Disclaimers: Could I please get BtVS for a Christmas gift? Pretty, pretty
please?
Feedback: Oui, sil vous plait! Thanks for all the great comments.
Author's Note: 'Hiya gang, and welcome to another installment of: The Spike and Buffy Show! He's a bleached bloodsucker, she's a bitchy Slayer, and together they're wacky as hell. He loves her so; she just doesn't know, but something 'bout him rings her bell. It's the Spike and Buffy . . . the we love Spuffy, the Spike and Buffy sho-o-o-w!' Erm . . . yeah, just ignore that. Emily, to answer your question, the last chapter was called 'Marie Antoinette' because of Willow's line: "And she said: let them eat cake" (or something to that measure). Honestly, I thought I was being clever . . . too vague, I guess. All right, to recap, I left you guys at a cliffhanger. Again. It's mean, I know, but it has to be done. Well, not really, but I like doing it. I'm a tease, I am.
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Buffy walked down the cemetery's muddy path, her steps light to match her mood. Her heart was pounding in anticipation, an idiotic grin plastered on her face. She knew that she shouldn't be that excited, that it wasn't that big a deal.
'But it is!' she thought 'It's patrolling. Okay, so I do that every day, but I've never patrolled with Spike before! I mean, yeah, he can't hurt any demons or dust any vamps, but he's there for . . . moral support. When he offered to go patrolling with me, what was I supposed to say? No? Besides, 4 out of 5 Slayer recommend it, so it has to be good. Maybe if some of them had had more support, they wouldn't have ended up so . . . dead. And, yeah, I died, but I didn't -stay- that way; and that's what's important, right?'
A massive crypt loomed before her, and Buffy stopped in her tracks. She knew that it was Spike's place; there was no doubt in her mind. She lifted her leg to kick the door in, but paused, and lowered it.
'I think he's earned this.'
Knocking on the door gently, Buffy waited patiently to be let in. And waited. After a few minutes had passed, she knocked again, this time faster and more impatient than before. Realizing that he wasn't going to open the door for her, Buffy frowned with frustration.
"Spike, I'm coming in!" she hollered, slamming it open with a swift kick. A loud "crack" boomed throughout the residence, as the cement of the door splintered from the abuse it had received.
Buffy scanned the crypt, finding it empty. Her mood soured; she wasn't in the mood for games. "Oh, Spike, look at the poor, little door, she called out with mock sorrow, "I must have kicked it too hard. And if you don't stop playing hide-and-seek, I just might have to do that to your face."
She waited, hands on hips, for a reply; she was tired of messing around. When none came, a small tinge of worry mixed in with her anger, as she searched the room to find him.
"Spike, where are you? Look this isn't funny; I wasn't kidding around when I said that door thing earlier! Fine, I'll just have to go patrolling without you." She turned to leave when something in the dusty recliner next to her caught her eye. A familiar leather duster was draped over the chair.
'His duster? Why would Spike leave his duster? He never goes anywhere without it; it's like his security blanket or something.'
Buffy started to walk over to it when she nearly tripped over a coffee table lying on the floor. It had been knocked over from its original position (she doubted that Spike kept it on its side); the nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach grew considerably. Stepping over the table, her boots crunched on something on the floor. Bending over, Buffy picked up the ceramic shards that were littering the ground. She wrinkled her nose in disgust when she found that they were covered in a sticky red fluid . . . blood. Rubbing the liquid from some of the shards, she read the words printed there. One piece said: "Kiss the" and the others fit together to spell: "librarian".
'Giles' mug? Spike must have taken it from his house when he left. But why would it be on the floor, and . . .'
A puddle of blood was cooling on the floor, and she dipped her finger into what she figured were remnants of Spikes dinner. It was still warm.
'I don't like this . . . Spike wouldn't make a patrolling date and just leave without saying anything. The duster, the table, the mug . . . it's all so suspicious. Something's wrong here . . . and I'm gonna find out what.'
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Spike groaned, shifting around on his bed in an attempt to find a comfortable position. He had had that dream again, where the vampires come into his crypt and attack him, and because of it he hadn't slept well all night. Besides that, he had a pounding headache. He rolled onto his back, surprised when the chill of concrete met his exposed flesh. 'Did I fall off the bed again?' he wondered, slowly opening his weary eyes. Various machines of all kinds, surrounded by scraps of metal, met his gaze.
He sat bolt upright from the floor once he realized where he was. The factory. 'It wasn't a dream . . . 'twas a dream that it was a dream. Wish I could keep these things straight.' The memories of that night came rushing back to him, and he cringed. They had come into his crypt, when he was nice and relaxed, 6 or 7 of them. He had tried to make a run for it, but they had caught him, having the advantage of strength in numbers. He struggled, they bashed him over the head again, and then . . . 'I woke up here'.
Glancing around the room, her noticed that it was empty. 'Maybe I can escape,' he thought, although he wasn't too eager to find out what they would do if they caught him in the act. Standing up quickly, he started to walk away . . . but found himself being pulled back. Tugging at his hands and legs, he realized that he had been chained to the wall.
'Why didn't I notice that before? Guess you could chalk it up to the massive head wound I've got . . . they could've least tried to hit a -different- spot this time,' he thought, touching the bump on his skull gingerly. When he put his hand back down, he noticed that his fingers were red and sticky with blood. 'It's a wonder I even know my own name right now . . . coulda got internal damage or whatnot.'
Sitting back down on the concrete, Spike resigned himself to the fact that he would, indeed, be forced to wait it out for the time being . . . until whoever it was that was holding him hostage decided to make their presence known.
He didn't have to wait long.
A door to his right opened with a creak, and he turned his head to watch as vampires started filing in. A lump formed in his throat as he sat, waiting for them to finish so he could accurately judge the number he would be facing. The door finally shut, and Spike's eyes trailed over the bodies in the room. Six . . . ten . . . twelve . . . maybe twenty or so total, all of them minions, it seemed. Being a master vampire, he knew power when he saw it; there wasn't enough power in the lot of them to fill a thimble. He couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed that fledglings had taken him down. William the Bloody, 120-year-old vampire and ex-Scourge of Europe . . . reduced to a sniveling waste of a demon with a nasty headache. How quickly things change.
The minions stood about, fixing and sorting things, talking amongst themselves. Watching them with a wary eye, he tried to catch a glimpse of what it was they were fussing over, trying to judge exactly how much danger he was in. They seemed oblivious to his presence, working quickly to prepare -something- for their master. Spike sighed inwardly, feeling a twinge of longing.
'I was like that, once . . . dozens of followers that wanted nothing but to fulfill my every whim, on their knees to serve me. ME, a master vampire. I was feared and respected by all that I came across . . . now I can't even strike fear in the heart of a sodding kitten. So here's a question that begs answering: who would want me? Pathetic, worthless shell of a demon that can't hurt a bloody fly . . . One of those military gits, maybe, but a vampire? Makes no sense.'
A hushed reverence fell over the crowd of vampires as their master entered the room. They stood aside as she walked by, parting the like the sea itself. Spike watched from the floor, trying to get a better look at who it was . . . if he would even recognize her. He caught a glimpse of long, brunette hair, and a strange feeling of familiarity washed over him.
'That looks like . . .'
"Drusilla," he whispered, his strength lost at the mere sight of her.
Pushing her minions from her path, she walked over to him, her steps graceful. Clapping her hands, she signaled for her followers to leave the room. Panicked relief swept over Spike; he knew that she wouldn't kill him . . . for now . . . but she probably wouldn't be too happy to find out what he'd been doing for the past few months. Not happy at all.
"Spike," she replied in the lilting tone he had grown so accustomed to. Lowering herself to her knees, she kneeled in front of him, taking his face in her cold, bony hands. He shuddered inwardly, and pulled himself from her touch. Frowning, Drusilla grabbed his hands in hers, pressing them to her bosom. "You were lost," she continued, peering up at him, "I was searching for you. Following the signs."
"Signs, yes," he murmured, gazing into the muddy blackness of her eyes, "Gotta have signs. W-here were you, all of this time? Looking for me?" He watched her press his hands closer to her chest, as if she wanted to pull him in with her, making them one. Spike forced himself not to pull away, although his hands ached from her grip. He didn't want to upset her.
"All the kingdom was lost for want of . . . a knight," she said, her eyes glazed over, "My black knight, my prince. The stars told me you were lost; they don't lie, as is accustomed. Pixies whispered things to me, about you, about everything. They told me to find you, to come for you . . . you were need me."
"Actually, um," he cleared his throat, "yes. I-I do need you. Very, very badly."
Her eyes shone with happiness at his words, and he couldn't help but feel the smallest pang of guilt.
"But," Spike continued, "I can't be with you unless you, uh, untie me. Could you do that for your d-dark prince?" His nervousness caused him to stutter, his lies evident.
Drusilla's eyes narrowed, and she pulled away. "You're lying," she uttered, her voice cold, "They were right . . . told me all, I didn't listen, but I heard . . . the signs pointing me to . . . to -her-."
His stomach jumped up to his throat at the realization that she knew everything. 'Ludicrous, me thinking that she wouldn't know. She always knew my secrets, even if I tried to hide 'em.'
"I'm here to reclaim you." She stated it as if it were fact. "They told me to reclaim you, make you love me again, make you come home." Drusilla looked at him, her eyes pleading. "Come home."
He sighed loudly. "I can't, pet," he said, trying his best to sound remorseful, "This -is- home. Not the factory, of course, but Sunnydale. I've lived here too long just to . . . I've got a cushy place in the cemetery, I've got friends - well, acquaintances, really - and I've got things to do. Not that I wouldn't love to go with you, but I just . . . can't."
She pulled away from him, turning so he was facing her backside.
"You can't because you love her."
"That's not the only reason, luv," he said, trying to calm her.
"I can fix it," she said, her voice suddenly filled with hope. Spikes heart sunk to the bottom of his chest; this definitely wasn't something he wanted to hear.
"F-fix it how?" he asked, although he was dreading the answer.
"I can make it better . . . rid you of that thing you feel for her. I can." Turning back to him, he noticed she was holding a small, clear bottle filled with water. Holy water.
"I can burn it out."
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To be continued . . .
Feedback: Oui, sil vous plait! Thanks for all the great comments.
Author's Note: 'Hiya gang, and welcome to another installment of: The Spike and Buffy Show! He's a bleached bloodsucker, she's a bitchy Slayer, and together they're wacky as hell. He loves her so; she just doesn't know, but something 'bout him rings her bell. It's the Spike and Buffy . . . the we love Spuffy, the Spike and Buffy sho-o-o-w!' Erm . . . yeah, just ignore that. Emily, to answer your question, the last chapter was called 'Marie Antoinette' because of Willow's line: "And she said: let them eat cake" (or something to that measure). Honestly, I thought I was being clever . . . too vague, I guess. All right, to recap, I left you guys at a cliffhanger. Again. It's mean, I know, but it has to be done. Well, not really, but I like doing it. I'm a tease, I am.
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Buffy walked down the cemetery's muddy path, her steps light to match her mood. Her heart was pounding in anticipation, an idiotic grin plastered on her face. She knew that she shouldn't be that excited, that it wasn't that big a deal.
'But it is!' she thought 'It's patrolling. Okay, so I do that every day, but I've never patrolled with Spike before! I mean, yeah, he can't hurt any demons or dust any vamps, but he's there for . . . moral support. When he offered to go patrolling with me, what was I supposed to say? No? Besides, 4 out of 5 Slayer recommend it, so it has to be good. Maybe if some of them had had more support, they wouldn't have ended up so . . . dead. And, yeah, I died, but I didn't -stay- that way; and that's what's important, right?'
A massive crypt loomed before her, and Buffy stopped in her tracks. She knew that it was Spike's place; there was no doubt in her mind. She lifted her leg to kick the door in, but paused, and lowered it.
'I think he's earned this.'
Knocking on the door gently, Buffy waited patiently to be let in. And waited. After a few minutes had passed, she knocked again, this time faster and more impatient than before. Realizing that he wasn't going to open the door for her, Buffy frowned with frustration.
"Spike, I'm coming in!" she hollered, slamming it open with a swift kick. A loud "crack" boomed throughout the residence, as the cement of the door splintered from the abuse it had received.
Buffy scanned the crypt, finding it empty. Her mood soured; she wasn't in the mood for games. "Oh, Spike, look at the poor, little door, she called out with mock sorrow, "I must have kicked it too hard. And if you don't stop playing hide-and-seek, I just might have to do that to your face."
She waited, hands on hips, for a reply; she was tired of messing around. When none came, a small tinge of worry mixed in with her anger, as she searched the room to find him.
"Spike, where are you? Look this isn't funny; I wasn't kidding around when I said that door thing earlier! Fine, I'll just have to go patrolling without you." She turned to leave when something in the dusty recliner next to her caught her eye. A familiar leather duster was draped over the chair.
'His duster? Why would Spike leave his duster? He never goes anywhere without it; it's like his security blanket or something.'
Buffy started to walk over to it when she nearly tripped over a coffee table lying on the floor. It had been knocked over from its original position (she doubted that Spike kept it on its side); the nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach grew considerably. Stepping over the table, her boots crunched on something on the floor. Bending over, Buffy picked up the ceramic shards that were littering the ground. She wrinkled her nose in disgust when she found that they were covered in a sticky red fluid . . . blood. Rubbing the liquid from some of the shards, she read the words printed there. One piece said: "Kiss the" and the others fit together to spell: "librarian".
'Giles' mug? Spike must have taken it from his house when he left. But why would it be on the floor, and . . .'
A puddle of blood was cooling on the floor, and she dipped her finger into what she figured were remnants of Spikes dinner. It was still warm.
'I don't like this . . . Spike wouldn't make a patrolling date and just leave without saying anything. The duster, the table, the mug . . . it's all so suspicious. Something's wrong here . . . and I'm gonna find out what.'
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Spike groaned, shifting around on his bed in an attempt to find a comfortable position. He had had that dream again, where the vampires come into his crypt and attack him, and because of it he hadn't slept well all night. Besides that, he had a pounding headache. He rolled onto his back, surprised when the chill of concrete met his exposed flesh. 'Did I fall off the bed again?' he wondered, slowly opening his weary eyes. Various machines of all kinds, surrounded by scraps of metal, met his gaze.
He sat bolt upright from the floor once he realized where he was. The factory. 'It wasn't a dream . . . 'twas a dream that it was a dream. Wish I could keep these things straight.' The memories of that night came rushing back to him, and he cringed. They had come into his crypt, when he was nice and relaxed, 6 or 7 of them. He had tried to make a run for it, but they had caught him, having the advantage of strength in numbers. He struggled, they bashed him over the head again, and then . . . 'I woke up here'.
Glancing around the room, her noticed that it was empty. 'Maybe I can escape,' he thought, although he wasn't too eager to find out what they would do if they caught him in the act. Standing up quickly, he started to walk away . . . but found himself being pulled back. Tugging at his hands and legs, he realized that he had been chained to the wall.
'Why didn't I notice that before? Guess you could chalk it up to the massive head wound I've got . . . they could've least tried to hit a -different- spot this time,' he thought, touching the bump on his skull gingerly. When he put his hand back down, he noticed that his fingers were red and sticky with blood. 'It's a wonder I even know my own name right now . . . coulda got internal damage or whatnot.'
Sitting back down on the concrete, Spike resigned himself to the fact that he would, indeed, be forced to wait it out for the time being . . . until whoever it was that was holding him hostage decided to make their presence known.
He didn't have to wait long.
A door to his right opened with a creak, and he turned his head to watch as vampires started filing in. A lump formed in his throat as he sat, waiting for them to finish so he could accurately judge the number he would be facing. The door finally shut, and Spike's eyes trailed over the bodies in the room. Six . . . ten . . . twelve . . . maybe twenty or so total, all of them minions, it seemed. Being a master vampire, he knew power when he saw it; there wasn't enough power in the lot of them to fill a thimble. He couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed that fledglings had taken him down. William the Bloody, 120-year-old vampire and ex-Scourge of Europe . . . reduced to a sniveling waste of a demon with a nasty headache. How quickly things change.
The minions stood about, fixing and sorting things, talking amongst themselves. Watching them with a wary eye, he tried to catch a glimpse of what it was they were fussing over, trying to judge exactly how much danger he was in. They seemed oblivious to his presence, working quickly to prepare -something- for their master. Spike sighed inwardly, feeling a twinge of longing.
'I was like that, once . . . dozens of followers that wanted nothing but to fulfill my every whim, on their knees to serve me. ME, a master vampire. I was feared and respected by all that I came across . . . now I can't even strike fear in the heart of a sodding kitten. So here's a question that begs answering: who would want me? Pathetic, worthless shell of a demon that can't hurt a bloody fly . . . One of those military gits, maybe, but a vampire? Makes no sense.'
A hushed reverence fell over the crowd of vampires as their master entered the room. They stood aside as she walked by, parting the like the sea itself. Spike watched from the floor, trying to get a better look at who it was . . . if he would even recognize her. He caught a glimpse of long, brunette hair, and a strange feeling of familiarity washed over him.
'That looks like . . .'
"Drusilla," he whispered, his strength lost at the mere sight of her.
Pushing her minions from her path, she walked over to him, her steps graceful. Clapping her hands, she signaled for her followers to leave the room. Panicked relief swept over Spike; he knew that she wouldn't kill him . . . for now . . . but she probably wouldn't be too happy to find out what he'd been doing for the past few months. Not happy at all.
"Spike," she replied in the lilting tone he had grown so accustomed to. Lowering herself to her knees, she kneeled in front of him, taking his face in her cold, bony hands. He shuddered inwardly, and pulled himself from her touch. Frowning, Drusilla grabbed his hands in hers, pressing them to her bosom. "You were lost," she continued, peering up at him, "I was searching for you. Following the signs."
"Signs, yes," he murmured, gazing into the muddy blackness of her eyes, "Gotta have signs. W-here were you, all of this time? Looking for me?" He watched her press his hands closer to her chest, as if she wanted to pull him in with her, making them one. Spike forced himself not to pull away, although his hands ached from her grip. He didn't want to upset her.
"All the kingdom was lost for want of . . . a knight," she said, her eyes glazed over, "My black knight, my prince. The stars told me you were lost; they don't lie, as is accustomed. Pixies whispered things to me, about you, about everything. They told me to find you, to come for you . . . you were need me."
"Actually, um," he cleared his throat, "yes. I-I do need you. Very, very badly."
Her eyes shone with happiness at his words, and he couldn't help but feel the smallest pang of guilt.
"But," Spike continued, "I can't be with you unless you, uh, untie me. Could you do that for your d-dark prince?" His nervousness caused him to stutter, his lies evident.
Drusilla's eyes narrowed, and she pulled away. "You're lying," she uttered, her voice cold, "They were right . . . told me all, I didn't listen, but I heard . . . the signs pointing me to . . . to -her-."
His stomach jumped up to his throat at the realization that she knew everything. 'Ludicrous, me thinking that she wouldn't know. She always knew my secrets, even if I tried to hide 'em.'
"I'm here to reclaim you." She stated it as if it were fact. "They told me to reclaim you, make you love me again, make you come home." Drusilla looked at him, her eyes pleading. "Come home."
He sighed loudly. "I can't, pet," he said, trying his best to sound remorseful, "This -is- home. Not the factory, of course, but Sunnydale. I've lived here too long just to . . . I've got a cushy place in the cemetery, I've got friends - well, acquaintances, really - and I've got things to do. Not that I wouldn't love to go with you, but I just . . . can't."
She pulled away from him, turning so he was facing her backside.
"You can't because you love her."
"That's not the only reason, luv," he said, trying to calm her.
"I can fix it," she said, her voice suddenly filled with hope. Spikes heart sunk to the bottom of his chest; this definitely wasn't something he wanted to hear.
"F-fix it how?" he asked, although he was dreading the answer.
"I can make it better . . . rid you of that thing you feel for her. I can." Turning back to him, he noticed she was holding a small, clear bottle filled with water. Holy water.
"I can burn it out."
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To be continued . . .