzee. The bit about the
Duke is a very twisted qoute from the book "The 13 Clocks", by James
Thurber. I use because I love.
CRACKED
by zero (zero@zeroimpact.com)
The bag was tucked neatly, inconspicuously beside the crypt door,
patiently waiting for its intended recipient. A note, folded up and tucked
under a corner of the bag, fluttered a little in the breeze, threatening
to blow away, but it was caught by long fingers before it could make its
escape. It rustled angrily in a black-nailed grasp as the wind increased,
carrying with it the faint smell of impending rain.
The note was written in an unfamiliar hand, and the small, torn piece of
notepaper was crumpled, the writing hastily scrawled as if the author had
crouched just outside the crypt door and scribbled it on the spot. An
afterthought.
It said merely, "They told me to leave these, but I thought you'd want
them." There was no salutation or signature. The spelling wasn't
impeccable and the ink was laid down so faintly that it was barely
readable. Nevertheless, the message was understood.
Spike picked up the bag, carefully cradling the bottom of the crinkled
sack. It felt strangely light in his hand, and he frowned, holding it a
little tighter, wishing the load inside were heavier, more tangible.
The crypt door swung open under his hand, and he stepped through the
familiar opening into the dark, moist solace of his home. He placed the
bag gently in the outstretched hand of one of the angel statues that
decorated his small living space, carefully securing it on that surface
before letting it go. He shrugged his coat from his shoulders and bent to
unlace his boots, kicking them off carelessly. They raised a plume of dust
and dirt from the floor where they landed.
He straightened slowly, trying to ignore the aches and pains of another
battle fought and lost, trying to remember when he'd been feared by humans
and demons alike. But those days were gone, and now he commanded no one
and was feared by no one. William the Bloody, terror of little children
and fluffy kittens. He scowled, turning to approach the raised stone slab
that served as his bed, and that was when he saw her.
Drusilla reclined on the stone surface, her dress tangled around her legs.
She leaned back on her hands, her face obscured by a curtain of dark hair,
and looked coyly up at him from the shadows around her eyes. She didn't
say anything at first; she just swung her legs down, slid off the surface
of the sepulchre, and weaved her way toward him in a slow, barefooted
dance. Her long, silky dress flared out around her legs, and her pale feet
padded softly against the stone floor, her hair shifting around her face
like a gentle rainfall. Dimly, Spike realized that it had begun raining
outside, too, providing a faint soundtrack to her mesmerizing movements.
When she finally reached his side, her hands reached toward him, not
touching, but torturing with her closeness. She leaned in as if to kiss
him, but her lips did not touch his, and instead they whispered
secretively. "Hark, Hark, the dogs do bark," she murmured, providing her
own snarling sound effect. "The Duke is fond of kittens. He likes to take
their insides out and use their fur for mittens."
Some dark part of his mind recalled that the short poetic passage was from
a book, and remembered the first time he'd read it to her, replaying the
scene in vivid detail. She'd been sick, so terribly thin and pale that
he'd been sure that if he touched her, she'd crumble to dust. Her
emaciated body had been sunken into the silk sheets, and when she'd asked
him to make love to her, he'd been unwilling, unable to bring himself to
touch the wasted creature she'd become...
"I've got a secret," she whispered, pulling him back to the present. She
still didn't touch him, and when his hand reached out for her, she danced
away again, out of arm's reach. "You mustn't tell little Victoria that
I've eaten her mother and made pie of her pets."
Spike frowned, taking a step closer to her, but she sidled smoothly back
and away again, circling to put the coffin between them. "How long have
you been in town, Dru?" he asked.
"As long as it takes to die, and kill, and then to die again," she
replied, an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile tugging at her lips.
"Why haven't you come to see me?" He tried not to sound needy, or hurt,
but somehow both emotions saturated his voice.
"I am here to see you," she pointed out. Her eyes narrowed, and her gaze
focused on the floor near Spike's feet. He looked down, too, but nothing
was there. "Stop barking, fiend," Drusilla told the empty space, then her
eyes turned back to Spike again. "I saw a little puppy run onto the path,
and the cart wheel ran over its downy head. It spoke to me in a little
doggie voice and said 'Pop, crack.' I told it not to say such things, but
it followed me home, always saying, 'Pop, crack,' and sometimes in the
night I hear it bark. Do you think that the Devil sent the dog to make me
wicked?"
"No, baby," Spike protested automatically, taking another step toward her.
This time she didn't edge away. "The Devil follows after you himself, in
awe of your beauty."
Her smile was slow, but it came, beginning small and soon spreading thin
pink lips to reveal a flash of white teeth. "Clever Spike," she drawled,
beginning to sway in place again. "Just like me."
"Why did you come here, Drusilla?" He tried to sound annoyed, but the
jagged edges of his voice bled.
"You wanted me to come," she answered. "The wind sang your pain to me, and
the rain urged me to move quickly." She smiled again, sharply at odds with
his severe frown, and padded swiftly past him, toward the door. "Of
course, I'm not really here at all."
"Yeah, you never were all there," Spike muttered to himself, tracking her
progress with his eyes. "Where are you going?"
"Shhhh," she chided, opening the door wide, then returning to the room to
stand in a darkened corner, her glittering eyes focused on him. "You have
a visitor."
Buffy stood in the doorway, paying no attention to the rain that fell on
her shoulders and plastered her hair to her scalp. She stepped inside,
firmly closing the door behind her, and said, "You shouldn't leave your
door open like that. Someone might see it as an invitation to come in here
and kick your defenseless ass."
Spike shrugged, his face blank.
"Anya told me that she brought something over for you," Buffy continued,
moving boldly further into the room. Her eyes fell on the paper bag, still
balanced carefully in the stone hand of a statue. "I see you got it."
Spike didn't respond, watching as the girl picked up the bag. The paper
whispered and crunched in her hand. From the corner of his eye, he could
see Drusilla swaying toward him, cloaked in shadows, a wicked smile on her
face. Buffy didn't seem to notice the other vampire in the room, her eyes
flickering lazily around the dark space but not settling even for a moment
on Drusilla.
"So you must know what happened, then. Are we going to have a problem over
this?" Buffy opened the bag, peering in at its contents, then turned it
upside down. A thin rush of dust streamed out, settling thin and sparkling
on the floor.
"No," Spike answered, his voice echoing in his head as if it had traveled
to him down a long corridor. "No problems at all. I was just thinking
about a story Dru told me once. Something about a dog."
The weight in his hand was sudden and familiar, and his eyes flickered
downward to see a railroad spike clutched tightly in his fist. Drusilla
stood near his arm now, near enough to touch, but he didn't know if he'd
picked up the weapon himself or if Drusilla had handed it to him. His
fingers idly caressed the smooth metal length of it, and his thoughts
cleared, narrowed, and focused sharply.
Buffy scowled at him, clearly signaling her disinterest. "Okay. Have fun
reminiscing. Glad there's no hard feelings; I'd hate to have to kill you
like I did your crazy girlfriend." She turned to head back for the door,
then paused, opening her mouth to speak again. The words nearly came; she
nearly threw the, 'No, wait, I *do* want to kill you' back over her
shoulder. But the words couldn't escape with the railroad spike suddenly
thrust through the side of her throat, and she managed only a bloody
gurgle before she collapsed. Her body hit the floor with a very audible
thud.
"Pop, crack!" Drusilla whispered, her mouth at his ear.
It took a moment for the chip in Spike's brain to process what had
happened, but when it did, its retribution was instantaneous and
merciless.
Drusilla's repeated cry of "Pop, crack!" echoed through the crypt in
perfect time with the sounds that thundered in his ears, then she flashed
out of his view as his eyes boiled in their sockets, and there was nothing
left to feel but a terrible rush of heat.
The charred remains of his skeleton hit the floor, burnt and pitted from
the chip's chemical burn, and there was a series of sharp cracks as his
bones clattered to the ground and shattered. The sounds echoed against the
stone walls with only the uncaring dead to hear them.
THE END
-------------------------
If you really loved me,
you'd send feedback.
zero@zeroimpact.com
-------------------------
AUTHOR: zero
E-MAIL: zero@zeroimpact.com
DISTRIBUTION: Available at zeroimpact.com. If you want it for your fic
page, just ask.
RATING: R for heaps o' violence aplenty.
SUMMARY: Spike gets a strange visit from Drusilla.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I wish. Grr. Argh.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Much love to Tink, Chelle, and Yahtzee. The bit about the
Duke is a very twisted qoute from the book "The 13 Clocks", by James
Thurber. I use because I love.
CRACKED
by zero (zero@zeroimpact.com)
The bag was tucked neatly, inconspicuously beside the crypt door,
patiently waiting for its intended recipient. A note, folded up and tucked
under a corner of the bag, fluttered a little in the breeze, threatening
to blow away, but it was caught by long fingers before it could make its
escape. It rustled angrily in a black-nailed grasp as the wind increased,
carrying with it the faint smell of impending rain.
The note was written in an unfamiliar hand, and the small, torn piece of
notepaper was crumpled, the writing hastily scrawled as if the author had
crouched just outside the crypt door and scribbled it on the spot. An
afterthought.
It said merely, "They told me to leave these, but I thought you'd want
them." There was no salutation or signature. The spelling wasn't
impeccable and the ink was laid down so faintly that it was barely
readable. Nevertheless, the message was understood.
Spike picked up the bag, carefully cradling the bottom of the crinkled
sack. It felt strangely light in his hand, and he frowned, holding it a
little tighter, wishing the load inside were heavier, more tangible.
The crypt door swung open under his hand, and he stepped through the
familiar opening into the dark, moist solace of his home. He placed the
bag gently in the outstretched hand of one of the angel statues that
decorated his small living space, carefully securing it on that surface
before letting it go. He shrugged his coat from his shoulders and bent to
unlace his boots, kicking them off carelessly. They raised a plume of dust
and dirt from the floor where they landed.
He straightened slowly, trying to ignore the aches and pains of another
battle fought and lost, trying to remember when he'd been feared by humans
and demons alike. But those days were gone, and now he commanded no one
and was feared by no one. William the Bloody, terror of little children
and fluffy kittens. He scowled, turning to approach the raised stone slab
that served as his bed, and that was when he saw her.
Drusilla reclined on the stone surface, her dress tangled around her legs.
She leaned back on her hands, her face obscured by a curtain of dark hair,
and looked coyly up at him from the shadows around her eyes. She didn't
say anything at first; she just swung her legs down, slid off the surface
of the sepulchre, and weaved her way toward him in a slow, barefooted
dance. Her long, silky dress flared out around her legs, and her pale feet
padded softly against the stone floor, her hair shifting around her face
like a gentle rainfall. Dimly, Spike realized that it had begun raining
outside, too, providing a faint soundtrack to her mesmerizing movements.
When she finally reached his side, her hands reached toward him, not
touching, but torturing with her closeness. She leaned in as if to kiss
him, but her lips did not touch his, and instead they whispered
secretively. "Hark, Hark, the dogs do bark," she murmured, providing her
own snarling sound effect. "The Duke is fond of kittens. He likes to take
their insides out and use their fur for mittens."
Some dark part of his mind recalled that the short poetic passage was from
a book, and remembered the first time he'd read it to her, replaying the
scene in vivid detail. She'd been sick, so terribly thin and pale that
he'd been sure that if he touched her, she'd crumble to dust. Her
emaciated body had been sunken into the silk sheets, and when she'd asked
him to make love to her, he'd been unwilling, unable to bring himself to
touch the wasted creature she'd become...
"I've got a secret," she whispered, pulling him back to the present. She
still didn't touch him, and when his hand reached out for her, she danced
away again, out of arm's reach. "You mustn't tell little Victoria that
I've eaten her mother and made pie of her pets."
Spike frowned, taking a step closer to her, but she sidled smoothly back
and away again, circling to put the coffin between them. "How long have
you been in town, Dru?" he asked.
"As long as it takes to die, and kill, and then to die again," she
replied, an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile tugging at her lips.
"Why haven't you come to see me?" He tried not to sound needy, or hurt,
but somehow both emotions saturated his voice.
"I am here to see you," she pointed out. Her eyes narrowed, and her gaze
focused on the floor near Spike's feet. He looked down, too, but nothing
was there. "Stop barking, fiend," Drusilla told the empty space, then her
eyes turned back to Spike again. "I saw a little puppy run onto the path,
and the cart wheel ran over its downy head. It spoke to me in a little
doggie voice and said 'Pop, crack.' I told it not to say such things, but
it followed me home, always saying, 'Pop, crack,' and sometimes in the
night I hear it bark. Do you think that the Devil sent the dog to make me
wicked?"
"No, baby," Spike protested automatically, taking another step toward her.
This time she didn't edge away. "The Devil follows after you himself, in
awe of your beauty."
Her smile was slow, but it came, beginning small and soon spreading thin
pink lips to reveal a flash of white teeth. "Clever Spike," she drawled,
beginning to sway in place again. "Just like me."
"Why did you come here, Drusilla?" He tried to sound annoyed, but the
jagged edges of his voice bled.
"You wanted me to come," she answered. "The wind sang your pain to me, and
the rain urged me to move quickly." She smiled again, sharply at odds with
his severe frown, and padded swiftly past him, toward the door. "Of
course, I'm not really here at all."
"Yeah, you never were all there," Spike muttered to himself, tracking her
progress with his eyes. "Where are you going?"
"Shhhh," she chided, opening the door wide, then returning to the room to
stand in a darkened corner, her glittering eyes focused on him. "You have
a visitor."
Buffy stood in the doorway, paying no attention to the rain that fell on
her shoulders and plastered her hair to her scalp. She stepped inside,
firmly closing the door behind her, and said, "You shouldn't leave your
door open like that. Someone might see it as an invitation to come in here
and kick your defenseless ass."
Spike shrugged, his face blank.
"Anya told me that she brought something over for you," Buffy continued,
moving boldly further into the room. Her eyes fell on the paper bag, still
balanced carefully in the stone hand of a statue. "I see you got it."
Spike didn't respond, watching as the girl picked up the bag. The paper
whispered and crunched in her hand. From the corner of his eye, he could
see Drusilla swaying toward him, cloaked in shadows, a wicked smile on her
face. Buffy didn't seem to notice the other vampire in the room, her eyes
flickering lazily around the dark space but not settling even for a moment
on Drusilla.
"So you must know what happened, then. Are we going to have a problem over
this?" Buffy opened the bag, peering in at its contents, then turned it
upside down. A thin rush of dust streamed out, settling thin and sparkling
on the floor.
"No," Spike answered, his voice echoing in his head as if it had traveled
to him down a long corridor. "No problems at all. I was just thinking
about a story Dru told me once. Something about a dog."
The weight in his hand was sudden and familiar, and his eyes flickered
downward to see a railroad spike clutched tightly in his fist. Drusilla
stood near his arm now, near enough to touch, but he didn't know if he'd
picked up the weapon himself or if Drusilla had handed it to him. His
fingers idly caressed the smooth metal length of it, and his thoughts
cleared, narrowed, and focused sharply.
Buffy scowled at him, clearly signaling her disinterest. "Okay. Have fun
reminiscing. Glad there's no hard feelings; I'd hate to have to kill you
like I did your crazy girlfriend." She turned to head back for the door,
then paused, opening her mouth to speak again. The words nearly came; she
nearly threw the, 'No, wait, I *do* want to kill you' back over her
shoulder. But the words couldn't escape with the railroad spike suddenly
thrust through the side of her throat, and she managed only a bloody
gurgle before she collapsed. Her body hit the floor with a very audible
thud.
"Pop, crack!" Drusilla whispered, her mouth at his ear.
It took a moment for the chip in Spike's brain to process what had
happened, but when it did, its retribution was instantaneous and
merciless.
Drusilla's repeated cry of "Pop, crack!" echoed through the crypt in
perfect time with the sounds that thundered in his ears, then she flashed
out of his view as his eyes boiled in their sockets, and there was nothing
left to feel but a terrible rush of heat.
The charred remains of his skeleton hit the floor, burnt and pitted from
the chip's chemical burn, and there was a series of sharp cracks as his
bones clattered to the ground and shattered. The sounds echoed against the
stone walls with only the uncaring dead to hear them.
THE END
-------------------------
If you really loved me,
you'd send feedback.
zero@zeroimpact.com
-------------------------