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 8: Bleeding
* * *
She has always, since she was little, expected to be married at the tender age of twenty, to
someone gentle, and reliable, and good. Curling up in her seat, after having let Max drive
for this particular stretch of road, she ponders.
Is this better? Her heart screams.
She isn't sure.
The trees loom ominously on either side of them, the forests dark and unwelcoming. What a
change, atleast, from the stretches of desert sand reflecting the heat of the sun like they
are so accustomed to.
There are no cars on either lane of the freeway, not at this hour. Nobody enters Sunnydale
at this at a time so near to dark, and certainly no one ever leaves. It's a great mystery
to all but the residents why no one escapes the ghost town alive; why no one dares speak.
Those who do will perhaps never speak again.
They're almost there, he says, and she is glad because they are both tired. She won't let
either of them sleep, however, not after *that* experience.
His lips twitch into a smile as they are rewarded with a square green marker that tells them
there is only ten miles to go.
Being a practical kind of person, she never thought she'd be here, feel this. Love, she
supposed. This mutual adoration. They don't need to speak it, or let the other know,
because they both understand and love becomes lost in the translation. You can touch the
stars, someone once said, if you're willing to risk being burnt.
(Would you lie for me?)
He looks over to her for a moment and she slides her fingers through his. For a fleeting
moment she is truly content and her surroundings are meaningless, because although she is
hundreds of miles from her bed and house, this is where she is at home.
(Would you fight for me?)
Closing her eyes, she lets her head fall backward, soaking in the last rays of the dying
sun.
(Would you die for me?)
She's willing to take the risk.
* * *
She is sitting on the broken white bench on the porch, bare feet swinging back and forth
and without emotion. When he finds her her eyes are empty, void of spirit or meaning and it
disturbs him immensely as she turns, finally, at his voice, after having called, and then
whispered, her name three times.
"Come back inside," he says quietly, eyeing the sun warily. Her face shows no evidence of
understanding.
"Why?" She challenges him, her eyebrows quickly forming a frown.
"It's not safe outside."
"It's light out." She argues, her tone childlike.
He sighs. "There are things other than vampires."
She begins to laugh at that. "And what good will the walls do then? They fall and then
I'll wash away the blood. Again. And again..."
(And the blood is always sweet.) He is quiet.
"Willow and Xander. I was supposed to meet them at Willow's house, remember? Tonight is
Graduation..." She rises from her seat and makes as if to run, before he calls her.
"Buffy."
"I have to go! They're waiting!" Panting, she calms for a moment, before whimpering.
"Will you get them for me? Carve them from their flesh? Their blood?" Her eyes flash with
a darkness and some secret meaning, and roll backwards once, twice, and the return
to their original emerald colouring.
(Always.)
"Will you rip their bones to make them whole?" Her voice is sickly-sweet and high-pitched,
and it reminds him of something ancient and unholy.
(For you, darling.)
And then it passes. The thing. The darkness that he could not have placed, that followed
her being with every movement. He frowns, and she straightens, her lip trembling.
A whisper. "They're dead."
He knows. God, he knows only too well.
"And there's nothing I could have done, even if I was there. I couldn't have stopped it.
How could I have, knowing what I knew? Having done what they said was impossible?
Abominable?"
(This love.) He doesn't wan't to hear. "Buffy."
"There's something wrong. Something different, something dark." She collapses but he is
quick to catch her, setting his sleeve aflame in the process.
His eyebrows furrow as she gets up slowly to return to the shadows, where it is cold. The
only place where there is comfort, where it is safe. He grasps her arms roughly and is
startled by her new fragility, and strange scent of her blood.
"What is it?" She whispers.
His eyes widen as he lets go of her quickly, withdrawing his hands as though she burned him.
She frowns, looking at him questioningly, confused, while he retreats involuntarily from
her reach.
"God," He mutters, in disbelief. "You're not her."
(Who?)
Shaking his head, he chuckles unhumorously. "You're not the Slayer."
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED...
Really sorry for the delay, folks. It's been forever since I picked up a pen to write.
It's just that I've been so busy with school and now two websites to maintain.
I hope you enjoyed this part of the story. If you can, please review. I'd really
appreciate it.
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 8: Bleeding
* * *
She has always, since she was little, expected to be married at the tender age of twenty, to
someone gentle, and reliable, and good. Curling up in her seat, after having let Max drive
for this particular stretch of road, she ponders.
Is this better? Her heart screams.
She isn't sure.
The trees loom ominously on either side of them, the forests dark and unwelcoming. What a
change, atleast, from the stretches of desert sand reflecting the heat of the sun like they
are so accustomed to.
There are no cars on either lane of the freeway, not at this hour. Nobody enters Sunnydale
at this at a time so near to dark, and certainly no one ever leaves. It's a great mystery
to all but the residents why no one escapes the ghost town alive; why no one dares speak.
Those who do will perhaps never speak again.
They're almost there, he says, and she is glad because they are both tired. She won't let
either of them sleep, however, not after *that* experience.
His lips twitch into a smile as they are rewarded with a square green marker that tells them
there is only ten miles to go.
Being a practical kind of person, she never thought she'd be here, feel this. Love, she
supposed. This mutual adoration. They don't need to speak it, or let the other know,
because they both understand and love becomes lost in the translation. You can touch the
stars, someone once said, if you're willing to risk being burnt.
(Would you lie for me?)
He looks over to her for a moment and she slides her fingers through his. For a fleeting
moment she is truly content and her surroundings are meaningless, because although she is
hundreds of miles from her bed and house, this is where she is at home.
(Would you fight for me?)
Closing her eyes, she lets her head fall backward, soaking in the last rays of the dying
sun.
(Would you die for me?)
She's willing to take the risk.
* * *
She is sitting on the broken white bench on the porch, bare feet swinging back and forth
and without emotion. When he finds her her eyes are empty, void of spirit or meaning and it
disturbs him immensely as she turns, finally, at his voice, after having called, and then
whispered, her name three times.
"Come back inside," he says quietly, eyeing the sun warily. Her face shows no evidence of
understanding.
"Why?" She challenges him, her eyebrows quickly forming a frown.
"It's not safe outside."
"It's light out." She argues, her tone childlike.
He sighs. "There are things other than vampires."
She begins to laugh at that. "And what good will the walls do then? They fall and then
I'll wash away the blood. Again. And again..."
(And the blood is always sweet.) He is quiet.
"Willow and Xander. I was supposed to meet them at Willow's house, remember? Tonight is
Graduation..." She rises from her seat and makes as if to run, before he calls her.
"Buffy."
"I have to go! They're waiting!" Panting, she calms for a moment, before whimpering.
"Will you get them for me? Carve them from their flesh? Their blood?" Her eyes flash with
a darkness and some secret meaning, and roll backwards once, twice, and the return
to their original emerald colouring.
(Always.)
"Will you rip their bones to make them whole?" Her voice is sickly-sweet and high-pitched,
and it reminds him of something ancient and unholy.
(For you, darling.)
And then it passes. The thing. The darkness that he could not have placed, that followed
her being with every movement. He frowns, and she straightens, her lip trembling.
A whisper. "They're dead."
He knows. God, he knows only too well.
"And there's nothing I could have done, even if I was there. I couldn't have stopped it.
How could I have, knowing what I knew? Having done what they said was impossible?
Abominable?"
(This love.) He doesn't wan't to hear. "Buffy."
"There's something wrong. Something different, something dark." She collapses but he is
quick to catch her, setting his sleeve aflame in the process.
His eyebrows furrow as she gets up slowly to return to the shadows, where it is cold. The
only place where there is comfort, where it is safe. He grasps her arms roughly and is
startled by her new fragility, and strange scent of her blood.
"What is it?" She whispers.
His eyes widen as he lets go of her quickly, withdrawing his hands as though she burned him.
She frowns, looking at him questioningly, confused, while he retreats involuntarily from
her reach.
"God," He mutters, in disbelief. "You're not her."
(Who?)
Shaking his head, he chuckles unhumorously. "You're not the Slayer."
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED...
Really sorry for the delay, folks. It's been forever since I picked up a pen to write.
It's just that I've been so busy with school and now two websites to maintain.
I hope you enjoyed this part of the story. If you can, please review. I'd really
appreciate it.
