Confrontation (1 of 2)
Rykahna Wil Troi
Rykahna@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13
Category: A little more than a vignette, not quite a story
Spoilers: "Wrecked"
Disclaimer: Go ahead, sue me--it'll be funny.
Further disclaimer: Being new to the whole fanfic gig, I don't employ
a beta reader, so errors are due to my own innate idiocy.
Summary: A long-awaited confrontation.
He feels her presence without even seeing her, sitting in his armchair in front of a television set barely worthy of the name. She enters his crypt like a cold wind up the back of his neck, making his hackles rise. Of course, the culprit could possibly be the draft of frigid autumn air that accompanies the opening of the door, but the sublimated remnants of the poet in him likes to imagine it's just her.
"Slayer," he says slowly, calmly, not turning to face her, nor rising from his chair. It takes every shred of willpower he has to remain immobile when he wants to vault from his seat and grab her by the arms and shake her, or kiss her, or pummel her, or all of the above. It's been five days. Five torturous days that have dragged on longer than the last 120 years ever dreamed of doing. Five days that he's had to rein himself in when his instincts shouted at him to seek her out and force a confrontation, to keep pressing and pushing until she either yielded to the truth or staked him.
An excess of reticence has never been one of his multitude of sins, not since the day he died. It goes against the grain, sitting on his hands and waiting. He's spent over a century charging heedlessly toward whatever happened to be the object of his desires. Whether it's killing a Slayer or invoking the wrath of an angry mob or laying it all on the line for the turn of a single card, the roll of a die, he gambles. It's what he's all about, taking risks, existing for the moment, for the next thrill, the next challenge, the next set of insurmountable odds. At least, he was. Until the day he flattened the sign marking the Sunnydale city limit and found the rules had gone and changed without consulting him. Bloody inconsiderate, that.
After a long moment of silence--during which she could conceivably be creeping up behind him to stake him in the back--he rises from his chair and turns to face her. She's still standing by the door, her arms crossed over her chest, staring at him with her lips pressed together in a shrewish, displeased line. Her look isn't--quite--a glare, but it's not far from it. On the plus side, there's not a stake in her hand (though he has entertains no doubt that she hasn't got one or more tucked away somewhere on her) but on the bad side, she doesn't look like she's here to snog, either. Of course, with her it's hard to tell.
"So...what's brings a nice, upstanding, morally righteous young priss like you to this side of the tracks at this time o' night?" In another Herculean feat, he manages not to imitate her defensive posture and instead strikes a slouching, nonchalant pose against the sarcophagus.
"Priss?" She lifts one elegantly arched eyebrow, her tone derisive, and the game is entered. "That's a pretty lame insult even for you, Spike."
"If the stake fits...well, you know where to shove it."
"Don't tempt me."
He rolls his eyes. Her threats are hollow--he's fairly confident about that. If she had any intention of staking him, she would have done it long since. There's a chance he's wrong, of course, but taking risks is what he's all about, right?
Right.
He resists the temptation to cross his arms over his chest again, and asks instead, "So, what's it to be then, Slayer? Information? Some dire emergency likely involving the Niblet? Some dreadful, guilty secret you can't bring yourself to confide in anyone else? In the mood for something to abuse for a while, or would you like to just get straight to the shaggin'?"
"I. Am not. Sleeping. With you. Ever. Again." She says firmly, but the telltale flutter of the accelerated pulse in her throat and the hint of a flush down her neck hint at a different story. Unbelievably, however, it's not one he's particularly interested in at this moment.
"Good," he snarls. "Because I'm not your whore, and I won't be used like one. Had a hundred and twenty bleedin' years of that, and I don't really fancy doin' it all over again, thanks ever so."
Her eyes widen--that got her attention, surprised her, maybe even dismayed her. He can practically read her thoughts. She thought that if she came to him, his first and foremost goal would be to get her back into bed. She could allow him to seduce her after a token resistance and walk away in the morning with a clear conscience, conveniently forgetting that it was she who came to him. It never occurred to her that he wouldn't be interested in playing that game.
She rebounds admirably, however. He can see her hardening, pulling into herself, putting up defenses that *aren't* designed to be easily breached. Her eyes narrow, and her tone becomes acidic. "Compare me to a murderous fiend who's psychopathic even by vampire standards? Charming, Spike. I don't know the last time I felt so flattered."
He snorts. "You have more in common with Drusilla than you could possibly imagine. Difference is, she was mad and couldn't help herself. You...you just seem to play the games because you like it."
"I'm not listening to this," she mutters, turning her back on him and stomping toward the door. Cue Spike to chase after her, right?
He can do that.
He beats her to the door, crossing the crypt in a few bounds and slamming the heavy iron portal with an echoing bang. "Not a chance, blondie. You came to me--*you* sought *me* out--and you did it for a reason, and neither of us is leavin' here until we have this out."
"Think you can stop me?" she scoffs, pulling back a fist and letting it fly toward his face like a rocket.
He catches it in his own fist an inch from his nose, squeezing with crushing force that would have turned the hand of a normal human to pulp, and uses the tension in her own arm to push her away from him, stumbling down the steps deeper into the crypt. His voice cuts her off as she tenses to spring at him.
"No! You raise another hand to me, Slayer, you bloody well better be prepared to follow it up with a good staking. Next time we dance that way, it's the last, you got that? Next time, only one of us walks away when it's over. Now, tonight, we play things a bit different, and unless you think you got it in you to dust me, you better just wrap your pretty little brain around the idea that you and I are goin' to have a nice, long chat--right here and right bloody now."
Slowly, she stands down. She plants her hands on her hips and assumes her bitchiest tone. "So--what? You're going to just hold me hostage until I say what you want to hear? Pathetic much, Spike? Last time you tried that trick, it didn't get you anywhere either, if you recall."
"You have no idea what I want to hear, so don't go assumin' you do." He sits on the steps, guarding the door and leaving her plenty of space to pace the confines of the crypt like a caged cheetah.
"Oh, please! Like you haven't made it completely obvious by now."
"The problem with you, Slayer--" he ignores her sotto voce sarcastic entreaty to *please* tell her what her problem is-- "is you can't handle anything that doesn't fit into your nice, tidy, morally upright worldview. Good guys are the good guys, bad guys are the bad guys, never the twain shall meet, and what all. That's why I'm here waiting for scraps of kindness from you while Red is all comfy-cozy in Chateau Summers, despite the fact that the witch put the Niblet in mortal danger just a few days ago and you know I would protect her with my life. You're a hypocrite."
"And the charm just keeps on coming!"
"If you're looking for Prince Charming, princess, you're in the wrong palace--"
"You are *so* right about that."
"--but strangely enough, you're here anyway. So what's that say about you, I wonder?"
"I should have taken the left at Albuquerque?"
"So let me venture a guess at how you thought it would play when you walked through this here door..."
"Oh please do. Your imagination is so much better than anything that can be found on television these days."
"...You thought you could come here and let me persuade you to indulge in another go-round or ten, and if that didn't happen, you thought you could start a fight and then one thing would lead to another and the result would be the same..."
"Hello? Earth to Planet Ego, come in, Ego!"
"...Either way, you could go back home and convince yourself that it was all a mistake, a moment of insanity, that I was the one who started it all and that it would never, ever happen again--until the next time it happens. And so on with the hot and cold routine, until I get brassed off enough to finally kill you, which is probably what you've been hoping for since you first got back. I mean, why else would you make like you're suddenly wantin' my company, if you're not hoping the monster you're confidin' in will get the impression your guard is down and pounce, right? You're either too big a coward or not *quite* selfish enough to go ahead and off yourself, so you thought maybe there was a way you could get me to do it for you, because I'm the Big Bad, right? Soulless, remorseless killer and what all."
She has stopped her pacing now and is staring at him in shock. "You are so, *so* wrong."
"Am I now?"
"Yes! I am *not* suicidal, and even if I were, I could certainly find a better way to pull it off."
"No one's blamin' you, luv. It's a fittin' way for a Slayer to go, not pathetic like slicin' your wrists or hangin' yourself. I warned you about it last year. You were on the verge even then, long before this whole thing with your mum and the Niblet and your own death all went down, and now, after bein' where you've been and wantin' to be back there, it's only natural--"
"Stop! Just stop!" she shouts, her face pale. "You're wrong. I don't have a death wish. You were wrong back then, and you're wrong now."
"Right, then." He nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully, the tip of his tongue protruding from between his teeth. "If that's true, pet, tell me just one thing--what are you doing here?"
"Obviously being an idiot," she mutters, storming toward him. He's on his feet in a split second, his back to the door as she comes to a halt in front of him. "Let me out of here, Spike. Now."
He shakes his head. "I already told you--neither of us is leavin' 'til we've had this out."
"There's nothing to have out! You're delusional. You're insane. That chip has fried your brain, or your steady diet of pig's blood has given you Mad Cow disease or something. Whatever it is, it isn't my problem. Now get out of my way before I really do stake you."
"Then you'd best do it, Slayer, 'cause it's the only way you're gettin' out of here without answering my question." With a queer sense of deja vu, wondering if Drusilla's not the only vampire prone to prophesying, he grabs the collar of his black t-shirt and rips it to the waistband of his jeans and then spreads his hands wide, emphasizing his vulnerability. "Here you go, luv. Go to it."
"What the hell are you doing?" she demands, aghast.
"You're goin' ta stake me good an' proper, right? What are you waitin' for, then?"
"What, so I can have killing you in cold blood on my conscience? You think you can use that to blackmail me into staying? What happened to 'next time we dance, it will be the last?'"
"You mean like you're trying to blackmail me into killin' you?" he snarls, springing the trap closed. "You think you can just force enough confrontations that sooner or later, I'm going to lose control and do what comes naturally to us vampires, right? The fact that the chip no longer seems to work on you really works in your favor on that angle, doesn't it? I've been askin' myself for months what I would do if the chip stopped working and I was finally able to be a proper vampire again, and I've decided I don't want to know. I'm not going to dance to your tune until you're dead just so I can go out and meet Mr. Sunrise the next morning, providin' your gang doesn't get to me first. So you either stake me, right here and right now, and end this thing, or you answer my bloody question!"
"I--" she backs away from him, shaking her head wildly back and forth.
"Why are you here, Buffy?"
"I can't--"
"Why are you here?" Harsher, this time. Louder. More insistent. He stalks forward as her back comes up against the sarcophagus, stopping her short.
"Don't, Spike--"
"Don't what? Don't ask for the truth from you? Or don't tell you the truth?"
"Don't..." Her throat works convulsively, her mouth moving wordlessly.
"Damn you, Slayer!" he can feel himself losing control, grabbing her by her upper arms much as he wanted to when she first entered and giving her a shake, shouting in her face, "Answer the question! Why the bleedin' hell are you here?"
"I don't know!" she yells, bringing her forearms up between his to break his grasp on her. She winces as his fingers are jerked from where they were wrapped around her arms, and he can see red and white stripes on her pale skin that never regained its mild pre-mortem tan that might very well darken into bruises later. She quickly retreats from him, and it's just as well she's not near him now; finding the chip has stopped working on her has led him to some serious questions about what he's capable of doing. He doesn't think he's got it in him to kill her, either deliberately or in a rage, but there's no telling what she can provoke him to, and he doesn't trust her to save herself and stop him, or kill him, if he loses control. She's almost as the door when his soft sneer stops her.
"You're a coward, Summers."
She turns on him, her momentary discomposure gone, her eyes cold. "You really are pathetic, you know that? So--what? I'm supposed to stay now because you double-dog dared me to?"
"No. You're supposed to stay because right now, you're sending out gilded an' engraved invitations to every bad-ass wannabe in this town. Now, sooner or later, whether you're actively looking or not, you'll find some nasty that will be only too happy to take you up on your offer and he'll walk away thinking he's just had a real good day. And then who's gonna watch out for the Niblet? Giles is gone. Red's a disaster waitin' to happen, and do you really think the Li'l Bit could handle losing you again?"
The fight seems to go out of her abruptly. She leans against one of the pillars in the crypt, rubbing a hand over her face. "I'm tired, Spike."
He knows she's not speaking of the late hour. "I know you are, Slayer," he says flatly.
End of Part 1
Rykahna Wil Troi
Rykahna@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13
Category: A little more than a vignette, not quite a story
Spoilers: "Wrecked"
Disclaimer: Go ahead, sue me--it'll be funny.
Further disclaimer: Being new to the whole fanfic gig, I don't employ
a beta reader, so errors are due to my own innate idiocy.
Summary: A long-awaited confrontation.
He feels her presence without even seeing her, sitting in his armchair in front of a television set barely worthy of the name. She enters his crypt like a cold wind up the back of his neck, making his hackles rise. Of course, the culprit could possibly be the draft of frigid autumn air that accompanies the opening of the door, but the sublimated remnants of the poet in him likes to imagine it's just her.
"Slayer," he says slowly, calmly, not turning to face her, nor rising from his chair. It takes every shred of willpower he has to remain immobile when he wants to vault from his seat and grab her by the arms and shake her, or kiss her, or pummel her, or all of the above. It's been five days. Five torturous days that have dragged on longer than the last 120 years ever dreamed of doing. Five days that he's had to rein himself in when his instincts shouted at him to seek her out and force a confrontation, to keep pressing and pushing until she either yielded to the truth or staked him.
An excess of reticence has never been one of his multitude of sins, not since the day he died. It goes against the grain, sitting on his hands and waiting. He's spent over a century charging heedlessly toward whatever happened to be the object of his desires. Whether it's killing a Slayer or invoking the wrath of an angry mob or laying it all on the line for the turn of a single card, the roll of a die, he gambles. It's what he's all about, taking risks, existing for the moment, for the next thrill, the next challenge, the next set of insurmountable odds. At least, he was. Until the day he flattened the sign marking the Sunnydale city limit and found the rules had gone and changed without consulting him. Bloody inconsiderate, that.
After a long moment of silence--during which she could conceivably be creeping up behind him to stake him in the back--he rises from his chair and turns to face her. She's still standing by the door, her arms crossed over her chest, staring at him with her lips pressed together in a shrewish, displeased line. Her look isn't--quite--a glare, but it's not far from it. On the plus side, there's not a stake in her hand (though he has entertains no doubt that she hasn't got one or more tucked away somewhere on her) but on the bad side, she doesn't look like she's here to snog, either. Of course, with her it's hard to tell.
"So...what's brings a nice, upstanding, morally righteous young priss like you to this side of the tracks at this time o' night?" In another Herculean feat, he manages not to imitate her defensive posture and instead strikes a slouching, nonchalant pose against the sarcophagus.
"Priss?" She lifts one elegantly arched eyebrow, her tone derisive, and the game is entered. "That's a pretty lame insult even for you, Spike."
"If the stake fits...well, you know where to shove it."
"Don't tempt me."
He rolls his eyes. Her threats are hollow--he's fairly confident about that. If she had any intention of staking him, she would have done it long since. There's a chance he's wrong, of course, but taking risks is what he's all about, right?
Right.
He resists the temptation to cross his arms over his chest again, and asks instead, "So, what's it to be then, Slayer? Information? Some dire emergency likely involving the Niblet? Some dreadful, guilty secret you can't bring yourself to confide in anyone else? In the mood for something to abuse for a while, or would you like to just get straight to the shaggin'?"
"I. Am not. Sleeping. With you. Ever. Again." She says firmly, but the telltale flutter of the accelerated pulse in her throat and the hint of a flush down her neck hint at a different story. Unbelievably, however, it's not one he's particularly interested in at this moment.
"Good," he snarls. "Because I'm not your whore, and I won't be used like one. Had a hundred and twenty bleedin' years of that, and I don't really fancy doin' it all over again, thanks ever so."
Her eyes widen--that got her attention, surprised her, maybe even dismayed her. He can practically read her thoughts. She thought that if she came to him, his first and foremost goal would be to get her back into bed. She could allow him to seduce her after a token resistance and walk away in the morning with a clear conscience, conveniently forgetting that it was she who came to him. It never occurred to her that he wouldn't be interested in playing that game.
She rebounds admirably, however. He can see her hardening, pulling into herself, putting up defenses that *aren't* designed to be easily breached. Her eyes narrow, and her tone becomes acidic. "Compare me to a murderous fiend who's psychopathic even by vampire standards? Charming, Spike. I don't know the last time I felt so flattered."
He snorts. "You have more in common with Drusilla than you could possibly imagine. Difference is, she was mad and couldn't help herself. You...you just seem to play the games because you like it."
"I'm not listening to this," she mutters, turning her back on him and stomping toward the door. Cue Spike to chase after her, right?
He can do that.
He beats her to the door, crossing the crypt in a few bounds and slamming the heavy iron portal with an echoing bang. "Not a chance, blondie. You came to me--*you* sought *me* out--and you did it for a reason, and neither of us is leavin' here until we have this out."
"Think you can stop me?" she scoffs, pulling back a fist and letting it fly toward his face like a rocket.
He catches it in his own fist an inch from his nose, squeezing with crushing force that would have turned the hand of a normal human to pulp, and uses the tension in her own arm to push her away from him, stumbling down the steps deeper into the crypt. His voice cuts her off as she tenses to spring at him.
"No! You raise another hand to me, Slayer, you bloody well better be prepared to follow it up with a good staking. Next time we dance that way, it's the last, you got that? Next time, only one of us walks away when it's over. Now, tonight, we play things a bit different, and unless you think you got it in you to dust me, you better just wrap your pretty little brain around the idea that you and I are goin' to have a nice, long chat--right here and right bloody now."
Slowly, she stands down. She plants her hands on her hips and assumes her bitchiest tone. "So--what? You're going to just hold me hostage until I say what you want to hear? Pathetic much, Spike? Last time you tried that trick, it didn't get you anywhere either, if you recall."
"You have no idea what I want to hear, so don't go assumin' you do." He sits on the steps, guarding the door and leaving her plenty of space to pace the confines of the crypt like a caged cheetah.
"Oh, please! Like you haven't made it completely obvious by now."
"The problem with you, Slayer--" he ignores her sotto voce sarcastic entreaty to *please* tell her what her problem is-- "is you can't handle anything that doesn't fit into your nice, tidy, morally upright worldview. Good guys are the good guys, bad guys are the bad guys, never the twain shall meet, and what all. That's why I'm here waiting for scraps of kindness from you while Red is all comfy-cozy in Chateau Summers, despite the fact that the witch put the Niblet in mortal danger just a few days ago and you know I would protect her with my life. You're a hypocrite."
"And the charm just keeps on coming!"
"If you're looking for Prince Charming, princess, you're in the wrong palace--"
"You are *so* right about that."
"--but strangely enough, you're here anyway. So what's that say about you, I wonder?"
"I should have taken the left at Albuquerque?"
"So let me venture a guess at how you thought it would play when you walked through this here door..."
"Oh please do. Your imagination is so much better than anything that can be found on television these days."
"...You thought you could come here and let me persuade you to indulge in another go-round or ten, and if that didn't happen, you thought you could start a fight and then one thing would lead to another and the result would be the same..."
"Hello? Earth to Planet Ego, come in, Ego!"
"...Either way, you could go back home and convince yourself that it was all a mistake, a moment of insanity, that I was the one who started it all and that it would never, ever happen again--until the next time it happens. And so on with the hot and cold routine, until I get brassed off enough to finally kill you, which is probably what you've been hoping for since you first got back. I mean, why else would you make like you're suddenly wantin' my company, if you're not hoping the monster you're confidin' in will get the impression your guard is down and pounce, right? You're either too big a coward or not *quite* selfish enough to go ahead and off yourself, so you thought maybe there was a way you could get me to do it for you, because I'm the Big Bad, right? Soulless, remorseless killer and what all."
She has stopped her pacing now and is staring at him in shock. "You are so, *so* wrong."
"Am I now?"
"Yes! I am *not* suicidal, and even if I were, I could certainly find a better way to pull it off."
"No one's blamin' you, luv. It's a fittin' way for a Slayer to go, not pathetic like slicin' your wrists or hangin' yourself. I warned you about it last year. You were on the verge even then, long before this whole thing with your mum and the Niblet and your own death all went down, and now, after bein' where you've been and wantin' to be back there, it's only natural--"
"Stop! Just stop!" she shouts, her face pale. "You're wrong. I don't have a death wish. You were wrong back then, and you're wrong now."
"Right, then." He nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully, the tip of his tongue protruding from between his teeth. "If that's true, pet, tell me just one thing--what are you doing here?"
"Obviously being an idiot," she mutters, storming toward him. He's on his feet in a split second, his back to the door as she comes to a halt in front of him. "Let me out of here, Spike. Now."
He shakes his head. "I already told you--neither of us is leavin' 'til we've had this out."
"There's nothing to have out! You're delusional. You're insane. That chip has fried your brain, or your steady diet of pig's blood has given you Mad Cow disease or something. Whatever it is, it isn't my problem. Now get out of my way before I really do stake you."
"Then you'd best do it, Slayer, 'cause it's the only way you're gettin' out of here without answering my question." With a queer sense of deja vu, wondering if Drusilla's not the only vampire prone to prophesying, he grabs the collar of his black t-shirt and rips it to the waistband of his jeans and then spreads his hands wide, emphasizing his vulnerability. "Here you go, luv. Go to it."
"What the hell are you doing?" she demands, aghast.
"You're goin' ta stake me good an' proper, right? What are you waitin' for, then?"
"What, so I can have killing you in cold blood on my conscience? You think you can use that to blackmail me into staying? What happened to 'next time we dance, it will be the last?'"
"You mean like you're trying to blackmail me into killin' you?" he snarls, springing the trap closed. "You think you can just force enough confrontations that sooner or later, I'm going to lose control and do what comes naturally to us vampires, right? The fact that the chip no longer seems to work on you really works in your favor on that angle, doesn't it? I've been askin' myself for months what I would do if the chip stopped working and I was finally able to be a proper vampire again, and I've decided I don't want to know. I'm not going to dance to your tune until you're dead just so I can go out and meet Mr. Sunrise the next morning, providin' your gang doesn't get to me first. So you either stake me, right here and right now, and end this thing, or you answer my bloody question!"
"I--" she backs away from him, shaking her head wildly back and forth.
"Why are you here, Buffy?"
"I can't--"
"Why are you here?" Harsher, this time. Louder. More insistent. He stalks forward as her back comes up against the sarcophagus, stopping her short.
"Don't, Spike--"
"Don't what? Don't ask for the truth from you? Or don't tell you the truth?"
"Don't..." Her throat works convulsively, her mouth moving wordlessly.
"Damn you, Slayer!" he can feel himself losing control, grabbing her by her upper arms much as he wanted to when she first entered and giving her a shake, shouting in her face, "Answer the question! Why the bleedin' hell are you here?"
"I don't know!" she yells, bringing her forearms up between his to break his grasp on her. She winces as his fingers are jerked from where they were wrapped around her arms, and he can see red and white stripes on her pale skin that never regained its mild pre-mortem tan that might very well darken into bruises later. She quickly retreats from him, and it's just as well she's not near him now; finding the chip has stopped working on her has led him to some serious questions about what he's capable of doing. He doesn't think he's got it in him to kill her, either deliberately or in a rage, but there's no telling what she can provoke him to, and he doesn't trust her to save herself and stop him, or kill him, if he loses control. She's almost as the door when his soft sneer stops her.
"You're a coward, Summers."
She turns on him, her momentary discomposure gone, her eyes cold. "You really are pathetic, you know that? So--what? I'm supposed to stay now because you double-dog dared me to?"
"No. You're supposed to stay because right now, you're sending out gilded an' engraved invitations to every bad-ass wannabe in this town. Now, sooner or later, whether you're actively looking or not, you'll find some nasty that will be only too happy to take you up on your offer and he'll walk away thinking he's just had a real good day. And then who's gonna watch out for the Niblet? Giles is gone. Red's a disaster waitin' to happen, and do you really think the Li'l Bit could handle losing you again?"
The fight seems to go out of her abruptly. She leans against one of the pillars in the crypt, rubbing a hand over her face. "I'm tired, Spike."
He knows she's not speaking of the late hour. "I know you are, Slayer," he says flatly.
End of Part 1