TITLE: "Said she'd be back: chapter 2 (Prayers for Rain)"
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.
SPOILERS: Starts at close of Episode 7.1, includes season 6 spoilers.
FEEDBACK: Now with twice the cleaning power!
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it.
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"Prayers for Rain"
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Buffy groaned, twisting out of her sheets to reach for the alarm. Her bedroom was still dark, meaning that she'd actually woken up on time for a change. She groaned again, just for good measure, and staggered her way to the bathroom. Why oh why had she ever agreed to take on the opening shift? That's right, because she needed to keep her nights free for slayage.
Not that there had been much action last night, she thought, pulling back the blue shower curtain and twisting the tap on. Just that one fledgling, a leftover from the Violet Street nest. The fight had only taken a couple of minutes, not nearly long enough to provide her with the clear post-fight headspace she'd been seeking. Not even a sore muscle to distract her in the shower.
She'd redone the bathroom early in the summer. New towels and shower curtains weren't really in her budget, nor was the light blue paint she and Dawn had spent a fun afternoon splattering on the walls and each other. But at least it looked different now. Not quite the same room where...
Buffy leaned her head back, letting the water spill over her, willing it to wash her thoughts clean. She knew she had to go back soon. He'd seemed so lost, so unlike himself in those few minutes they'd talked. She'd been surprised how much it hurt, to see him like that. Hurt, and a little bit of anger. Through all the confusion of last year, the one thing she'd been able to count on was his confidence. It annoyed the hell out of her, most of the time, but at least it was there, one constant in a world that was falling apart around her. She always knew how to respond to his confidence, but this fractured Spike, that was something she didn't have a ready quip to deflect.
Enough moping. Turn off the shower already, Buffy. Dry off, get dressed, leave a note for Dawn alongside breakfast. Go work a shift of Doublemeat joy. Time enough to deal with Spike after that.
* * *
"Little white flowers that dance upon the trees..."
No, that wasn't how it went. Not part of the speech. Damn, he was tired. There'd been, what, two of those sodding bells already today. Or was that three? He couldn't seem to keep track of anything anymore, not even where he was in that bloody speech.
Maybe he should stand up for a bit. Keep sitting here, back up against the wall and his legs splayed out in front, and he'd fall asleep if he wasn't careful. Dawn wouldn't have gotten cut, if he was careful. Standing, that was clearly the way to go. His knuckles were scraped again, didn't remember doing that. His knees buckled up to his chest and he rolled over, kneeling, pulling himself up against the rough-hewn wall. It'd been a couple of hours. Maybe. Maybe not. Better check again, just in case.
Shut your eyes. The vertigo will go away in a minute or so. It always went away, just like she did, but it always came back. Like she said she would. And he didn't need to see for this. His hands ran across the wall, feeling out every crevice. Given time enough, he'd know every inch by heart.
His fingers were fumbling with the buttons on his shirt again. Stop that, you stupid wanker. The wall. Smooth in spots, almost, but even where it was smooth he could feel the tiny little fractures. There. That little nubbin, it hadn't been pushed out like that before. He traced around the curve with his finger, brushing away the loose dirt, and felt it wriggle ever so slightly. Come to Daddy.
Harmony used to like it when he said that. Silly bint. He'd treated her so badly. The nubbin pushed out a little farther, became a nob. Just big enough for him to get a grip on, one good tug and it was out, writhing in his hands. As he twisted it in half, a thin little squeal rang through the room, reminding him of that little girl in, hell, where was that?
He'd killed her, just for the sport of it. And he didn't even have the decency to remember where it happened. He threw the small black mess in his hands across the room, turning to slam his knuckles against the wall. Pounding and scraping, making almost enough noise to drown out his sobs.
* * *
Nothing like the smell of processed vegetables masquerading as meat. Buffy sniffed her hair as she walked home, making a disgusted face. No matter how long she worked at that place, she'd never quite get used to the smell. At least her manager had been cool about cutting back her hours in order to accommodate her new job at Sunnydale High.
Maybe I should take another shower before stopping by the school, she thought, rounding the corner onto Main Street. This conversation was going to be hard enough without personal hygiene issues getting in the way.
Procrastination, thy name is Buffy. She tried shifting into her patrol headspace, steeling herself for a difficult task. Right, she thought. Just going to walk in there all casual, be strong, be confident Buffy. Just talk to the man. Okay, not man. Just a simple conversation... oh, look, something else.
"Hi, Anya." Buffy waved a tentative greeting to the formerly ex-demon, walking down the street towards her. No matter how long she lived in Sunnydale, she was never quite going to get used to bumping into demons on the street.
"Buffy. You smell like grease." Anya fidgeted nervously with her purse. They'd talked on the phone a couple of times over the summer, always a little bit awkwardly, but they hadn't actually seen one another in months. Anya wasn't sure on the protocol of dealing with the friends of someone you were supposed to be hating, especially when you'd recently slept with their not-really boyfriend.
"And you changed your hair. I like it." What the hell was up with her dress, Buffy wondered. It looked like she'd lost a fight with an old lady's doily collection.
"Thank you." A pause, while they both tried to figure out something to say. "Are you going to count your money now?"
"Er, no. I was just going to swing by the school. To, uh, check on Dawn."
"Right. Well, good luck with that."
"Right. Bye." Buffy took three steps before spinning back around. "Are you busy right now?"
"Actually," Anya paused, thinking of a dozen good excuses she could offer up. "Not really."
Buffy grinned, gesturing towards the cafe across the street. "Good. Because I could kind of use someone to talk to. About some stuff."
* * *
Almost, what, midday? He could smell the sun's strength through the thick concrete, just under the dirt and the dried blood. He wanted to sleep so badly, sleep or feed, he couldn't tell which. It was all one long ache, had been ever since he crawled his way out of that cursed cave. Everything ached. Especially his eyes, something grating against the pulpy surface of the iris when he blinked. Bloody hell, was he lying face down again?
This wouldn't do, not at all. She said she'd be back, and that'd make a great impression, him sprawled face down in the dirt. Just where he belonged. Bury him under, six feet under and let him rot. He'd be aware of every second, sure, be able to feel the worms digging their tunnels through his flesh, healing up the damage with his damned vampiric constitution so they could begin all over again. Better than he deserved.
His hands slid under his shoulders and he pushed himself up, glad at the way the wounds on his chest sang out in agony. He wanted to tear them apart again, tear himself apart until he found the rotten little core that made him this way. Stumbling to his feet, he staggered around the room, searching for the flat blade of rock he'd used before to rake at his chest.
"Ruler. Measure it out."
Measure out his punishment to infinity and it still wouldn't be enough, not for William the Bloody. No. Said she'd be back. His mind whispered the words like a mantra, like a desperate prayer to the only higher power he believed in any more.
He stopped, standing in the middle of the room with his shoulders hunched over, head hanging in defeat. Couldn't even wait properly, he couldn't. And then the blows began.
Delicate hands, twisted into fists, pounding on his chest, pushing his shoulders away. He reeled back, but the fists followed, and then his back was up against the wall and there was nowhere left to go. Nothing to do but take the rain of blows. Like rain they were, a heavy summer downpour, too light to hurt but he flinched away from them all the same. It wasn't the fists that caused him pain.
"No, stop. Get off me. Please, stop, please don't, no, no..." But this time it didn't stop, he didn't do whatever it was that stopped it. The voice just kept going until the words gave way to whimpers, to painful little moans, to sobs broken up by anguished, fragile screams.
Maybe this is the way it really was. Maybe his memory of stopping was just another lie. He couldn't tell any more, couldn't separate the things he'd imagined from the things he'd really done. And this felt so real, so much more real than that moment every had. His knees buckled out from under him and he fell to the floor, his lips forming her name over and over in a silent cry for absolution.
Hail Buffy, full of power. Prey on us sinners now and at the hour of our dust.
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.
SPOILERS: Starts at close of Episode 7.1, includes season 6 spoilers.
FEEDBACK: Now with twice the cleaning power!
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it.
-----------------------
"Prayers for Rain"
----------------------
Buffy groaned, twisting out of her sheets to reach for the alarm. Her bedroom was still dark, meaning that she'd actually woken up on time for a change. She groaned again, just for good measure, and staggered her way to the bathroom. Why oh why had she ever agreed to take on the opening shift? That's right, because she needed to keep her nights free for slayage.
Not that there had been much action last night, she thought, pulling back the blue shower curtain and twisting the tap on. Just that one fledgling, a leftover from the Violet Street nest. The fight had only taken a couple of minutes, not nearly long enough to provide her with the clear post-fight headspace she'd been seeking. Not even a sore muscle to distract her in the shower.
She'd redone the bathroom early in the summer. New towels and shower curtains weren't really in her budget, nor was the light blue paint she and Dawn had spent a fun afternoon splattering on the walls and each other. But at least it looked different now. Not quite the same room where...
Buffy leaned her head back, letting the water spill over her, willing it to wash her thoughts clean. She knew she had to go back soon. He'd seemed so lost, so unlike himself in those few minutes they'd talked. She'd been surprised how much it hurt, to see him like that. Hurt, and a little bit of anger. Through all the confusion of last year, the one thing she'd been able to count on was his confidence. It annoyed the hell out of her, most of the time, but at least it was there, one constant in a world that was falling apart around her. She always knew how to respond to his confidence, but this fractured Spike, that was something she didn't have a ready quip to deflect.
Enough moping. Turn off the shower already, Buffy. Dry off, get dressed, leave a note for Dawn alongside breakfast. Go work a shift of Doublemeat joy. Time enough to deal with Spike after that.
* * *
"Little white flowers that dance upon the trees..."
No, that wasn't how it went. Not part of the speech. Damn, he was tired. There'd been, what, two of those sodding bells already today. Or was that three? He couldn't seem to keep track of anything anymore, not even where he was in that bloody speech.
Maybe he should stand up for a bit. Keep sitting here, back up against the wall and his legs splayed out in front, and he'd fall asleep if he wasn't careful. Dawn wouldn't have gotten cut, if he was careful. Standing, that was clearly the way to go. His knuckles were scraped again, didn't remember doing that. His knees buckled up to his chest and he rolled over, kneeling, pulling himself up against the rough-hewn wall. It'd been a couple of hours. Maybe. Maybe not. Better check again, just in case.
Shut your eyes. The vertigo will go away in a minute or so. It always went away, just like she did, but it always came back. Like she said she would. And he didn't need to see for this. His hands ran across the wall, feeling out every crevice. Given time enough, he'd know every inch by heart.
His fingers were fumbling with the buttons on his shirt again. Stop that, you stupid wanker. The wall. Smooth in spots, almost, but even where it was smooth he could feel the tiny little fractures. There. That little nubbin, it hadn't been pushed out like that before. He traced around the curve with his finger, brushing away the loose dirt, and felt it wriggle ever so slightly. Come to Daddy.
Harmony used to like it when he said that. Silly bint. He'd treated her so badly. The nubbin pushed out a little farther, became a nob. Just big enough for him to get a grip on, one good tug and it was out, writhing in his hands. As he twisted it in half, a thin little squeal rang through the room, reminding him of that little girl in, hell, where was that?
He'd killed her, just for the sport of it. And he didn't even have the decency to remember where it happened. He threw the small black mess in his hands across the room, turning to slam his knuckles against the wall. Pounding and scraping, making almost enough noise to drown out his sobs.
* * *
Nothing like the smell of processed vegetables masquerading as meat. Buffy sniffed her hair as she walked home, making a disgusted face. No matter how long she worked at that place, she'd never quite get used to the smell. At least her manager had been cool about cutting back her hours in order to accommodate her new job at Sunnydale High.
Maybe I should take another shower before stopping by the school, she thought, rounding the corner onto Main Street. This conversation was going to be hard enough without personal hygiene issues getting in the way.
Procrastination, thy name is Buffy. She tried shifting into her patrol headspace, steeling herself for a difficult task. Right, she thought. Just going to walk in there all casual, be strong, be confident Buffy. Just talk to the man. Okay, not man. Just a simple conversation... oh, look, something else.
"Hi, Anya." Buffy waved a tentative greeting to the formerly ex-demon, walking down the street towards her. No matter how long she lived in Sunnydale, she was never quite going to get used to bumping into demons on the street.
"Buffy. You smell like grease." Anya fidgeted nervously with her purse. They'd talked on the phone a couple of times over the summer, always a little bit awkwardly, but they hadn't actually seen one another in months. Anya wasn't sure on the protocol of dealing with the friends of someone you were supposed to be hating, especially when you'd recently slept with their not-really boyfriend.
"And you changed your hair. I like it." What the hell was up with her dress, Buffy wondered. It looked like she'd lost a fight with an old lady's doily collection.
"Thank you." A pause, while they both tried to figure out something to say. "Are you going to count your money now?"
"Er, no. I was just going to swing by the school. To, uh, check on Dawn."
"Right. Well, good luck with that."
"Right. Bye." Buffy took three steps before spinning back around. "Are you busy right now?"
"Actually," Anya paused, thinking of a dozen good excuses she could offer up. "Not really."
Buffy grinned, gesturing towards the cafe across the street. "Good. Because I could kind of use someone to talk to. About some stuff."
* * *
Almost, what, midday? He could smell the sun's strength through the thick concrete, just under the dirt and the dried blood. He wanted to sleep so badly, sleep or feed, he couldn't tell which. It was all one long ache, had been ever since he crawled his way out of that cursed cave. Everything ached. Especially his eyes, something grating against the pulpy surface of the iris when he blinked. Bloody hell, was he lying face down again?
This wouldn't do, not at all. She said she'd be back, and that'd make a great impression, him sprawled face down in the dirt. Just where he belonged. Bury him under, six feet under and let him rot. He'd be aware of every second, sure, be able to feel the worms digging their tunnels through his flesh, healing up the damage with his damned vampiric constitution so they could begin all over again. Better than he deserved.
His hands slid under his shoulders and he pushed himself up, glad at the way the wounds on his chest sang out in agony. He wanted to tear them apart again, tear himself apart until he found the rotten little core that made him this way. Stumbling to his feet, he staggered around the room, searching for the flat blade of rock he'd used before to rake at his chest.
"Ruler. Measure it out."
Measure out his punishment to infinity and it still wouldn't be enough, not for William the Bloody. No. Said she'd be back. His mind whispered the words like a mantra, like a desperate prayer to the only higher power he believed in any more.
He stopped, standing in the middle of the room with his shoulders hunched over, head hanging in defeat. Couldn't even wait properly, he couldn't. And then the blows began.
Delicate hands, twisted into fists, pounding on his chest, pushing his shoulders away. He reeled back, but the fists followed, and then his back was up against the wall and there was nowhere left to go. Nothing to do but take the rain of blows. Like rain they were, a heavy summer downpour, too light to hurt but he flinched away from them all the same. It wasn't the fists that caused him pain.
"No, stop. Get off me. Please, stop, please don't, no, no..." But this time it didn't stop, he didn't do whatever it was that stopped it. The voice just kept going until the words gave way to whimpers, to painful little moans, to sobs broken up by anguished, fragile screams.
Maybe this is the way it really was. Maybe his memory of stopping was just another lie. He couldn't tell any more, couldn't separate the things he'd imagined from the things he'd really done. And this felt so real, so much more real than that moment every had. His knees buckled out from under him and he fell to the floor, his lips forming her name over and over in a silent cry for absolution.
Hail Buffy, full of power. Prey on us sinners now and at the hour of our dust.