MINIMUM SAFE DISTANCE
By Annie
Rated - R; language
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, UPN and others own Buff and company; which is too bad.
Spoiler: The Gift, vaguely
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net
MINIMUM SAFE DISTANCE
"You have now reached minimum safe distance."
As the spaceship's computer informed the hero that he was far enough away, after setting the self-destruct codes, Spike snorted disdainfully and upended the liquor bottle, draining the last of the cheap bourbon from it.
He was ready to throw it at the television; as usual, there was nothing on, and he had settled for this B-grade sci-fi flick. So, he guessed, the hero was getting away after all. The irony of his entertainment selection settled on him.
"Minimum safe distance," Spike mumbled dangerously under his breath. "No such fucking thing," he declared, finally just throwing the bottle at the screen anyway.
He missed. Too much bourbon tonight, Spikey, the TV taunted him subliminally. On the visible screen, the mother ship had blown up spectacularly, evil aliens all gone, and, of course, the hero now went on his merry way, primed for a sequel.
Spike got up drunkenly and kicked the television from its' stand. Not enough bourbon, apparently.
"No minimum safe distance for you," the vampire sneered. Or for me, either, he thought.
Not that he hadn't tried, of course. After experiencing the most crushing pain he could ever have imagined, after Buffy..fell, he had tried his own version of the minimum safe distance thing. After the funeral, after Littler Summers had been hauled away overseas to her Pseudo-Dad, Giles had left, high-tailed it back to England. Spike had almost laughed; The Ripper himself, torn up so much by his Slayer's death that he couldn't even bear to stay in the same country.
Spike secretly agreed. He left. He went South. He had been in South America before, with Dru, but that fact alone made him stop when he reached the Gulf of Mexico. Plus, he was running out of money. No one paid him for information anymore, so he was reduced to being little more than a common thief, now, as well as being a vagabond vampire feeding on demon blood.
Still, it wasn't enough.
There is no minimum safe distance.
She kept pulling him back, back to her, and he traveled it a mile of road and a bottle of cheap booze at a time.
The Gulf was nice, the casinos discharged drunken couples at all hours of the night; he was able to cajole some small amounts of cash from those who had gotten the better of the gaming tables, but more than once, Spike contemplated staying out until sunrise and simply walking into the Gulf to fry in the morning sun.
No matter how much he drank, he couldn't bring himself to do it.
No matter how much he drank, this excruciating ache stayed with him.
The aged cemeteries in New Orleans yielded all manner of demons on which to feast and vent his rage, and so he dallied there a while, but still, after a few weeks, he had to move again. Back.
He cursed the damnable chip every night. He wanted something human. But he knew it wasn't the chip stopping him now.
He just wanted Buffy back.
The ache drew him, inexorably NorthWest - back to the Hellmouth, back to this bloody, lonely crypt near her grave.
He saw Riley and his friends there, once, paying respects; Mr. White Bread, who obviously didn't even know how to fuck a woman properly in order to keep her, let alone love her well enough. A murderous rage had swept over Spike that night, and he quelled it with more bourbon, feeling the enemy in his head tingling with the want to torture him.
So he was back. No such thing as minimum safe distance.
But, he would set his own self-destruct codes, or die trying.
Time to go out and get more booze, he thought now, as he surveyed the broken bits of his only escape from reality.
He left the crypt and made a wrong turn, whether deliberately or just because of the booze he would never know, but he suddenly realized he was in the wrong section of the cemetery - wrong for him, anyway. He shouldn't - no, couldn't - be near her grave, but he was. It was right over there. After that day, the day they had put her there in the dirt, he had made sure he never went near it again.
Minimum safe distance.
No such fucking thing.
Well, she had drawn him back from trying to escape Sunnydale, so why not?
He couldn't conceive of hurting anymore inside without simply dropping into dust, so why not?
He would have been holding his breath, if he had any.
There it, she was.
So much for his minimum safe distance theory.
Spike dropped to his knees in pain. He would soon have to go out and just kill someone, anyone, in the hope that the pain in his head would overshadow this incredible pain in the rest of him.
He didn't want to get any closer, but his body moved of its' own volition.
He crawled, cold tears falling from his face to the slightly warmer ground. He reached out a hand and touched the grass covering her tentatively.
Rage overcame him and he snarled, vamp face coming unbidden. He leaped forward and found his vamp hands digging in the grass.
No, defenses down. Actually, defenses non-existent in this case. He stopped digging, pushing the rage away.
This wouldn't work. Buffy wasn't one of the undead, and after all these months, it wouldn't do to see her now.
He might as well go back to his crypt and bloody stake himself.
But first - vamp face gone, cold tears still in his startlingly blue eyes, he lay on the grass above her, head to head, heart to heart. He closed his eyes tightly, mind seeing down into the earth, memory bringing her face before him.
"Come back, Summers."
By Annie
Rated - R; language
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, UPN and others own Buff and company; which is too bad.
Spoiler: The Gift, vaguely
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net
MINIMUM SAFE DISTANCE
"You have now reached minimum safe distance."
As the spaceship's computer informed the hero that he was far enough away, after setting the self-destruct codes, Spike snorted disdainfully and upended the liquor bottle, draining the last of the cheap bourbon from it.
He was ready to throw it at the television; as usual, there was nothing on, and he had settled for this B-grade sci-fi flick. So, he guessed, the hero was getting away after all. The irony of his entertainment selection settled on him.
"Minimum safe distance," Spike mumbled dangerously under his breath. "No such fucking thing," he declared, finally just throwing the bottle at the screen anyway.
He missed. Too much bourbon tonight, Spikey, the TV taunted him subliminally. On the visible screen, the mother ship had blown up spectacularly, evil aliens all gone, and, of course, the hero now went on his merry way, primed for a sequel.
Spike got up drunkenly and kicked the television from its' stand. Not enough bourbon, apparently.
"No minimum safe distance for you," the vampire sneered. Or for me, either, he thought.
Not that he hadn't tried, of course. After experiencing the most crushing pain he could ever have imagined, after Buffy..fell, he had tried his own version of the minimum safe distance thing. After the funeral, after Littler Summers had been hauled away overseas to her Pseudo-Dad, Giles had left, high-tailed it back to England. Spike had almost laughed; The Ripper himself, torn up so much by his Slayer's death that he couldn't even bear to stay in the same country.
Spike secretly agreed. He left. He went South. He had been in South America before, with Dru, but that fact alone made him stop when he reached the Gulf of Mexico. Plus, he was running out of money. No one paid him for information anymore, so he was reduced to being little more than a common thief, now, as well as being a vagabond vampire feeding on demon blood.
Still, it wasn't enough.
There is no minimum safe distance.
She kept pulling him back, back to her, and he traveled it a mile of road and a bottle of cheap booze at a time.
The Gulf was nice, the casinos discharged drunken couples at all hours of the night; he was able to cajole some small amounts of cash from those who had gotten the better of the gaming tables, but more than once, Spike contemplated staying out until sunrise and simply walking into the Gulf to fry in the morning sun.
No matter how much he drank, he couldn't bring himself to do it.
No matter how much he drank, this excruciating ache stayed with him.
The aged cemeteries in New Orleans yielded all manner of demons on which to feast and vent his rage, and so he dallied there a while, but still, after a few weeks, he had to move again. Back.
He cursed the damnable chip every night. He wanted something human. But he knew it wasn't the chip stopping him now.
He just wanted Buffy back.
The ache drew him, inexorably NorthWest - back to the Hellmouth, back to this bloody, lonely crypt near her grave.
He saw Riley and his friends there, once, paying respects; Mr. White Bread, who obviously didn't even know how to fuck a woman properly in order to keep her, let alone love her well enough. A murderous rage had swept over Spike that night, and he quelled it with more bourbon, feeling the enemy in his head tingling with the want to torture him.
So he was back. No such thing as minimum safe distance.
But, he would set his own self-destruct codes, or die trying.
Time to go out and get more booze, he thought now, as he surveyed the broken bits of his only escape from reality.
He left the crypt and made a wrong turn, whether deliberately or just because of the booze he would never know, but he suddenly realized he was in the wrong section of the cemetery - wrong for him, anyway. He shouldn't - no, couldn't - be near her grave, but he was. It was right over there. After that day, the day they had put her there in the dirt, he had made sure he never went near it again.
Minimum safe distance.
No such fucking thing.
Well, she had drawn him back from trying to escape Sunnydale, so why not?
He couldn't conceive of hurting anymore inside without simply dropping into dust, so why not?
He would have been holding his breath, if he had any.
There it, she was.
So much for his minimum safe distance theory.
Spike dropped to his knees in pain. He would soon have to go out and just kill someone, anyone, in the hope that the pain in his head would overshadow this incredible pain in the rest of him.
He didn't want to get any closer, but his body moved of its' own volition.
He crawled, cold tears falling from his face to the slightly warmer ground. He reached out a hand and touched the grass covering her tentatively.
Rage overcame him and he snarled, vamp face coming unbidden. He leaped forward and found his vamp hands digging in the grass.
No, defenses down. Actually, defenses non-existent in this case. He stopped digging, pushing the rage away.
This wouldn't work. Buffy wasn't one of the undead, and after all these months, it wouldn't do to see her now.
He might as well go back to his crypt and bloody stake himself.
But first - vamp face gone, cold tears still in his startlingly blue eyes, he lay on the grass above her, head to head, heart to heart. He closed his eyes tightly, mind seeing down into the earth, memory bringing her face before him.
"Come back, Summers."