Buffy/Spike fanfiction [6/02, revised 5/03] Post season 6-Sequel to
AWAITING (Originally I was going to leave 'Awaiting' as is, but because of
popular demand and because I wanted to see how this would play out, I've
decided to finish it. My deepest thank you's to everyone who liked
'Awaiting.' This one, I'm not too happy about. 3rd in works. All characters
belong to Whedon and ME)
STAY, UNTIL THE SUN RISES: HOMEWARD
Hong Kong is luminous at night. The lights are busy in an array of bright colors, as if the stars above lost touch of black and fell helplessly on to the attractive city.
From the dock, Spike watched those lights smile at him as they shimmered in the water, and he wondered if the water would too catch his image with that same affection.
He pulled himself out of useless wonderment, dismissing it away by flicking his still lit cigarette into the glitter of unfair waters.
Taking a final glace at the city of firecrackers, he turned his back on it, headed towards the old and broken ship that would transport him to...where was it going? He didn't care. He'd go anywhere but not Sunnydale. He wanted to return, but not yet. Not until he'd make sense of everything.
The pain that was born in Africa was far from being forgotten. Since then, it grew to a restless storm inside his chest, twisting in his gut. Emotions invaded him, the essence of an unwanted and welcomed stranger that is his newly earned soul.
Dominating was guilt of his past century wrongs he committed against humanity. They haunted him.
Even has he boarded the ship, the stench of vomit poisoning the air reminded him of a time long ago when he would have reveled at the odor of pending death or illness of others.
But now, as he dodged the traffic of men carrying crates and nets of fish while squabbling in their Mandarin language, he was repulsed by it and his former actions.
If only he could erase the past and bring justice to those he victimized. That impossible, instead his misdeeds came back to torture, his regrets mercilessly punishing.
He escaped the above stench when he found a dingy but vacant cabin. The walls and floors were grimy and creaking at every movement of his steps. In the corners, water leaked, forming puddles with tiny critters swimming inside.
He let out a sad sigh, then slowly slid down the wall he leaned against, eventually taking a seat on the dusty floor.
The only window faced him from across the room. Soon, the sun would rise from behind the filthy glass.
*********
His mind stirred, dreaming of a happiness only dreams can create.
It was of her, the Chosen One, the vampire Slayer, the protector of the world.
But to him, she was only Buffy. His lady.
They lay next to each other in his bed they know so well, bounded, raw and naked, in a white cotton sheet that held more than just their secrets. Their eyes seemed to float like waterfall mist, lingering and light as emotions crash deep then flow elegantly free. They exchanged gazes and time was meaningless.
A vanilla scent filled him, irresistible yet softly pulling him into another world where she only exists. He assumed the aroma wandered from her hair, golden, spread against the white pillow like rays of sun.
Just when he couldn't imagine the moment any more perfect, her any more beautiful...
"I love you."
The words drifted from her lips. Effortlessly. Naturally. Meant to be. From her heart to his.
She lifted herself, her breasts unrestrained from the cotton on to the naked of her lover's chest.
"I love you."
Again, you make my heart beat.
"I love you."
Her breath hit his mouth, igniting his anticipation of receiving the softness of her lips, the tenderness of her kiss. The offering of herself.
As her mouth fell to his, their lips moving like delicate silk flying sinuously in the wind, Spike's dream slowly faded to a gradual white light, sending him back into a dazed consciousness.
"Buffy..." He called out in an invisible breath, mind still envying the fantasy, refusing reality.
But the light grew brighter, penetrating through his lids. And as he opened them, first squinting in caution, felt his face begin to sizzle.
When it occurred to him that he was laying in direct sun light from the window, he scrambled up yelling and frantically patting and smacking the burn away.
In that sudden and short moment of panic, he'd almost forgotten where he was, or what he is. The things he'd done. It was even unknown to him how many weeks went by.
He slumped in a corner and felt a growling hunger he tried so hard to ignore. His stomach had been neglected for days since the kitchen was fresh out of anything edible, making the crew live only on soggy rice, and leaving Spike famished.
He'd hear rats scouring in the weak walls, but knowing that he'd see Buffy, maybe-just maybe, even touch her again, he refused to put his mouth to vermin.
So he decided to stay perfectly still, sitting on the floor against the wall he made his home, while the beam of day slanted across the floor.
But since his guilt surpassed his hunger, he shut his eyes, and a century of his undead crimes flashed repeatedly in his mind until they'd become as vividly alive as the day--or night--he committed them. The screams of his victims were deafening, sharp as the fangs of his other self.
He remembered when he was still called William, committing his first evil act as a vampire. It was after being borne from Drusilla in that dingy alley in London, they returned to the party he fled from, and ruthlessly murdered almost every one of the guests. He recalled his first taste. The blood of Cecily--his unrequited love who proclaimed she was above him-- tasted like wine.
Spike's mouth twitched as the tears were rising from the deep sadness in the pit of his gut. He closed his eyes, and was again brought back to the past, to that night by the railroad where he acquired his name. He could still feel the warm blood splattered all over his mouth and on his hands. It was blood of the innocent, warm as their once beating hearts that made it even tastier. He recalled the sinister grin stretched across his face as he looked down on the dozens of lifeless bodies laying on the grassy knoll, and the satisfaction he felt for pounding their heads in with railroad spikes.
He extended his arm towards the slant of sun light by his feet, kept it there as it sizzled and burned, the crackling sound of his pale skin sharpening. His hand shook of pain, and when it became unbearable, a sob broke in his throat and he pulled his hand back, cradling it to his chest. Rocking himself, he wept in endless sorrow until he fell asleep again drained.
It would be a long journey until home.
STAY, UNTIL THE SUN RISES: HOMEWARD
Hong Kong is luminous at night. The lights are busy in an array of bright colors, as if the stars above lost touch of black and fell helplessly on to the attractive city.
From the dock, Spike watched those lights smile at him as they shimmered in the water, and he wondered if the water would too catch his image with that same affection.
He pulled himself out of useless wonderment, dismissing it away by flicking his still lit cigarette into the glitter of unfair waters.
Taking a final glace at the city of firecrackers, he turned his back on it, headed towards the old and broken ship that would transport him to...where was it going? He didn't care. He'd go anywhere but not Sunnydale. He wanted to return, but not yet. Not until he'd make sense of everything.
The pain that was born in Africa was far from being forgotten. Since then, it grew to a restless storm inside his chest, twisting in his gut. Emotions invaded him, the essence of an unwanted and welcomed stranger that is his newly earned soul.
Dominating was guilt of his past century wrongs he committed against humanity. They haunted him.
Even has he boarded the ship, the stench of vomit poisoning the air reminded him of a time long ago when he would have reveled at the odor of pending death or illness of others.
But now, as he dodged the traffic of men carrying crates and nets of fish while squabbling in their Mandarin language, he was repulsed by it and his former actions.
If only he could erase the past and bring justice to those he victimized. That impossible, instead his misdeeds came back to torture, his regrets mercilessly punishing.
He escaped the above stench when he found a dingy but vacant cabin. The walls and floors were grimy and creaking at every movement of his steps. In the corners, water leaked, forming puddles with tiny critters swimming inside.
He let out a sad sigh, then slowly slid down the wall he leaned against, eventually taking a seat on the dusty floor.
The only window faced him from across the room. Soon, the sun would rise from behind the filthy glass.
*********
His mind stirred, dreaming of a happiness only dreams can create.
It was of her, the Chosen One, the vampire Slayer, the protector of the world.
But to him, she was only Buffy. His lady.
They lay next to each other in his bed they know so well, bounded, raw and naked, in a white cotton sheet that held more than just their secrets. Their eyes seemed to float like waterfall mist, lingering and light as emotions crash deep then flow elegantly free. They exchanged gazes and time was meaningless.
A vanilla scent filled him, irresistible yet softly pulling him into another world where she only exists. He assumed the aroma wandered from her hair, golden, spread against the white pillow like rays of sun.
Just when he couldn't imagine the moment any more perfect, her any more beautiful...
"I love you."
The words drifted from her lips. Effortlessly. Naturally. Meant to be. From her heart to his.
She lifted herself, her breasts unrestrained from the cotton on to the naked of her lover's chest.
"I love you."
Again, you make my heart beat.
"I love you."
Her breath hit his mouth, igniting his anticipation of receiving the softness of her lips, the tenderness of her kiss. The offering of herself.
As her mouth fell to his, their lips moving like delicate silk flying sinuously in the wind, Spike's dream slowly faded to a gradual white light, sending him back into a dazed consciousness.
"Buffy..." He called out in an invisible breath, mind still envying the fantasy, refusing reality.
But the light grew brighter, penetrating through his lids. And as he opened them, first squinting in caution, felt his face begin to sizzle.
When it occurred to him that he was laying in direct sun light from the window, he scrambled up yelling and frantically patting and smacking the burn away.
In that sudden and short moment of panic, he'd almost forgotten where he was, or what he is. The things he'd done. It was even unknown to him how many weeks went by.
He slumped in a corner and felt a growling hunger he tried so hard to ignore. His stomach had been neglected for days since the kitchen was fresh out of anything edible, making the crew live only on soggy rice, and leaving Spike famished.
He'd hear rats scouring in the weak walls, but knowing that he'd see Buffy, maybe-just maybe, even touch her again, he refused to put his mouth to vermin.
So he decided to stay perfectly still, sitting on the floor against the wall he made his home, while the beam of day slanted across the floor.
But since his guilt surpassed his hunger, he shut his eyes, and a century of his undead crimes flashed repeatedly in his mind until they'd become as vividly alive as the day--or night--he committed them. The screams of his victims were deafening, sharp as the fangs of his other self.
He remembered when he was still called William, committing his first evil act as a vampire. It was after being borne from Drusilla in that dingy alley in London, they returned to the party he fled from, and ruthlessly murdered almost every one of the guests. He recalled his first taste. The blood of Cecily--his unrequited love who proclaimed she was above him-- tasted like wine.
Spike's mouth twitched as the tears were rising from the deep sadness in the pit of his gut. He closed his eyes, and was again brought back to the past, to that night by the railroad where he acquired his name. He could still feel the warm blood splattered all over his mouth and on his hands. It was blood of the innocent, warm as their once beating hearts that made it even tastier. He recalled the sinister grin stretched across his face as he looked down on the dozens of lifeless bodies laying on the grassy knoll, and the satisfaction he felt for pounding their heads in with railroad spikes.
He extended his arm towards the slant of sun light by his feet, kept it there as it sizzled and burned, the crackling sound of his pale skin sharpening. His hand shook of pain, and when it became unbearable, a sob broke in his throat and he pulled his hand back, cradling it to his chest. Rocking himself, he wept in endless sorrow until he fell asleep again drained.
It would be a long journey until home.