Unprecedented - Chapter 3
By Lyns
DISCLAIMER - I DON'T OWN THEM, MORE'S THE PITY.
#*#*#*#*#*#*#
It was noon on Sunday before Spike awoke from his drink induced stupor, having spent all of the previous night trying in vain to make the empty feeling inside of him disappear through the use of copious amounts of alcohol and loud 70's punk music.
It didn't work. Not even a little bit.
And now he knew there was no point putting it off - he had to go see Buffy, apologize for what he did. Even if he already knew she would never forgive him, he still felt he had to do it.
Only problem being that the tunnels in his crypt didn't quite make it all the way to her house on Revello drive, so his only option that didn't involve risking turning into a big pile of bleach blond ash was to wait the 6 hours until nightfall, hoping he wouldn't go insane in that time.
Being without Buffy was too much; he couldn't cope. It was different in Africa; there the vast desert before you could make a man momentarily forget that there was any other world beyond the horizon line. It made you feel a part of something bigger, something so awe inspiring that thoughts of those far away from you couldn't quite pass through the still hot air and into a persons mind easily enough to be registered.
But back here in Sunnydale, where the air smelled of lemons, like those growing in Buffy's garden, and even for a vampire looking out from the shadows, the sunlight was the same luminescent gold of her hair, not thinking about her became near impossible. Not even with the aid of good quality whisky.
The only way to appease the harrowing, endless desire he felt toward Buffy was, he felt sure, to see her. Speak to her. Anything that would satisfy this primal need for her. For her scent, her touch, the sight of those eyes he felt he could drown in. All of those things he had spent so long without and which Spike needed so badly it sometimes hurt to move without.
And so he sat in his armchair and listened to the agonizingly slow ticking of the clock in front of him until the hour finally came when he knew he could finally see her.
The sun was down and his long dead heart was almost beating at the very thought of making contact with her again.
He got up slowly, stubbed out his cigarette and moved to the door. And that was fit, he was out, free, on his way and getting closer every second, never allowing himself to imagine what he might find when he reached his destination, never pausing to consider what he might say, just following his well worn instincts as he waltzed up to her front door and knocked three times in quick succession and awaited a response.
By Lyns
DISCLAIMER - I DON'T OWN THEM, MORE'S THE PITY.
#*#*#*#*#*#*#
It was noon on Sunday before Spike awoke from his drink induced stupor, having spent all of the previous night trying in vain to make the empty feeling inside of him disappear through the use of copious amounts of alcohol and loud 70's punk music.
It didn't work. Not even a little bit.
And now he knew there was no point putting it off - he had to go see Buffy, apologize for what he did. Even if he already knew she would never forgive him, he still felt he had to do it.
Only problem being that the tunnels in his crypt didn't quite make it all the way to her house on Revello drive, so his only option that didn't involve risking turning into a big pile of bleach blond ash was to wait the 6 hours until nightfall, hoping he wouldn't go insane in that time.
Being without Buffy was too much; he couldn't cope. It was different in Africa; there the vast desert before you could make a man momentarily forget that there was any other world beyond the horizon line. It made you feel a part of something bigger, something so awe inspiring that thoughts of those far away from you couldn't quite pass through the still hot air and into a persons mind easily enough to be registered.
But back here in Sunnydale, where the air smelled of lemons, like those growing in Buffy's garden, and even for a vampire looking out from the shadows, the sunlight was the same luminescent gold of her hair, not thinking about her became near impossible. Not even with the aid of good quality whisky.
The only way to appease the harrowing, endless desire he felt toward Buffy was, he felt sure, to see her. Speak to her. Anything that would satisfy this primal need for her. For her scent, her touch, the sight of those eyes he felt he could drown in. All of those things he had spent so long without and which Spike needed so badly it sometimes hurt to move without.
And so he sat in his armchair and listened to the agonizingly slow ticking of the clock in front of him until the hour finally came when he knew he could finally see her.
The sun was down and his long dead heart was almost beating at the very thought of making contact with her again.
He got up slowly, stubbed out his cigarette and moved to the door. And that was fit, he was out, free, on his way and getting closer every second, never allowing himself to imagine what he might find when he reached his destination, never pausing to consider what he might say, just following his well worn instincts as he waltzed up to her front door and knocked three times in quick succession and awaited a response.
