TITLE: "Said she'd be back"
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.
SPOILERS: Episode 7.2, takes place during the episode.
FEEDBACK: Smurfy goodness!
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it.
NOTES: Was anyone else as confused as I was by Spike's sudden switch from nutbar to Mr. Suave&Together during episode 7.2? Takes place around the time when Buffy goes into the basement to find Spike.
CHAPTER SIX - Whistle Me a Tune
"What is it with you vampires, anyway? Give you a soul and poof! Personal hygiene goes right out the window."
Spike flinched away from the voice, pure reflex, before he realized that it wasn't someone he'd heard before. Something new. Brash, a hint of Brooklyn. He cocked his head, peering up into the darkness. A short man, badly dressed. Funny hat tilted back from his forehead. Nope, didn't recognize him. But not a threat, so he went back to what he'd been doing. Which was...
"Staring at a wall? Boy, do you need to get out more. There's this thing call television, remarkable invention."
Something smacked Spike in the head, something soft and plastic. Pliable. He didn't need to look down to see what it was. He could smell the blood, even through the wrapping.
"You need to eat something, kiddo. You're like a bird."
Spike shifted his weight from foot to foot, still crouching down, hands around his knees. The footsteps circled him, faint smell of greased food and gasoline fumes. "There is blood spilt upon the ground," he muttered, then laughed softly to himself. So much blood. He'd drowned in it, long before he'd drowned in her.
"Naw, no spillage." A hand reached into his frame of vision, picking up the bag of blood and waving it in front of his nose. "Come on. You're a mess, and you ain't gonna do her much good if you starve yourself to death before it even starts."
The hunger was too much. It swept over him, like it always did, washing away all his good intent in desperate lust. Shaking, he grabbed at the bag and skittered away, burying his face in his chest as he drank.
"I like to say that nobody's ready for the big moments, the ones that show 'em who they really are. And about now, I bet you're thinking that you've had your big moment, and you didn't much like what you saw." Spike could barely hear him through the rush as the blood hit his starving system. "But you're wrong. Your big moment is still to come. So buck up, kiddo."
The empty bag crumpled in his hand, and he let it slip between his fingers. "Who are you?"
The man leaned over and clapped a hand onto Spike's shoulder. "That's the easy one. Whistle me a tune and you've got my number. The real brain twister is, who are you?"
Staring down, now, dark circles soaking into the floor. He rubbed them with a fingertip, spreading instead of removing. "She must not dance on blood," he murmured. "It is an evil omen."
"Right. Come on, Spikey. We have to leave now." The hand tugged at his sleeve, urging him up. So up he is, flailing his arms out, pushing away the intruder into his darkness.
"Not going anywhere." Loud. He must be shouting. "This is where I belong."
"And annoying to boot. You really are like him in some ways, you know?" The figure was patient, stepping back. Giving him room to bluster, knowing it wouldn't last. It didn't. He crumpled against the wall, banging his head against his clenched fists over and over again. "If you're finished with that little display, maybe I can show you something. And then you can decide where you really do belong."
"Closed up for the night." Like the sign on the Magic Box door. Hadn't stopped him and the Niblet. "Come again later."
"You think I'm a man with time to waste? This is a one-time offer, my friend. You could still go either way, you know, but if you stay down here, well. Let's just say the betting booth will be closed for good."
"It is not wise to see symbols in everything that one sees," he mumbled into the wall. "It makes life too full of terrors."
"This whole crazy act, it ain't going to help you with the ladies." The voice sounded almost amused, but mostly just tired. "Lucky for you, she ain't no Salome, although she does seem to have done a good job of serving up your head on a platter."
Spike turned, sliding back down the wall. "It were better to say that stains of blood are as lovely as rose petals."
"Again, I say... Right? Look, I was sent to get you, so let's get with the getting. This ain't exactly the Taj Mahal you've been shacking up in, and I personally would like to get on with the less dank and depressing portions of my day. Are you coming or what?"
"What." Spike covered his face with his hands, talking into his palms. "Said she'd be back."
The footsteps made their way over to the door. "Well, free will and all. Look, kiddo, one last piece of advice. There are three kinds of guys that nobody understands. Geniuses, madmen and guys that mumble. It's fine if you don't want to be understood, but you should really figure out which one you are before it all starts."
Spike looked up to see the short figure framed in the doorway. Cleared his throat, the iron taste of blood still on his tongue. "What starts?"
"The beginning." The man sighed, sounding almost wistful as he continued. "Poor kid. Thinks she's had it rough so far. That's the problem with dying, makes you think you're ready for anything."
"Saved her." Speaking through his fingers now, a bit louder. The Bit, louder, screaming her name from above. "Every night."
"But nobody's ever prepared for the really big moments. Well, be seeing you." The man tipped his hat, delivering a cocky grin. The footsteps moving away, the door slowly starting to creak shut.
"Wait." That sounded like him, but it couldn't be. Where was the anger, the hurt? It was just a voice. The footsteps paused, then came closer, shutting the door behind them.
* * *
Buffy eased open the basement door with a guilty look around. Not even ten minutes on the job, and she was already sneaking off to.. what? Not a tryst, nothing like all the times she'd snuck away from her friends last year. This was just, checking up on him. That's all. Something had Spike seriously wigged, and on top of her recent dreams, it wasn't something that she could just ignore.
Damn, but it's dark down here. She'd have to compliment Xander on his handiwork with the mood lighting. Between the yellowish glow of the infrequent lights and the multiple shadows, the whole thing really screamed basement to hell. Now, where was that door again?
Even having studied the school blueprints, she was having trouble finding her way through the twisting corridors. It was a shame Xander had only be responsible for building this place, instead of designing it. Buffy was certain he would have installed a lot more "flee in terror this way" signs to help out anyone who got lost.
Rats, too. The school had only started construction a few months ago, and already the place was infested. She pushed down an un-slayerlike shudder and kept going. The hallway up ahead looked almost familiar.
"Spike?" She hoped that didn't sounded as nervous as it did in her head. Days of planning and she still hadn't gotten past "hello" in her speech prep. What had she said to Willow, all those years ago at the Bronze? Live in the moment. Although she also recalled that advice had lead her friend straight into the arms of a hungry vamp.
Behind her, a door creaked shut. She spun around, then chided herself for being so easily spooked. Still, Spike was down here somewhere, she felt certain of that. The last time she'd seen him... well, okay, the last time she'd seen him, he'd been out of his mind. But the time before that.
She gave in to the urge to shudder. Although she didn't doubt her ability to fight him off if he tried anything, she'd prefer not to reawaken those particular nightmares.
"Spike?" Quieter now, a little less sure. This was ridiculous. If he was down here, he would have heard her already. And if he didn't want to be found, maybe that was for the best. With one last glance around, she headed back towards the bright hallway above.
* * *
His mind was jumbled string, all the threads tangled up, memories and imagination knotted together. Him without a sword to cut through the mess. Spike stared at his hands, picking the knots apart. For a moment, he thought that he heard her voice, softly, calling his name. Betting on good. Her broken body, a terrible shattered doll crumpled on the ground. Hadn't seen Doc coming. Something coming, something he didn't see yet. The beginning.
Spike pushed up on unsteady legs, still struggling to process the fresh blood coursing through his system. The man still stood, watching him, hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy pants. "Reach any decisions yet, kiddo?"
Spike nodded, still unsure. "It's in the wall." Staggered forward a few steps. "Devours, from beneath."
"Verheytek demons. Yeah, they're the first to come crawling out when it wakes up. But they won't be the last, nor the worst." Whistler stepped up, offering a shoulder for Spike to steady himself against. "Come on. At the very least, we can do something about that hair."
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.
SPOILERS: Episode 7.2, takes place during the episode.
FEEDBACK: Smurfy goodness!
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it.
NOTES: Was anyone else as confused as I was by Spike's sudden switch from nutbar to Mr. Suave&Together during episode 7.2? Takes place around the time when Buffy goes into the basement to find Spike.
CHAPTER SIX - Whistle Me a Tune
"What is it with you vampires, anyway? Give you a soul and poof! Personal hygiene goes right out the window."
Spike flinched away from the voice, pure reflex, before he realized that it wasn't someone he'd heard before. Something new. Brash, a hint of Brooklyn. He cocked his head, peering up into the darkness. A short man, badly dressed. Funny hat tilted back from his forehead. Nope, didn't recognize him. But not a threat, so he went back to what he'd been doing. Which was...
"Staring at a wall? Boy, do you need to get out more. There's this thing call television, remarkable invention."
Something smacked Spike in the head, something soft and plastic. Pliable. He didn't need to look down to see what it was. He could smell the blood, even through the wrapping.
"You need to eat something, kiddo. You're like a bird."
Spike shifted his weight from foot to foot, still crouching down, hands around his knees. The footsteps circled him, faint smell of greased food and gasoline fumes. "There is blood spilt upon the ground," he muttered, then laughed softly to himself. So much blood. He'd drowned in it, long before he'd drowned in her.
"Naw, no spillage." A hand reached into his frame of vision, picking up the bag of blood and waving it in front of his nose. "Come on. You're a mess, and you ain't gonna do her much good if you starve yourself to death before it even starts."
The hunger was too much. It swept over him, like it always did, washing away all his good intent in desperate lust. Shaking, he grabbed at the bag and skittered away, burying his face in his chest as he drank.
"I like to say that nobody's ready for the big moments, the ones that show 'em who they really are. And about now, I bet you're thinking that you've had your big moment, and you didn't much like what you saw." Spike could barely hear him through the rush as the blood hit his starving system. "But you're wrong. Your big moment is still to come. So buck up, kiddo."
The empty bag crumpled in his hand, and he let it slip between his fingers. "Who are you?"
The man leaned over and clapped a hand onto Spike's shoulder. "That's the easy one. Whistle me a tune and you've got my number. The real brain twister is, who are you?"
Staring down, now, dark circles soaking into the floor. He rubbed them with a fingertip, spreading instead of removing. "She must not dance on blood," he murmured. "It is an evil omen."
"Right. Come on, Spikey. We have to leave now." The hand tugged at his sleeve, urging him up. So up he is, flailing his arms out, pushing away the intruder into his darkness.
"Not going anywhere." Loud. He must be shouting. "This is where I belong."
"And annoying to boot. You really are like him in some ways, you know?" The figure was patient, stepping back. Giving him room to bluster, knowing it wouldn't last. It didn't. He crumpled against the wall, banging his head against his clenched fists over and over again. "If you're finished with that little display, maybe I can show you something. And then you can decide where you really do belong."
"Closed up for the night." Like the sign on the Magic Box door. Hadn't stopped him and the Niblet. "Come again later."
"You think I'm a man with time to waste? This is a one-time offer, my friend. You could still go either way, you know, but if you stay down here, well. Let's just say the betting booth will be closed for good."
"It is not wise to see symbols in everything that one sees," he mumbled into the wall. "It makes life too full of terrors."
"This whole crazy act, it ain't going to help you with the ladies." The voice sounded almost amused, but mostly just tired. "Lucky for you, she ain't no Salome, although she does seem to have done a good job of serving up your head on a platter."
Spike turned, sliding back down the wall. "It were better to say that stains of blood are as lovely as rose petals."
"Again, I say... Right? Look, I was sent to get you, so let's get with the getting. This ain't exactly the Taj Mahal you've been shacking up in, and I personally would like to get on with the less dank and depressing portions of my day. Are you coming or what?"
"What." Spike covered his face with his hands, talking into his palms. "Said she'd be back."
The footsteps made their way over to the door. "Well, free will and all. Look, kiddo, one last piece of advice. There are three kinds of guys that nobody understands. Geniuses, madmen and guys that mumble. It's fine if you don't want to be understood, but you should really figure out which one you are before it all starts."
Spike looked up to see the short figure framed in the doorway. Cleared his throat, the iron taste of blood still on his tongue. "What starts?"
"The beginning." The man sighed, sounding almost wistful as he continued. "Poor kid. Thinks she's had it rough so far. That's the problem with dying, makes you think you're ready for anything."
"Saved her." Speaking through his fingers now, a bit louder. The Bit, louder, screaming her name from above. "Every night."
"But nobody's ever prepared for the really big moments. Well, be seeing you." The man tipped his hat, delivering a cocky grin. The footsteps moving away, the door slowly starting to creak shut.
"Wait." That sounded like him, but it couldn't be. Where was the anger, the hurt? It was just a voice. The footsteps paused, then came closer, shutting the door behind them.
* * *
Buffy eased open the basement door with a guilty look around. Not even ten minutes on the job, and she was already sneaking off to.. what? Not a tryst, nothing like all the times she'd snuck away from her friends last year. This was just, checking up on him. That's all. Something had Spike seriously wigged, and on top of her recent dreams, it wasn't something that she could just ignore.
Damn, but it's dark down here. She'd have to compliment Xander on his handiwork with the mood lighting. Between the yellowish glow of the infrequent lights and the multiple shadows, the whole thing really screamed basement to hell. Now, where was that door again?
Even having studied the school blueprints, she was having trouble finding her way through the twisting corridors. It was a shame Xander had only be responsible for building this place, instead of designing it. Buffy was certain he would have installed a lot more "flee in terror this way" signs to help out anyone who got lost.
Rats, too. The school had only started construction a few months ago, and already the place was infested. She pushed down an un-slayerlike shudder and kept going. The hallway up ahead looked almost familiar.
"Spike?" She hoped that didn't sounded as nervous as it did in her head. Days of planning and she still hadn't gotten past "hello" in her speech prep. What had she said to Willow, all those years ago at the Bronze? Live in the moment. Although she also recalled that advice had lead her friend straight into the arms of a hungry vamp.
Behind her, a door creaked shut. She spun around, then chided herself for being so easily spooked. Still, Spike was down here somewhere, she felt certain of that. The last time she'd seen him... well, okay, the last time she'd seen him, he'd been out of his mind. But the time before that.
She gave in to the urge to shudder. Although she didn't doubt her ability to fight him off if he tried anything, she'd prefer not to reawaken those particular nightmares.
"Spike?" Quieter now, a little less sure. This was ridiculous. If he was down here, he would have heard her already. And if he didn't want to be found, maybe that was for the best. With one last glance around, she headed back towards the bright hallway above.
* * *
His mind was jumbled string, all the threads tangled up, memories and imagination knotted together. Him without a sword to cut through the mess. Spike stared at his hands, picking the knots apart. For a moment, he thought that he heard her voice, softly, calling his name. Betting on good. Her broken body, a terrible shattered doll crumpled on the ground. Hadn't seen Doc coming. Something coming, something he didn't see yet. The beginning.
Spike pushed up on unsteady legs, still struggling to process the fresh blood coursing through his system. The man still stood, watching him, hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy pants. "Reach any decisions yet, kiddo?"
Spike nodded, still unsure. "It's in the wall." Staggered forward a few steps. "Devours, from beneath."
"Verheytek demons. Yeah, they're the first to come crawling out when it wakes up. But they won't be the last, nor the worst." Whistler stepped up, offering a shoulder for Spike to steady himself against. "Come on. At the very least, we can do something about that hair."