Title: Tasting Ashes
Author: Lauren
Disclaimer: I don't claim anything. I have no job, no money, no life, and no right to any of these characters. Go ahead and sue me.
Note: Takes place after "Smashed" and before "Wrecked". I'm still just a little bitty newbie fanfic writer and I'm completely lost out here. Give me feedback and make me feel better.
Email: aonian@mailpuppy.com
Distribution: If you want it, I'm flattered. Just let me know.
Rain drops fall like rose petals. Warm blood falls away in a wash, screams smothered by the primevil drum of water. Platnum curls drip and yellow eyes glow like witches' candles. Pale skin and stiff leather -- the vampire looks like a dead rock star.
Except he died centuries before rock came to life. Was drinking this red wine in the rain decades before the very thought of it.
He drinks now. This girl didn't die quick -- his first kill in over a year; the moment could not be wasted -- but she died quiet. Best not to alert the slayer to his new freedom in that manner. He has a choice to make, yes, but for now he just needs to be warm. Alive.
The girl had been warm. Pretty, small and blond, a boyfriend's jacket draped across her shoulders. Warm and sweet and innocent. The next day the paper would call him evil, barberous, an unnamed fiend and he would laugh. Yes, he will think, I am evil. For he didn't choose to be one of the good guys; he didn't ask to have the deepest, most visceral part of his nature chained and collared like a bloody pet dog.
Of course, he will also remember that he never chose to be evil. He never asked to have his life sucked out of him and death swallowed into him. He asked for power, for adventure, not immortality in the cruelest sense of the word.
Still, the blood feels good against his lips. Rich with youth.
Might damn him if she notices, but she'd have to kiss him for that. And then he'd be willing to be damned again.
There are other signs: The blood beneath his nails, the sharpness in his step, the warmth of his skin -- it will be hours before he cools again. Hours before he is more vital sign away from her.
Suddenly blond hair and bound muscle call out to him. He must find her, while he is still warm. Even if she guesses why.
Her house is warm, as always. The Summers hate the cold, something to do with their name, perhaps. He doesn't expect the garlic decked along the walls instead of holly, but he is gratefull that the invitation is still good.
Did she run out of time, or does some small part of her want him here? Trust him?
He could kill them all, he realizes. Kill everyone who means a thing to her right here while she sleeps and make her baby sister hate her own namesake. Fittingly brutal, for such a beast as him.
He passes their doors without a pause. Creeps into the slayer's room in silence, but she senses him anyway. Stake ready, she raises before him. Blond hair falls away from her eyes and she lowers the stake. Hisses his name.
Spike doesn't speak. He isn't Spike at the moment, but William. Gently, he frees the stake from her hand and cups her damp cheek.
A battle rises and falls in her eyes, then she kisses his palm, nuzzles it.
Their clothes lie entwined on the floor. He finds all the bruises, scars and marks on her pale skin, wishing to heal each. For a little while, they grow warmer together.
There are only a few hours until dawn when he begs her to follow. The dress and slip out the window. Walk down Mainstreet.
Spike chooses a target, Buffy steps unknowingly a few feet behind. Without warning, white teeth grow sharp and spike jerks his prey into an alley.
The slayer faces him, eyes threatening water even as the sky above grows heavy. But she's angry, betrayed and there's a stake in her hand.
He lowers his fangs to the boy's neck. Buffy asks him what the hell happened.
"This is what you wanted, Slayer, isn't it? A reason to kill me," he growles.
Silence is her response.
His tone softens. "Because if it's not what you wanted, make me let him go. Tell me to deny everything that I have ever been for you... and I will."
She says nothing, but she takes the boy by the hand and pulls him away. Pushes him him to the mouth of the alley and tells him to run.
He obeys.
Her mouth finds Spike's.
He is cast forth from Hell, she from Heaven and the meeting of their skins makes the two worlds quake.
At least, to him, it feels like it. Then he realizes his eyes have slipped blue again. He suckles the pulsing place on her neck and she gasps, then holds him tighter.
When the point of wood presses behind his heart, he is above ecstasy. He feels it, understands what it means, understands that she meant for his last moment to be inside Heaven, and loves her for it.
Then the smooth tip of wood slips into his heart, and her mouth is filled with dust. The clouds break and she lets the rain wash it away, tears falling like rose petals.
Author: Lauren
Disclaimer: I don't claim anything. I have no job, no money, no life, and no right to any of these characters. Go ahead and sue me.
Note: Takes place after "Smashed" and before "Wrecked". I'm still just a little bitty newbie fanfic writer and I'm completely lost out here. Give me feedback and make me feel better.
Email: aonian@mailpuppy.com
Distribution: If you want it, I'm flattered. Just let me know.
Rain drops fall like rose petals. Warm blood falls away in a wash, screams smothered by the primevil drum of water. Platnum curls drip and yellow eyes glow like witches' candles. Pale skin and stiff leather -- the vampire looks like a dead rock star.
Except he died centuries before rock came to life. Was drinking this red wine in the rain decades before the very thought of it.
He drinks now. This girl didn't die quick -- his first kill in over a year; the moment could not be wasted -- but she died quiet. Best not to alert the slayer to his new freedom in that manner. He has a choice to make, yes, but for now he just needs to be warm. Alive.
The girl had been warm. Pretty, small and blond, a boyfriend's jacket draped across her shoulders. Warm and sweet and innocent. The next day the paper would call him evil, barberous, an unnamed fiend and he would laugh. Yes, he will think, I am evil. For he didn't choose to be one of the good guys; he didn't ask to have the deepest, most visceral part of his nature chained and collared like a bloody pet dog.
Of course, he will also remember that he never chose to be evil. He never asked to have his life sucked out of him and death swallowed into him. He asked for power, for adventure, not immortality in the cruelest sense of the word.
Still, the blood feels good against his lips. Rich with youth.
Might damn him if she notices, but she'd have to kiss him for that. And then he'd be willing to be damned again.
There are other signs: The blood beneath his nails, the sharpness in his step, the warmth of his skin -- it will be hours before he cools again. Hours before he is more vital sign away from her.
Suddenly blond hair and bound muscle call out to him. He must find her, while he is still warm. Even if she guesses why.
Her house is warm, as always. The Summers hate the cold, something to do with their name, perhaps. He doesn't expect the garlic decked along the walls instead of holly, but he is gratefull that the invitation is still good.
Did she run out of time, or does some small part of her want him here? Trust him?
He could kill them all, he realizes. Kill everyone who means a thing to her right here while she sleeps and make her baby sister hate her own namesake. Fittingly brutal, for such a beast as him.
He passes their doors without a pause. Creeps into the slayer's room in silence, but she senses him anyway. Stake ready, she raises before him. Blond hair falls away from her eyes and she lowers the stake. Hisses his name.
Spike doesn't speak. He isn't Spike at the moment, but William. Gently, he frees the stake from her hand and cups her damp cheek.
A battle rises and falls in her eyes, then she kisses his palm, nuzzles it.
Their clothes lie entwined on the floor. He finds all the bruises, scars and marks on her pale skin, wishing to heal each. For a little while, they grow warmer together.
There are only a few hours until dawn when he begs her to follow. The dress and slip out the window. Walk down Mainstreet.
Spike chooses a target, Buffy steps unknowingly a few feet behind. Without warning, white teeth grow sharp and spike jerks his prey into an alley.
The slayer faces him, eyes threatening water even as the sky above grows heavy. But she's angry, betrayed and there's a stake in her hand.
He lowers his fangs to the boy's neck. Buffy asks him what the hell happened.
"This is what you wanted, Slayer, isn't it? A reason to kill me," he growles.
Silence is her response.
His tone softens. "Because if it's not what you wanted, make me let him go. Tell me to deny everything that I have ever been for you... and I will."
She says nothing, but she takes the boy by the hand and pulls him away. Pushes him him to the mouth of the alley and tells him to run.
He obeys.
Her mouth finds Spike's.
He is cast forth from Hell, she from Heaven and the meeting of their skins makes the two worlds quake.
At least, to him, it feels like it. Then he realizes his eyes have slipped blue again. He suckles the pulsing place on her neck and she gasps, then holds him tighter.
When the point of wood presses behind his heart, he is above ecstasy. He feels it, understands what it means, understands that she meant for his last moment to be inside Heaven, and loves her for it.
Then the smooth tip of wood slips into his heart, and her mouth is filled with dust. The clouds break and she lets the rain wash it away, tears falling like rose petals.