TITLE: Yesterday's Child

AUTHOR: Drusilla

RATING: PG-13

PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz

SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell

SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.

Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.

DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.

DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please

FEEDBACK: Yes, please!



YESTERDAY'S CHILD

* * *

CHAPTER 6: Pieces

* * *


They depart later in the day than either of them had hoped for, so that the sun glares
overhead furiously and waves of heat form thick in the air.

His skin is a sickly colour; his face drawn and his eyes blackened. Last night he dreamt
of no more than the girl's whisper to his sleep, and yet he is more fatigued than he was
before he lay down.

She insists on bringing along the 'basic necessities' as well as on driving. He protests
at first but gives in easily: he is too tired to care.

He is back to sleep again as soon as the car's engine begins purring and his mind drifts
away into another world.

The first thing he sees is a painting. It is a contemporary oil piece by some unkown
name, and rather peculiar. The entire canvas is a red of different shades and textures,
except for the edges, which are a bluish tint. He looks away for a moment and notices a
white plaque beside it, similar to those at museums and galleries.

Virgin's blood III.

He blinks and again his eyes graze the paint. He touches it guiltily and to his horror,
the paint is wet and comes off onto his finger. He squints at the red as it becomes less
and less viscous.

It is blood, and strangely, it does not seem odd on his hands.

He opens his mouth. "Tara," he says calmly, in a voice that is not his own. His body is
not his own either, he discovers, and it moves on its own accord.

The named huddles in a corner, afraid. He looks to the ground and sees the body of another
one, a red-haired woman, whose neck rests at an impossible angle. Her blood stains the
hardwood, seeping into the cracks, as well as under the lacquer.

His stomach heaves for a second, but nothing happens.

He steps closer.

The girl closes her eyes and a pencil flies toward him. By some instinct, he reaches
behind him and catches it without incident, before it can bury itself under his flesh.

"Shh.. Tara, don't struggle. Please." The voice is amazingly gentle and friendly for
someone who has killed and is about to kill another. "It's easier for you if you don't
struggle."

She whimpers, her body quivering, and he kneels down to meet her eyes.

"Please," She whispers, her voice hoarse. "Please."

"Shh.. let me save you. Let me do something right, for once." He cups her face with his
cold hands.

Her eyes grow wide and she begins to scream. He forces her head to the side and he feels
the bones snap with an incredible ease. She falls backwards, her blood splattering over
the white-washed wall and his hands.

And everything is red.

He looks at the two girls in horror. The screams are gone, but the silence is louder. Oh
God. Tears blur his vision and his thinking all at once. He wants to sink to the ground
and hug himself for comfort, but his body does otherwise. His face smiles grimly at the
two bodies, his expression one of relief and sadness together.

The blood spreads and spreads over the cherry, lapping over his feet like a tide at the
beach. He lets it encompass his shoes before he steps back.

Dazedly, he walks to the kitchen, and for a fleeting moment he considers calling the police.
The thought is lost quickly; almost pushed from his mind by some unknown force. Some other
emotion overwhelms him: one of want and need and repression. Is it the blood? By some
urge, he raises his hand to his mouth, but then withdraws it before it can make contact
with his lips.

"Buffy, forgive me." He whispers as the blood is rinsed clean.


* * *


They have been driving for three hours when she pulls into a gas station. She looks over
to him fondly, watching the rise of his chest as he sleeps. He is her everything, and she
would go to the ends of the earth if it meant being with him.

She decides to take a bathroom break so she shakes his shoulder a little, only to jump back
like she has been shocked with electricity. Frowning, she carefully puts a slender hand
onto his and she gasps at what she sees.

She is huddled into a corner in a fetal position, hugging her knees. The floor is covered
with blood, and it oozes near, but it doesn't matter. Her lover is dead and life is only
optional at this point.

He advances on her and she whimpers. He is not tall, but lean and muscular, with a finely
chiseled face and a feline type of attraction. His moves are sleek, gentle, and he smiles
at her like she is an old friend.

(Shh.. don't struggle...)

She looks at him forlornly, her blond hair a mess on her face. Blond hair? She doesn't
have blond hair. No no, this is all wrong.

She closes her eyes.

(Concentrate!)

A pencil comes flying toward the man, and he catches it. Pencils don't fly.

(Let me save you.)

Save her? No no, he is not her saviour. He is a killer. He has killed many and he will
kill her just as easily, won't he?

Her skin crawls as his hands touch her face. She screams, and her vision is a dark, dark
red all of a sudden. Vaguely she is aware of the wetness at her throat and at her lips,
but she is concentrating the strange feel of it all. Her muscles must have collapsed or
something, because her head is suddenly very heavy and her fingers refuse to move...

She screams again, and the people turn to look at her. She blushes and pants for breath,
wiggling her fingers to make sure that they are still working.

She goes to shake Max, worried for him and the toll these visions are taking. She calls
his name a few times, breathlessly, and then slaps him gently across the cheek.

He won't wake.


* * *


TO BE CONTINUED....

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