LIBERATION
Minimum Safe Distance 3
By Annie
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: Still don't own 'em.
Spoilers: The Gift
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net
....Spike's eyes flew open.
His head snapped up away from the cool grass. No way he'd really heard that, he told himself.
"Gone 'round the bloody bend, have you, Spike?" he muttered.
But, actually, he could still hear it - his vampire senses were a hundred times better than human, and he could still hear the screaming. And thumping.
"No," he whispered in denial, even as he started clawing at the grass and the dirt beneath it. Thoughts raced through his suddenly-sober mind - This can't be happening. This must be happening. I can't dig fast enough. There isn't much air in a coffin.
He was on his feet then, running crazily to the other side of the cemetery, toward the old groundskeeper's shed there. The door was padlocked, which meant less than nothing to Spike. He ripped it off its' hinges without a thought, flinging it somewhere behind him.
His vampiric night vision allowed him to locate the thing he wanted in a few precious seconds. A shovel. Spike grabbed it and raced out of the shed, running headlong into another vampire. He'd had a run-in with this one last week, and it had ended in kind of a draw. The demon obviously wanted a rematch.
Spike barely slowed his pace, he swung the shovel in a vicious arc, beheading the other vamp before he could even register what was happening. Spike didn't even look back to see the dust.
"Sod off," Spike thought. "No bloody time for that."
He was going so fast he almost overshot Buffy's grave. He wasted one second to listen again. Gasping little sounds beneath him. More thumping.
He dug frantically, taking full advantage of his supernatural strength. In a bare few minutes, the shovel met something solid, jarring his arms painfully. The vault. He had forgotten the coffin would be inside a vault.
Spike snarled as the rage came back, vamping him.
To hell with it - he needed the strength of the rage to help him. He cleared off as much of the dirt as possible from the vault. The little gasping sounds were getting slightly weaker, as was the thumping. Buffy would pass out. Or die again. If she wasn't a zombie or something else atrocious already.
He straddled the open grave and reached down to give a frantic yank. The vault lid didn't give as easily as had the door to the shed, but it was no match for Spike's determination and strength.
It flew open in his hands, revealing the mahogany casket nestled inside. No doubt about the thumping now, and besides, the polished lid of the coffin was about to crack open under the Slayer's onslaught.
Spike thought grimly that the vault lid would have posed a considerable obstacle to her freedom. He reached down uncomfortably and felt along the side of the casket for the latch. Simultaneously with the lock's release, a Slayer fist punched through the wood beneath him.
Spike hauled it open furiously, letting the cool air inside. He forgot he was in vamp face.
Buffy gulped in large breaths of fresh air, still trying to scream, force of habit making her feel in her clothing for a stake.
"Buffy, no!" Spike shouted, de-vamping. He didn't know if they had buried a stake with her, but he wasn't taking any chances. Not now, despite his earlier decision to stake himself in his crypt.
He reached in and pulled her up forcibly, stopping her screams by placing a hand over her mouth as gently as possible, which was difficult to say the least. She was like a wild cat.
He was afraid to release her, and let her run screaming and confused through the cemetery. On the other hand, if he tried too hard to subdue her, the bleeding chip would fire, and he would reflexively release her anyway.
He managed to get a hold on her from behind, pulling her against him, keeping a hand on her mouth and getting his face close to her ear. He stilled the tremendous, albeit cautious, joy that was threatening to overcome him. What he really wanted to do was turn her around and touch her face. Look into her eyes and be sure it was her. Somehow, she smelled good, and his subconscious registered this fact despite the circumstances.
"Stop it, Pet! Slayer! It's Spike! I can't hurt you!"
Buffy stopped struggling then, trying to clear her mind, warm breath washing over his cold hand, so that even as she quieted, he was reluctant to take the hand away, reluctant to let her out of his grasp. But he did anyway, and turned her to face him.
"What's going on, Spike?" she railed at him. "What did you do to me?"
She was ready to fight, and he wanted her to stay calm. His mind was reeling in aftershock, still trying to fathom if this was real or not. Maybe grief had made him delusional as well as suicidal. He stepped back a few paces, out of reach of her fists.
Minimum safe distance.
Never mind. He had to know if he was crazy.
"Hit me," he requested simply. "I just need to know if you're really here."
He stepped forward again - quick jab to the nose.
"Ow! Okay," he said, stepping back again. "Don't you remember anything? Anything at all, Love?"
"Anything about wha...?" she started to ask, and abruptly the confusion and fog dropped from her face.
"Dawn," she breathed.
"Niblet's fine," Spike hastened to assure her. "We're all fine - except you. And Glory."
Her eyes got a touch of panic in them as he spoke the Hellgod's name.
"She came back anyway." She guessed.
Spike shook his head. 'No. You bashed her almost to a pulp, remember? Then she changed to Ben and you lost the taste for it. You went to get Dawn instead. But Glory's not coming back. Your Watcher saw to that well enough."
"I jumped," she remembered.
Spike nodded as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket and shook one out. His hands were shaking. He lit up.
"And you died," he finished for her, exhaling his first puff toward his feet.
He went on then, to bring her up to speed. "Anya was dumped on by some blocks and stuff, but she was okay then. Dawn's cuts all healed, and after the funeral -" he almost choked on the word, stopping to cover it up by taking another drag on the cigarette - "Big Daddy came and took her to Barcelona to live with him. The little witch wanted to keep her, but.."
He stopped. Buffy had started shaking uncontrollably. Shock. She was going into shock.
"I'm cold," she whispered, starting to crumble before him, falling to her hands and knees on the ground, retching dryly.
Spike threw the cigarette aside, pulling off his leather coat, bending down to wrap her in it, picking her up gently and then racing for his crypt.
Minimum Safe Distance 3
By Annie
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: Still don't own 'em.
Spoilers: The Gift
Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net
....Spike's eyes flew open.
His head snapped up away from the cool grass. No way he'd really heard that, he told himself.
"Gone 'round the bloody bend, have you, Spike?" he muttered.
But, actually, he could still hear it - his vampire senses were a hundred times better than human, and he could still hear the screaming. And thumping.
"No," he whispered in denial, even as he started clawing at the grass and the dirt beneath it. Thoughts raced through his suddenly-sober mind - This can't be happening. This must be happening. I can't dig fast enough. There isn't much air in a coffin.
He was on his feet then, running crazily to the other side of the cemetery, toward the old groundskeeper's shed there. The door was padlocked, which meant less than nothing to Spike. He ripped it off its' hinges without a thought, flinging it somewhere behind him.
His vampiric night vision allowed him to locate the thing he wanted in a few precious seconds. A shovel. Spike grabbed it and raced out of the shed, running headlong into another vampire. He'd had a run-in with this one last week, and it had ended in kind of a draw. The demon obviously wanted a rematch.
Spike barely slowed his pace, he swung the shovel in a vicious arc, beheading the other vamp before he could even register what was happening. Spike didn't even look back to see the dust.
"Sod off," Spike thought. "No bloody time for that."
He was going so fast he almost overshot Buffy's grave. He wasted one second to listen again. Gasping little sounds beneath him. More thumping.
He dug frantically, taking full advantage of his supernatural strength. In a bare few minutes, the shovel met something solid, jarring his arms painfully. The vault. He had forgotten the coffin would be inside a vault.
Spike snarled as the rage came back, vamping him.
To hell with it - he needed the strength of the rage to help him. He cleared off as much of the dirt as possible from the vault. The little gasping sounds were getting slightly weaker, as was the thumping. Buffy would pass out. Or die again. If she wasn't a zombie or something else atrocious already.
He straddled the open grave and reached down to give a frantic yank. The vault lid didn't give as easily as had the door to the shed, but it was no match for Spike's determination and strength.
It flew open in his hands, revealing the mahogany casket nestled inside. No doubt about the thumping now, and besides, the polished lid of the coffin was about to crack open under the Slayer's onslaught.
Spike thought grimly that the vault lid would have posed a considerable obstacle to her freedom. He reached down uncomfortably and felt along the side of the casket for the latch. Simultaneously with the lock's release, a Slayer fist punched through the wood beneath him.
Spike hauled it open furiously, letting the cool air inside. He forgot he was in vamp face.
Buffy gulped in large breaths of fresh air, still trying to scream, force of habit making her feel in her clothing for a stake.
"Buffy, no!" Spike shouted, de-vamping. He didn't know if they had buried a stake with her, but he wasn't taking any chances. Not now, despite his earlier decision to stake himself in his crypt.
He reached in and pulled her up forcibly, stopping her screams by placing a hand over her mouth as gently as possible, which was difficult to say the least. She was like a wild cat.
He was afraid to release her, and let her run screaming and confused through the cemetery. On the other hand, if he tried too hard to subdue her, the bleeding chip would fire, and he would reflexively release her anyway.
He managed to get a hold on her from behind, pulling her against him, keeping a hand on her mouth and getting his face close to her ear. He stilled the tremendous, albeit cautious, joy that was threatening to overcome him. What he really wanted to do was turn her around and touch her face. Look into her eyes and be sure it was her. Somehow, she smelled good, and his subconscious registered this fact despite the circumstances.
"Stop it, Pet! Slayer! It's Spike! I can't hurt you!"
Buffy stopped struggling then, trying to clear her mind, warm breath washing over his cold hand, so that even as she quieted, he was reluctant to take the hand away, reluctant to let her out of his grasp. But he did anyway, and turned her to face him.
"What's going on, Spike?" she railed at him. "What did you do to me?"
She was ready to fight, and he wanted her to stay calm. His mind was reeling in aftershock, still trying to fathom if this was real or not. Maybe grief had made him delusional as well as suicidal. He stepped back a few paces, out of reach of her fists.
Minimum safe distance.
Never mind. He had to know if he was crazy.
"Hit me," he requested simply. "I just need to know if you're really here."
He stepped forward again - quick jab to the nose.
"Ow! Okay," he said, stepping back again. "Don't you remember anything? Anything at all, Love?"
"Anything about wha...?" she started to ask, and abruptly the confusion and fog dropped from her face.
"Dawn," she breathed.
"Niblet's fine," Spike hastened to assure her. "We're all fine - except you. And Glory."
Her eyes got a touch of panic in them as he spoke the Hellgod's name.
"She came back anyway." She guessed.
Spike shook his head. 'No. You bashed her almost to a pulp, remember? Then she changed to Ben and you lost the taste for it. You went to get Dawn instead. But Glory's not coming back. Your Watcher saw to that well enough."
"I jumped," she remembered.
Spike nodded as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket and shook one out. His hands were shaking. He lit up.
"And you died," he finished for her, exhaling his first puff toward his feet.
He went on then, to bring her up to speed. "Anya was dumped on by some blocks and stuff, but she was okay then. Dawn's cuts all healed, and after the funeral -" he almost choked on the word, stopping to cover it up by taking another drag on the cigarette - "Big Daddy came and took her to Barcelona to live with him. The little witch wanted to keep her, but.."
He stopped. Buffy had started shaking uncontrollably. Shock. She was going into shock.
"I'm cold," she whispered, starting to crumble before him, falling to her hands and knees on the ground, retching dryly.
Spike threw the cigarette aside, pulling off his leather coat, bending down to wrap her in it, picking her up gently and then racing for his crypt.