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: Middle of Episode 7.2, includes season 6 spoilers.
FEEDBACK: Yes, I'm pathetically needy enough to care what other people think about my writing.
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.
NOTES: I've decided to try something odd with this story, namely running it alongside the current season 7 episodes. Sort of like an "underplot" - things going on that they don't have time to show in a one-hour episode, although it's going to wind up AU once I get Jossed.
CHAPTER SEVEN - Prophesy
"Don't chicken out on me now, kiddo."
Whistler stood on the sidewalk, holding a broad black umbrella over the opening at the car door. Spike checked the sweatshirt hood and heavy black gloves one last time before he climbed out under the vital shade of the umbrella. Even shadowed from the sun, he cowered slightly, paranoid that the protective shielding would fail, leaving him to fire and dust.
Whistler headed off across the vibrant green of the cemetery lawn, forcing Spike to keep pace if he didn't want to crisp under the California sunlight. He knew where they were going, even if he'd never seen it in the light before. He'd walked this path every night, 143 evenings in a row, four nights after the night he failed. Each pebble, each headstone they passed, were etched in his memory, none more so than the grave they stopped in front of.
"Been here. Seen this."
Her headstone was long gone, leaving behind a faint indentation in the smooth lawn. On the right, her mother's grave, a tasteful stone that captured the grace and elegance of the woman buried beneath. On the left, a new stone had been erected, small and delicate. It hadn't been here for long, given the lack of chipping that most Sunnydale memorials wound up acquiring. Spike focused his eyes on the engraved name for a moment, wondering how and when it had happened. Wondering, futilely, if he'd been able to prevent it if he hadn't run away from them all.
"You've seen it, sure. But have you ever thought about what it means?"
Spike's eyes traced up the thin trunk of the willow tree, planted beside the new grave. Young still, a few trailing branches that would some day blossom to offer shade and solace to those who came to visit. For now, they were leafless, stripped bare by the recent transplanting. Wonder how Red is holding up, he thought, feeling his knees buckle. He struggled to stay upright, within the safe shade of the umbrella.
"Failed her. Broke my promise."
"Slayers die in action all the time. Hazards of being the Chosen One. Or these days, the Chosen Two."
Spike wondered what they'd done with her headstone. Ground it into marble dust? Stored it in the basement, ready to be re-engraved when needed? Or had some nasty thing come crawling along and claimed it as a trophy, a memorial of the fate that would catch up with her again someday?
Whistler continued, ignoring the stifled whimper coming from his bundled-up companion. "Heck of a job, slaying. One little girl against all the evil in the world. The slayer and her power, united until death. Doesn't seem like a fair deal, does it?"
Spike shook his head. Want to be back in the basement, in the dark. Far away from where I can do anyone harm.
"But then, prophesy's always tricky. Slipperier than a soul in some ways. For instance, this whole Slayer thing. Only supposed to be one, then whammo! Modern medicine steps in and you've got two."
"Leaving now." But of course he wasn't, couldn't go anywhere while the sun was still up.
Whistler dug around in his pocket and pulled out a stack of photos, handing them to Spike. A dark-haired girl in modest dress, against a terra cotta wall. A punk girl with a shock of fuchsia hair. More besides, snapshots of young girls from different cities, different cultures, the only common thread among them the sharp twinkle in their eyes. Whistler reached over and took the top two photos from Spike, tucking them back into his pocket.
"They're out of the picture already. Oh, and that one," Whistler paused, stealing back the bottom photo before Spike could glance at the image, "not for you to see yet."
"Show me?"
"Unfortunately, there ain't no easy diagrams. Any one of them could be the next. Of course, she'd have to die first. The power can only have one host at a time, after all."
"Faith?"
"Oh, that's right. There's the chosen one, and then there's the other chosen one. Both of them just as strong, just as fast, just as, well, Slayer-ish." Whistler takes back the photos, looking at them sadly. Shakes his head. "Shame. They'd have a chance, you know. If only they could tap into that power in time. But that pesky prophesy, says they have to wait. And prophesy is never wrong, right?"
There's something there, in the words Whistler is speaking. If only he could clear his head long enough to put the pieces together.
"Sorry, kiddo, but that's all I'm allowed to say." Whistler started back towards the car, taking the shade of the umbrella with him. Spike wanted to linger, but the tickle of sunlight across his exposed cheek sent him scurrying after the shade.
* * *
Leaning up against the tree, he felt the roughness of the bark through the thin material of his shirt. Never noticed that before, all the nights I've spent leaning here, watching her house. The leather, that's what was missing. The trophy. He hoped she'd burned it.
Right. Time to get on with it already. He could see her through the front window, sitting across from Xander and the Bit in their living room. Some girl, too, dark haired. Anya, perhaps? He doesn't relish facing the prat again, but at least worrying about Xander's hostility took his mind off worrying about her response.
Straightening up, he headed towards the house. Something's missing. That's right, the ritual stubbing out of the smoke beforehand. When had he stopped smoking? Funny, that. Didn't miss it.
Come on, big bad. You've faced down a bloody god, and a little door is scaring you? Spike tugged at the bottom of his shirt, straightening it out again. It fit okay, but it just didn't feel right. One step, then another. There you go, up on the porch now.
He thought about ringing the doorbell, but tested the handle instead, for old times sakes. Unlocked, of course. Last time he'd been this nervous was in Prague, that long horrible moment when he thought the mob had done Dru in. Thinking of Dru brought a rush of emotions, of voices, all the little lost ones they'd broken during their time together. He took a moment to clear his head, pushing out the thoughts with the only mantra that worked at all.
Buffy needs my help. Repeated the thought, over and over, until the voices quieted into whispers. Best he could hope for, he supposed.
He slipped inside, silent as the dead, watching her through the doorway. Heavy into planning mode she was, sharp and focused. He hadn't noticed before, but her hair had gotten long again. What the hell was he going to say? Nothing appropriate came to mind, so he settled on the inappropriate. Spent more than a century playing at being the Big Bad, surely I can pull it off for a while longer.
"What you need is help. Fortunately, you've got me."
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.
SPOILERS: Middle of Episode 7.2, includes season 6 spoilers.
FEEDBACK: Yes, I'm pathetically needy enough to care what other people think about my writing.
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.
NOTES: I've decided to try something odd with this story, namely running it alongside the current season 7 episodes. Sort of like an "underplot" - things going on that they don't have time to show in a one-hour episode, although it's going to wind up AU once I get Jossed.
CHAPTER SEVEN - Prophesy
"Don't chicken out on me now, kiddo."
Whistler stood on the sidewalk, holding a broad black umbrella over the opening at the car door. Spike checked the sweatshirt hood and heavy black gloves one last time before he climbed out under the vital shade of the umbrella. Even shadowed from the sun, he cowered slightly, paranoid that the protective shielding would fail, leaving him to fire and dust.
Whistler headed off across the vibrant green of the cemetery lawn, forcing Spike to keep pace if he didn't want to crisp under the California sunlight. He knew where they were going, even if he'd never seen it in the light before. He'd walked this path every night, 143 evenings in a row, four nights after the night he failed. Each pebble, each headstone they passed, were etched in his memory, none more so than the grave they stopped in front of.
"Been here. Seen this."
Her headstone was long gone, leaving behind a faint indentation in the smooth lawn. On the right, her mother's grave, a tasteful stone that captured the grace and elegance of the woman buried beneath. On the left, a new stone had been erected, small and delicate. It hadn't been here for long, given the lack of chipping that most Sunnydale memorials wound up acquiring. Spike focused his eyes on the engraved name for a moment, wondering how and when it had happened. Wondering, futilely, if he'd been able to prevent it if he hadn't run away from them all.
"You've seen it, sure. But have you ever thought about what it means?"
Spike's eyes traced up the thin trunk of the willow tree, planted beside the new grave. Young still, a few trailing branches that would some day blossom to offer shade and solace to those who came to visit. For now, they were leafless, stripped bare by the recent transplanting. Wonder how Red is holding up, he thought, feeling his knees buckle. He struggled to stay upright, within the safe shade of the umbrella.
"Failed her. Broke my promise."
"Slayers die in action all the time. Hazards of being the Chosen One. Or these days, the Chosen Two."
Spike wondered what they'd done with her headstone. Ground it into marble dust? Stored it in the basement, ready to be re-engraved when needed? Or had some nasty thing come crawling along and claimed it as a trophy, a memorial of the fate that would catch up with her again someday?
Whistler continued, ignoring the stifled whimper coming from his bundled-up companion. "Heck of a job, slaying. One little girl against all the evil in the world. The slayer and her power, united until death. Doesn't seem like a fair deal, does it?"
Spike shook his head. Want to be back in the basement, in the dark. Far away from where I can do anyone harm.
"But then, prophesy's always tricky. Slipperier than a soul in some ways. For instance, this whole Slayer thing. Only supposed to be one, then whammo! Modern medicine steps in and you've got two."
"Leaving now." But of course he wasn't, couldn't go anywhere while the sun was still up.
Whistler dug around in his pocket and pulled out a stack of photos, handing them to Spike. A dark-haired girl in modest dress, against a terra cotta wall. A punk girl with a shock of fuchsia hair. More besides, snapshots of young girls from different cities, different cultures, the only common thread among them the sharp twinkle in their eyes. Whistler reached over and took the top two photos from Spike, tucking them back into his pocket.
"They're out of the picture already. Oh, and that one," Whistler paused, stealing back the bottom photo before Spike could glance at the image, "not for you to see yet."
"Show me?"
"Unfortunately, there ain't no easy diagrams. Any one of them could be the next. Of course, she'd have to die first. The power can only have one host at a time, after all."
"Faith?"
"Oh, that's right. There's the chosen one, and then there's the other chosen one. Both of them just as strong, just as fast, just as, well, Slayer-ish." Whistler takes back the photos, looking at them sadly. Shakes his head. "Shame. They'd have a chance, you know. If only they could tap into that power in time. But that pesky prophesy, says they have to wait. And prophesy is never wrong, right?"
There's something there, in the words Whistler is speaking. If only he could clear his head long enough to put the pieces together.
"Sorry, kiddo, but that's all I'm allowed to say." Whistler started back towards the car, taking the shade of the umbrella with him. Spike wanted to linger, but the tickle of sunlight across his exposed cheek sent him scurrying after the shade.
* * *
Leaning up against the tree, he felt the roughness of the bark through the thin material of his shirt. Never noticed that before, all the nights I've spent leaning here, watching her house. The leather, that's what was missing. The trophy. He hoped she'd burned it.
Right. Time to get on with it already. He could see her through the front window, sitting across from Xander and the Bit in their living room. Some girl, too, dark haired. Anya, perhaps? He doesn't relish facing the prat again, but at least worrying about Xander's hostility took his mind off worrying about her response.
Straightening up, he headed towards the house. Something's missing. That's right, the ritual stubbing out of the smoke beforehand. When had he stopped smoking? Funny, that. Didn't miss it.
Come on, big bad. You've faced down a bloody god, and a little door is scaring you? Spike tugged at the bottom of his shirt, straightening it out again. It fit okay, but it just didn't feel right. One step, then another. There you go, up on the porch now.
He thought about ringing the doorbell, but tested the handle instead, for old times sakes. Unlocked, of course. Last time he'd been this nervous was in Prague, that long horrible moment when he thought the mob had done Dru in. Thinking of Dru brought a rush of emotions, of voices, all the little lost ones they'd broken during their time together. He took a moment to clear his head, pushing out the thoughts with the only mantra that worked at all.
Buffy needs my help. Repeated the thought, over and over, until the voices quieted into whispers. Best he could hope for, he supposed.
He slipped inside, silent as the dead, watching her through the doorway. Heavy into planning mode she was, sharp and focused. He hadn't noticed before, but her hair had gotten long again. What the hell was he going to say? Nothing appropriate came to mind, so he settled on the inappropriate. Spent more than a century playing at being the Big Bad, surely I can pull it off for a while longer.
"What you need is help. Fortunately, you've got me."