Title: A Passing Shadow: Book II: Trick of the Light: Chapter 1
Author: VicNoir
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I have no claim on anything having to do with BtVS-it all belongs to Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
Summary: An alternative season 6 and 7,
Author's Note: Book II is told entirely from Spike's point of view.
So the Watcher was comin' back. Couldn't say I was surprised.
Us ex-pats, we talk a good game--always pinin' for the comforts of the isle, Hail Britannica an' all that rot--but in truth, we prefer life in the Colonies, or we wouldn't stay. I love the Union Jack same as the next bloke, but I don't miss the god-awful food, nor the buggery weather. Give me a warm Southern California night with lots of moonlight by which to hunt down a platter of wings over a drizzly slog to the pub for day-old bangers an' mash anytime.
But I digress. The Slayerettes were preparin' for the Watcher's return like he was the bleedin' prodigal son. I half-expected Red to go all super-Wicca again an' slaughter some poor unsuspectin' fatted calf.
They asked me to help decorate for the 'welcome home' orgy. Can you bloody even believe the stones on these children? Still, it gave me somethin' to pass the time whilst my peepers finished their healin'. Don't think they much cared for the trimmins' I came up with, though. See if they go an' ask a vampire to play event coordinator again anytime soon.
So there I was, on the very day of the festivities, puttin' the finishin' touches to the decor, when in toddled Harris with that smarmy grin I'd like to chew off an' spit back in his face.
"Hey, Spike! How's my favorite party planner? Ya know, they have an opening down at the bridal salon for a wedding consultant--you'd be just the guy." He corked his drivel long enough to take a good look around. "Or not."
Yeah, well, black's my favorite color--closely followed by red--an' I'd outdone myself on the ambience. Black streamers, black lights, blood red balloons (Niblet an' I searched all over town for just the right shade of deep crimson, and they looked like clots of O-neg lyin' about under the lights) an' the occasional well-polished femur and skull, just to punch up the color scheme.
"Uh, Spike...I think you misunderstood...this looks more like 'welcome to hell' than 'welcome home.' "
Then Niblet popped up from behind one of the sofas where she'd been sittin' an' makin' a banner for over the door. She held it up. 'WELCOME HOME TO THE HELLMOUTH.'
"See Xander? Great minds think alike." She giggled at him in that way she has, an' he had no more complaints. Little Miss America, she is. An' nothin' like her big sis at all--unless you cross her, of course.
I was hoistin' her up on my shoulder to hang the banner when who should slam into the two of us an' send us flyin' but the Slayer herself.
"DAWN! What the hell...are you OK?"
Niblet was pickin' herself up off the floor where she'd landed. "Jeez, Buffy, observant much?" She stooped to pick up the banner an' handed it to me. I dragged a chair over an' proceeded to hang the thing, ignorin' the Chosen One an' her shiny soft skin, an' her shiny soft hair, an' her shiny soft scent...
"Uh...hi, Spike."
"Slayer."
"How are you?"
"Pretty fair. Yourself?"
"Fine."
"Glad to hear it." Can you even believe the level of poncy banality our conversation had sunk to? It'd been like that since the lovely evening a week or so before, when I'd had the distinct pleasure of bein' forced to choose between stakin' my lover of over one hundred years or watchin' her kill...who? Who was this little chit to me, anyway, an' why did I dust Drusilla--who offered me love and a steady diet of fresh kills--to save her? She, who offered me nothing but the knowledge that I'd forever be beneath her?
An' that was the question that'd hounded me nearly 'round the bend. But right then, with her so close an' all, an' obviously tryin' to be friendly, I decided to let it rest for the evenin'.
"Hey, Evil Dead, that banner's crooked!" Harris was already diggin' into the refreshments.
Niblet stepped back an' looked up at the banner. "Yeah, Spike, get back up there and fix it--we'll tell you when it's straight."
An' so we all played a game of "a little to the right, no that's too far, a little to the left" until finally I let loose with a growl over my shoulder an' they decided the soddin' thing was straight enough. That's when I noticed that the Slayer was starin' at my arse.
I watched her face 'til she glanced up an' caught my eye. I was expectin' a blush at the very least, but the saucy chit gave me a look that might've melted glass an' suddenly I was findin' my jeans a bit constrictin'. So I left the room, which is how I happened to be in the front of the shop when Rupert--
What? Oh, yeah. Funny thing, that. Woke up a couple evenings after dustin' Drusilla an' there it was, in all it's considerable glory, if I do say so myself. I'm sure there's some psychological boogedy-boogedy behind it, but I can't say I cared much--neither then nor now.
'Course, I didn't let on. Not somethin' you can just announce over beer an' pizza: "by the way, kiddies, did I mention that the ol' pecker's perkin'?" Trouble was, my knob seemed right determined to make up for lost time, an' I found myself sportin' a hard-on that would've knocked holes in cement at the most inopportune moments. An' if that Harris whelp had let loose with just one more Vampire Viagra joke, he might bloody well've gotten an up close an' personal view of the Big Bad. Would've shut his gob good an' proper, an' no mistake.
Sorry.
Anyway, that's how I happened to be in the front of the shop when the Watcher made his grand entrance. Could've knocked me over with a feather when he walked right up an' shook my hand an' slapped me on the back. All "Spike! Good to see you, old man!" he was, as if we'd been best mates an' not uneasy co-combatants these last two years. But I played along, 'cause it felt good to be treated well, an' if you tell anybody I said that I'll rip your tonsils out your navel an' give 'em as party favors at the next Slayerette get-together.
Right. Sorry. I get a little tense when I think about that time. Not so long ago, really, but it FEELS like a century, an' I'm one of the few who can say that an' know what it means.
So, much joyous reunion all 'round, an' I waited for whatever it was that'd brought Rupert back in such a bloody rush t'be revealed. 'Cause there was somethin' off about him, an' I might've thought it was my imagination if I hadn't caught the Slayer lookin' at him funny on more than one occasion that night.
But I guess he'd decided to put off tellin' us the trouble for the sake of the party atmosphere, an' it was just as well. The Slayer an' her mates had a fine time that night, an' it was good to see her relax an' smile an' cuddle with Lil' Bit.
It was somethin' to hold onto, 'cause things were about to get a bit tough again, as they've a habit of doin' on the Hellmouth. But I expect I don't need to tell you that, do I?
tbc
Author: VicNoir
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I have no claim on anything having to do with BtVS-it all belongs to Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
Summary: An alternative season 6 and 7,
Author's Note: Book II is told entirely from Spike's point of view.
So the Watcher was comin' back. Couldn't say I was surprised.
Us ex-pats, we talk a good game--always pinin' for the comforts of the isle, Hail Britannica an' all that rot--but in truth, we prefer life in the Colonies, or we wouldn't stay. I love the Union Jack same as the next bloke, but I don't miss the god-awful food, nor the buggery weather. Give me a warm Southern California night with lots of moonlight by which to hunt down a platter of wings over a drizzly slog to the pub for day-old bangers an' mash anytime.
But I digress. The Slayerettes were preparin' for the Watcher's return like he was the bleedin' prodigal son. I half-expected Red to go all super-Wicca again an' slaughter some poor unsuspectin' fatted calf.
They asked me to help decorate for the 'welcome home' orgy. Can you bloody even believe the stones on these children? Still, it gave me somethin' to pass the time whilst my peepers finished their healin'. Don't think they much cared for the trimmins' I came up with, though. See if they go an' ask a vampire to play event coordinator again anytime soon.
So there I was, on the very day of the festivities, puttin' the finishin' touches to the decor, when in toddled Harris with that smarmy grin I'd like to chew off an' spit back in his face.
"Hey, Spike! How's my favorite party planner? Ya know, they have an opening down at the bridal salon for a wedding consultant--you'd be just the guy." He corked his drivel long enough to take a good look around. "Or not."
Yeah, well, black's my favorite color--closely followed by red--an' I'd outdone myself on the ambience. Black streamers, black lights, blood red balloons (Niblet an' I searched all over town for just the right shade of deep crimson, and they looked like clots of O-neg lyin' about under the lights) an' the occasional well-polished femur and skull, just to punch up the color scheme.
"Uh, Spike...I think you misunderstood...this looks more like 'welcome to hell' than 'welcome home.' "
Then Niblet popped up from behind one of the sofas where she'd been sittin' an' makin' a banner for over the door. She held it up. 'WELCOME HOME TO THE HELLMOUTH.'
"See Xander? Great minds think alike." She giggled at him in that way she has, an' he had no more complaints. Little Miss America, she is. An' nothin' like her big sis at all--unless you cross her, of course.
I was hoistin' her up on my shoulder to hang the banner when who should slam into the two of us an' send us flyin' but the Slayer herself.
"DAWN! What the hell...are you OK?"
Niblet was pickin' herself up off the floor where she'd landed. "Jeez, Buffy, observant much?" She stooped to pick up the banner an' handed it to me. I dragged a chair over an' proceeded to hang the thing, ignorin' the Chosen One an' her shiny soft skin, an' her shiny soft hair, an' her shiny soft scent...
"Uh...hi, Spike."
"Slayer."
"How are you?"
"Pretty fair. Yourself?"
"Fine."
"Glad to hear it." Can you even believe the level of poncy banality our conversation had sunk to? It'd been like that since the lovely evening a week or so before, when I'd had the distinct pleasure of bein' forced to choose between stakin' my lover of over one hundred years or watchin' her kill...who? Who was this little chit to me, anyway, an' why did I dust Drusilla--who offered me love and a steady diet of fresh kills--to save her? She, who offered me nothing but the knowledge that I'd forever be beneath her?
An' that was the question that'd hounded me nearly 'round the bend. But right then, with her so close an' all, an' obviously tryin' to be friendly, I decided to let it rest for the evenin'.
"Hey, Evil Dead, that banner's crooked!" Harris was already diggin' into the refreshments.
Niblet stepped back an' looked up at the banner. "Yeah, Spike, get back up there and fix it--we'll tell you when it's straight."
An' so we all played a game of "a little to the right, no that's too far, a little to the left" until finally I let loose with a growl over my shoulder an' they decided the soddin' thing was straight enough. That's when I noticed that the Slayer was starin' at my arse.
I watched her face 'til she glanced up an' caught my eye. I was expectin' a blush at the very least, but the saucy chit gave me a look that might've melted glass an' suddenly I was findin' my jeans a bit constrictin'. So I left the room, which is how I happened to be in the front of the shop when Rupert--
What? Oh, yeah. Funny thing, that. Woke up a couple evenings after dustin' Drusilla an' there it was, in all it's considerable glory, if I do say so myself. I'm sure there's some psychological boogedy-boogedy behind it, but I can't say I cared much--neither then nor now.
'Course, I didn't let on. Not somethin' you can just announce over beer an' pizza: "by the way, kiddies, did I mention that the ol' pecker's perkin'?" Trouble was, my knob seemed right determined to make up for lost time, an' I found myself sportin' a hard-on that would've knocked holes in cement at the most inopportune moments. An' if that Harris whelp had let loose with just one more Vampire Viagra joke, he might bloody well've gotten an up close an' personal view of the Big Bad. Would've shut his gob good an' proper, an' no mistake.
Sorry.
Anyway, that's how I happened to be in the front of the shop when the Watcher made his grand entrance. Could've knocked me over with a feather when he walked right up an' shook my hand an' slapped me on the back. All "Spike! Good to see you, old man!" he was, as if we'd been best mates an' not uneasy co-combatants these last two years. But I played along, 'cause it felt good to be treated well, an' if you tell anybody I said that I'll rip your tonsils out your navel an' give 'em as party favors at the next Slayerette get-together.
Right. Sorry. I get a little tense when I think about that time. Not so long ago, really, but it FEELS like a century, an' I'm one of the few who can say that an' know what it means.
So, much joyous reunion all 'round, an' I waited for whatever it was that'd brought Rupert back in such a bloody rush t'be revealed. 'Cause there was somethin' off about him, an' I might've thought it was my imagination if I hadn't caught the Slayer lookin' at him funny on more than one occasion that night.
But I guess he'd decided to put off tellin' us the trouble for the sake of the party atmosphere, an' it was just as well. The Slayer an' her mates had a fine time that night, an' it was good to see her relax an' smile an' cuddle with Lil' Bit.
It was somethin' to hold onto, 'cause things were about to get a bit tough again, as they've a habit of doin' on the Hellmouth. But I expect I don't need to tell you that, do I?
tbc