I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Buffy the Vampire Slayer". They were created by Joss Whedon and belong to him, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Television, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television and the WB Television Network. Una is mine.
Author's note: sorry about the wait, but if I don't get more reviews I might stop writing, despite the fact that I have it all planned out, and it's very good if I do say so myself.
Spike was searching his pockets for a fag when someone ran straight into him, head butting him in the chest.
He was just regaining his balance when he noticed her bare neck. He was ravenous. He'd been driving for three days and had had no time to feed.
"I'm sorry I'll -" she said, as she recoiled away from him.
"No, it's okay, you're upset" Spike said, not taking his eyes off her neck. He wrapped his arms around her and cradled her head carefully.
Looking at her pale skin he vamped out.
"If you bite me Spike I'll whoop your arse." She said deadpan.
He snatched his hands away as if he'd been burned.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"That's okay," she said, rubbing her arms.
Spike, whose face was by now back to normal, looked at her with worried eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"I bollocksed everything thing up again."
Spike watching in horror as she used the only weapon he was defenceless against, tears.
"Aw, come on Blue," Spike groaned. "Look, it's nearly light, we need to be getting back."
She stifled her sobs and replied, "Yeah"
"We'll talk about this when we get back, but now we need to run, okay?"
"Yeah," she repeated softly.
They ran.
Spike locked the door behind him and turned to look at Blue. As soon as she'd got in she'd collapsed on the sofa and was now curled up in a ball, her body racked with sobs.
He sat on the floor next to her and stroked her cheek softly. "What's wrong?"
""I bollocksed everything thing up."
"So you said"
She continued between sobs.
"I went and he . . . he was so nice and caring and . . . and then I had to leave . . . and it was horrible and . . ." she looked at Spike with tears streaming down her face and shook her head ever so slightly. She didn't have words to describe the awful wrenching at her heart with every step she took away from him. "And he's still here, I can feel him in my head and he . . . he won't get out." She gazed at Spike looking for the answer.
"I knew this would happen."
"You would," she said, sniffing.
"It's like when you have to give up a baby for adoption, you can rationalise it all you want, but when it gets there, you can't let go."
"And you'd know would you?"
"I've seen it on the telly, yes." He replied, adopting an air of injured intellectualism.
She giggled through her tears.
"That's what I like to see," he said getting up. "So, you're going to get some sleep then you're going to go back-"
"Will you some with me?" she interrupted.
"It'll be light"
"Pleeease"
Unable to resist her womanly charm, Spike laughed inwardly at that thought, he gave in.
"Sure, provided you don't mind travelling by sewer."
"Maybe we'll wait 'til it's dark."
"After all you need some time to put your face on"
Blue stuck the tiniest tip of her tongue out at him.
Spike smiled, glad that she'd stopped crying.
"Do you want the bed or are you happy here."
"Happy here," she said, stretching like a cat.
"I'll just bring a blanket then I'll sing you a lullaby to help you sleep," he said smiling, evilly.
"Spike if it's what I think it's going to be I'll whoop you arse." The menace of the threat was marred slightly by her yawning partway through. Spike hummed the opening bars, but she was too tired to do anything about it, and as he sung she slowly drifted off to sleep.
You can't write a novel from a briefcase
You can write a poem from a trench
You can dream a dream from A to B
But you can't catch a bus from a bench
You don't back a horse called Striding Snail
You don't name a boat Titanic II
So why when I see your happy smiling fac
Do I always end up singing Little Blue
Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven, but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
You can't build a brewery on a cemetery
You can build a pub on a church
And people fall quicker than buildings do
You have to decide what comes first
You don't call aa plane the flying Roman
'Cause the Romans always walked and never flew
So why when I see your happy smiling face
Do I always end up singing Little Blue
Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven, but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
Well Bukowski write a poem from a barstool
And Keats from the top of a hill
So I'm going to save my special song for you
From a grave where it's quiet and it's chill
'Cause there's a queue of clouds assembled
On the horizon of your smile
Where most think that you're holding back
I know you're holding bile
Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven, but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
How can a flower so beautiful
Be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
Author's note: sorry about the wait, but if I don't get more reviews I might stop writing, despite the fact that I have it all planned out, and it's very good if I do say so myself.
Spike was searching his pockets for a fag when someone ran straight into him, head butting him in the chest.
He was just regaining his balance when he noticed her bare neck. He was ravenous. He'd been driving for three days and had had no time to feed.
"I'm sorry I'll -" she said, as she recoiled away from him.
"No, it's okay, you're upset" Spike said, not taking his eyes off her neck. He wrapped his arms around her and cradled her head carefully.
Looking at her pale skin he vamped out.
"If you bite me Spike I'll whoop your arse." She said deadpan.
He snatched his hands away as if he'd been burned.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"That's okay," she said, rubbing her arms.
Spike, whose face was by now back to normal, looked at her with worried eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"I bollocksed everything thing up again."
Spike watching in horror as she used the only weapon he was defenceless against, tears.
"Aw, come on Blue," Spike groaned. "Look, it's nearly light, we need to be getting back."
She stifled her sobs and replied, "Yeah"
"We'll talk about this when we get back, but now we need to run, okay?"
"Yeah," she repeated softly.
They ran.
Spike locked the door behind him and turned to look at Blue. As soon as she'd got in she'd collapsed on the sofa and was now curled up in a ball, her body racked with sobs.
He sat on the floor next to her and stroked her cheek softly. "What's wrong?"
""I bollocksed everything thing up."
"So you said"
She continued between sobs.
"I went and he . . . he was so nice and caring and . . . and then I had to leave . . . and it was horrible and . . ." she looked at Spike with tears streaming down her face and shook her head ever so slightly. She didn't have words to describe the awful wrenching at her heart with every step she took away from him. "And he's still here, I can feel him in my head and he . . . he won't get out." She gazed at Spike looking for the answer.
"I knew this would happen."
"You would," she said, sniffing.
"It's like when you have to give up a baby for adoption, you can rationalise it all you want, but when it gets there, you can't let go."
"And you'd know would you?"
"I've seen it on the telly, yes." He replied, adopting an air of injured intellectualism.
She giggled through her tears.
"That's what I like to see," he said getting up. "So, you're going to get some sleep then you're going to go back-"
"Will you some with me?" she interrupted.
"It'll be light"
"Pleeease"
Unable to resist her womanly charm, Spike laughed inwardly at that thought, he gave in.
"Sure, provided you don't mind travelling by sewer."
"Maybe we'll wait 'til it's dark."
"After all you need some time to put your face on"
Blue stuck the tiniest tip of her tongue out at him.
Spike smiled, glad that she'd stopped crying.
"Do you want the bed or are you happy here."
"Happy here," she said, stretching like a cat.
"I'll just bring a blanket then I'll sing you a lullaby to help you sleep," he said smiling, evilly.
"Spike if it's what I think it's going to be I'll whoop you arse." The menace of the threat was marred slightly by her yawning partway through. Spike hummed the opening bars, but she was too tired to do anything about it, and as he sung she slowly drifted off to sleep.
You can't write a novel from a briefcase
You can write a poem from a trench
You can dream a dream from A to B
But you can't catch a bus from a bench
You don't back a horse called Striding Snail
You don't name a boat Titanic II
So why when I see your happy smiling fac
Do I always end up singing Little Blue
Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven, but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
You can't build a brewery on a cemetery
You can build a pub on a church
And people fall quicker than buildings do
You have to decide what comes first
You don't call aa plane the flying Roman
'Cause the Romans always walked and never flew
So why when I see your happy smiling face
Do I always end up singing Little Blue
Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven, but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
Well Bukowski write a poem from a barstool
And Keats from the top of a hill
So I'm going to save my special song for you
From a grave where it's quiet and it's chill
'Cause there's a queue of clouds assembled
On the horizon of your smile
Where most think that you're holding back
I know you're holding bile
Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven, but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty, be so laden down with dew
Little Blue
How can a flower so beautiful
Be so laden down with dew
Little Blue