Second of all, the more observant readers out there may notice that these stories were originally posted by Tallera. Don't worry, I'm not stealing her stuff—Tallera is me! I just decided it was time for a new handle. So from now on, I plan to post my Buffy stuff as SoulSpiked.
Third of all, a quick note just to clarify the timeline of my Buffyverse. "Little Earthquakes" is set sometime between "After Life" and "Once More, With Feeling." "The Space Between" falls, appropriately enough, in the space between the musical and "Tabula Rasa." This story is set after "Tabula Rasa"…sort of. In my Buffyverse, Giles hasn't actually left yet (he's still in the packing stage). Also, Buffy and Spike didn't do the macking thing in the Bronze…if you wanna know why, you'll just have to read the other two stories. ;)
Fourth (and final, I promise!) of all, a personal request. Please review?
I've got a super-special beta who reads most of my stuff, but I'd like
to get feedback from a slightly broader audience. See, I've got these crazy
aspirations of becoming an ACTUAL writer (of real-life books!), and it'd
be nice to know if anybody else out there thinks I'm any good. :-) So any
and every comment is appreciated, cherished, pored over, dissected, analyzed…you
get the idea. Thanks in advance!!!!
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NO FRONTIERS
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by SoulSpiked
Buffy grunted in frustration as she dodged yet another (pathetically obvious!) attack by her vamp opponent. "Is it…just…me," she panted, landing a powerful kick to the demoness' unprotected left side, "or are there…more of these…losers…hanging around…than usual?"
Her choice of words merited a mock-glare from her lone ally. "By 'losers,' I hope you meant 'fledglings,' pet—'cause if you meant vampires in general, I might have to be offended." In a spinning flash of white-blond hair and flaring black leather, Spike's boot connected with a minion's jaw, stunning the young demon just long enough for the Big Bad to make good with the stake clenched in one fist.
Buffy finished off the newly-turned girl with ease—though not without a pang, for here was yet another life she had failed to save—and looked over her shoulder in time to watch the remains of Spike's opponent drift lazily to the ground. "Well, whatever you want to call them," she replied, her shoulders slumping wearily, "they're breeding like rabbits!" She scrubbed her face roughly with one hand, as if that would help to erase the bone-deep exhaustion she felt.
Spike sauntered over to lean against the headstone next to her. "And talk about the shallow end of the gene pool…" he muttered, producing a cigarette from nowhere and lighting up. "It's been common knowledge for years that this is the cemetery closest to the Slayer's home," he went on, bemused, "so why the sudden flocks of undead?"
Buffy let out a heartfelt groan.
Spike blinked. "Was it something I said?"
She sighed. "No. But if you want to know what's up with the crowds," she continued with a resigned expression on her face, "maybe you should ask them."
He followed her gesture to the gang of three oddly-shaped demons moving toward them. The trio was obviously trying to sneak up on the worn-out pair, but the clumsiness of their own misshapen bodies was working against them. The creatures were only vaguely human in form, with limbs too short and thick to mistake for mortal ones. Piss-green veins wriggled just beneath the surface of their pasty skin, and each grossly gnarled head was lit by two pairs of luminescent orange eyes. Their movements were jerky and exaggerated, as though they weren't quite sure how to use their muscles properly.
Spike offered the Slayer a hand. She accepted it with weary gratitude, pulling herself painfully to her feet to face this hideous new threat.
"Okay—you guys obviously didn't get the memo," she quipped, flinging a stake almost nonchalantly, "but that color combination went out decades ago. You've really gotta have a talk with the people who do your makeup." The demon on the far left looked mildly put-out at the wooden shaft that suddenly sprouted from its throat. With a long-suffering sigh, the stumpy creature toppled like a tree. Buffy squelched an insane urge to call, "Timmmberrrrr!" and concentrated on taking out the dead one's two friends.
"See what you did?" Spike was saying to the remaining two Uglies. "You just had to go and offend her fashion sense. Do you have any idea how violent women can get over matters of color coordination?" He began stalking the slimy beast on the right, leaving Buffy to deal with the one in the middle.
She reached into her sleeve for another stake (hey, gotta go with what works…) when the last demon shocked her by opening its mouth and…speaking?
"But—but…what are you doing?"
It was all the Slayer could do to keep from laughing. The monster's voice could've been a voice-over by Chip or Dale, one of the Disney chipmunks—high pitched and squeaky, like a tape playing at twice normal speed—and its tone was heavy with fear and…surprise?
Buffy blinked. Twice. Huh?
"I'm sorry," she responded, falling back on her usual sarcasm. "Was I supposed to make a public announcement before I tried to kill you?" The whirling kick she landed on its jaw staggered the creature back several paces. "Consider that your official notification."
The demon just stood and stared at her, dumbfounded. "But…but, why are you bothering?" it asked dazedly. "What does it matter now, if we all have our fun, or if the Slayer slays…?"
Buffy's eyes narrowed at the confounded hell-spawn standing before her. Usually, they don't stop to ask the Big Questions, they just *fight*…! She sensed Spike come up behind her, having finished pounding the second Ugly into the ground.
"What do you mean?" she countered. "Of course it matters, slimeball—it's my 'sacred duty' and all that jazz, remember? Ridding the world of trolls like you? This ringing any bells?"
But her embittered words seemed to be lost on the demon gaping at her. "B-but it's almost Time," it stammered, as she and Spike began circling, like vultures closing in on fresh carrion. "It's—that is, the Time, the—the Annealing has finally come…so why are you still—"
The monster never finished its last question. With its eyes fixed uncomprehendingly on Buffy, Spike had been able to circle around behind it, unnoticed, and snap its neck. The two fighters warily eyed each other over the corpse of the unusually vocal—but acceptably dead—demon.
"Yeuchh." Spike wrinkled his nose at the rank slime coating his hands. "Why couldn't we have taken him out from a distance, luv?" he grumbled, wiping his palms on the damp grass. Then he raised an uncertain eyebrow. "And what was all that bollix he was spouting?"
Buffy frowned in thought. "I don't know—something about the…the 'time of a kneeling,' I think he said." She considered that for a moment. "What's so important about demons on their knees, that he couldn't be bothered to defend himself?"
Spike favored her with a supple shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine, pet." He watched as she sighed again, rolling her neck to relax too-tense muscles. It wasn't just tonight's increased demonic activity, he knew; she'd been working almost non-stop ever since her 'miraculous' resurrection, and the strain was beginning to show.
She never manages to catch a break, does she? he mused sadly. Does she ever have a moment to just be? She always has to be the Slayer, or the friend, or the family bread-winner, or the surrogate mother…I wonder if she even remembers how to be just Buffy? For herself?
"Other than the fact that demons, as a rule, aren't terribly fond of abasing themselves in any way?" he continued conversationally. She fell into step beside him as he headed for the cemetery entrance—they'd both had enough of Slaying for one night. "Couldn't say…s'pose that means there's some heavy book-time in store for the gang, huh?"
The Slayer nodded. "Yeah, I guess I'll mention it to Gi—" She cut herself off, swallowing the rest of the name around the sudden lump in her throat. "I mean, um…to everybody, in the morning…" Her eyes got lost for a moment amid the endless distance of the eastern horizon.
Just when I thought I was starting to get things back together, she thought dejectedly. Just when life was starting to feel 'normal' again…less like death…why did he have to spring this on me now? True, Giles wasn't actually gone yet…but the date of his departure was swiftly approaching, and Buffy still felt betrayed by his decision to leave.
Spike watched, his undead heart aching, as her eyes became glossy with unshed tears. She never catches a break… He watched, half fearful and half admiring, as her chin came up and her shoulders straightened, with a visible effort of will. Where does she get so much strength? It is part of the Slayer package, or is that just Buffy? That indomitable will, that unique brand of Buffy-magic, that utter refusal to allow the trivialities of life to defeat her, was one of the things the vampire loved most about her…but it scared him, too.
How much must it cost her, he had to wonder. How much more painful must it be to shove everything aside like that, in order to keep up the façade? He knew that sooner or later, a price would have to be paid. That's the thing about magic—even Buffy-magic—there's always consequences…
Spike gave himself a little mental shake. She's hurting—say something, you idiot!
"Here's a thought, luv," he said, with sudden inspiration.
She turned to look at him. He's doing it again, she realized tiredly. Trying to get my mind off of…things. She was torn between gratitude for his thoughtfulness, and indignance at his presumption…but she was just too tired to maintain the anger. She settled on raising one eyebrow in a silent invitation for him to continue.
"I'll head over to the shop and get a head-start on the research bit…maybe narrow things down for you and the gang, so you can all start plotting in the morning?"
Buffy's other eyebrow joined the first on its record-setting ascent into her hairline. "Wait, let me get this straight—you're offering to help with research?" Her voice was high with disbelief.
The vampire lowered his eyes, watching the scuffed toes of his boots as he walked. "Well…yeah, seems that way, don't it?"
"Spike, you hate researching even more than me, if that's possible!" She stopped dead in her tracks, forcing him to pause in his stride and turn around to face her. "Okay," she narrowed her eyes at him. "Who are you, and what have you done with the real Spike?" One corner of her mouth twitched as a smile threatened to break across her face, but her eyes betrayed the faintest trace of uncertainty. After all, when you live on a Hellmouth, jokes like that can sometimes prove frighteningly accurate…
Spike scowled; he hated being caught out when he was trying to be nice. "Oh fine—be that way, Slayer! Big laugh at the house-broken vamp, just for trying to be helpful—'he must have an ulterior motive,' right? Well, see if I offer to do you any more favors any time soon…!" He made as if to stomp away in a snit, and was entirely unsurprised by the small hand that suddenly appeared, grasping his arm in an unbreakable grip.
"Oh, come on, Spike—get a sense of humor," she groaned, frustrated. "I was just kidding!" Seeing that he was fully in 'Big Bad Pout Mode,' she relented a bit. Wonder if he knows what a lethal weapon that bottom lip can be, when he gets all pouty?
No. *Not* thinking about Spike-lips!
"Alright, fine—sorry," she sighed, then eyed him impishly out of the corner of her eye.
The vampire caught her glance, and swallowed a resigned sigh. She knows I can never bleedin' resist that look!
"C'mon, admit it, Spike—you'd rather take your chances sunbathing on the French Riviera at noon than crack open one of those old, musty books…"
The peroxide blond almost smiled at Buffy's playful manner, coming so soon after the blatant grief of moments before. It sent a rush of unaccustomed warmth through his unbeating heart to think that he was able to bring about such a change in her mood.
"I'll have you know, pet," he replied in a superior tone, "that I used to be considered rather a man of letters—back when I was a man, that is."
That earned him an almost-carefree giggle, and a brilliantly wicked smile. "Oh, I remember—'William the Bloody Awful Poet!' Something about 'effulgent beauty,' right? Gimme a break!"
The vampire rolled his eyes and glared, as they cut across Buffy's yard to the back porch. "Alright, now you're just askin' for it, Slayer!" he mock-snarled at her.
Buffy rolled her eyes right back at him, crossing her arms defensively in front of her. "Oh, yeah—whatever, Mr. Chips!" She yawned hugely, and it was only half-feigned. "Look, as fascinating as this conversation has been, Dawn is probably waiting up for me."
"Right, then."
It really is amazing, she thought, how much he softens when he hears her name… Buffy had to fight down a tiny pang of envy at her sister's ability to inspire such instinctive tenderness in this soulless creature of the night.
"Tell the Li'l Bit 'g'night' from me, then," he said, turning to go.
"I will," she smiled in response. Buffy was halfway up the stairs when Spike's voice stopped her once more.
"Buffy…"
Oh, great…it's that 'we need to talk' voice again… She stopped on the steps, but did not turn back to face him. "What, Spike?"
Won't look at me…not a good sign. But he plunged ahead, anyway. "Um, about Giles…I know he's not on your list of favorite blokes right now, but you've gotta know…he cares, and he's doing what he thinks best." The vampire ground to a halt. This was easier when it was in my head…
Now Buffy turned to look at him, and his chest seized at the pain in her face. "Look, I don't like what he's doing, either, ducks…but you've gotta see, his heart's in the right place…and sod all else, right?" He took a deep, unnecessary breath. "I mean, we all stick by you, Slayer—always. Your Watcher—he's just got a messed-up idea of how to go about it. And the rest of us…well, no cause to feel all abandoned, luv, 'cause you've got more friends than most, and truer…and we're not going anywhere."
Her mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. How is it that he always seems to know exactly what to say, and when to say it? she wondered, bemused. She could feel her eyes filling with tears—some for Giles and her own misery, but most in gratitude, to the white-blond hair and expressive blue eyes standing in the grass of her backyard. Damn those eyes… Whenever her bright, noisy world got to be too much, and she felt like just letting go (just let go)…falling forever and forever into the dim, quiet abyss that called with such sweet and terrible whispers to her wounded soul…those eyes kept her from succumbing to the temptation. They would prop her up with the sheer force of the emotion he no longer bothered to cloak, soothing her with the knowledge that he was trying to make her burdens lighter in any way he could…and strangely, just knowing that, made them weigh less harshly on her.
Buffy thought back to the night in the Bronze…was it really just this week? The night after the incident with the 'Lord of the Dance' demon. She and Spike had come to an understanding that evening, in the very spot on the dance floor where he had stopped her manic dance. He had allowed his feelings to shine through the usual Big Bad façade…and for the first time, she hadn't pushed him away. She had finally been able to acknowledge how much she depended on him…and honestly admitted to herself that she took comfort in his presence. That she…cared. That of all the Scoobies, he had become the one she instinctively turned to for support. That he was…her best friend.
To say that it had been something of a revelation—for both of them—was an understatement.
Neither had mentioned their newfound rapport since they parted that night on the dance floor, but in the days that followed, the undercurrent of nastiness (okay…cruelty, even) that once characterized their witty banter dropped away. One more piece in the fragmented mosaic that was Buffy's life had fallen into place, and with that addition—that of a demon, born of darkness but craving the light—her world became that much brighter.
What can you possibly say to that? To a demon in the guise of a man, who makes your life easier just by virtue of who he is, and what he represents to you?
Buffy closed her mouth uncertainly, and finally gave Spike—who was visibly fretting at her long silence—a watery smile.
When she opened her mouth again, her voice was tight and quiet. "Spike, I…thanks. You're…a good friend." A good friend… The words felt alien on her tongue, but in a tingly, 'I-could-get-used-to-this' kind of way.
The peroxide blond almost sighed with relief. For a minute there, I thought I was going to be staring down the business end of a stake…! "Anytime, luv," he said sincerely.
Buffy was the first to break their almost-electric eye contact. "Well, I ought to get to bed. G'night, Spike."
"Sleep well, Buffy," he responded, turning to fade into the shadows of the back hedge.
He's still going to the Magic Box, isn't he? she realized. He's going to spend the rest of the night cooped up in the shop, snooping through boring old books full of cramped little words…just so I don't have to.
As she dressed for bed, Buffy wondered for the millionth time, just
how she had managed to get by before Spike had defected to the good side…?
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