A/N: This is my first *serious* BVtS fic (my true first is a crossover comedy called "South Hellmouth," plug plug), so be nice, please. Major spoilage for up to episode 7.06, 'Him'. Also, I want to warn you that I have an advanced case of Spanderitis, and that may come across in my writing. ::sigh::
According to BuffyGuide.com, the weapon that Buffy used could not have been the same M136 AT4 rocket launcher that they used against the Mayor. (Apparently, that was a one-time use disposable thing. BuffyGuide.com theorises that it was a SMAW.)
The dialogue isn't going to all be spot on. Nine bad words within for those who are counting.
****
"The Jacket" [a buffy the vampire slayer fanfiction by SchizoAuthoress]
What does it say about our current situation when I, Xander L. Harris, vampire-hating demon-magnet Scooby donut boy, actually look forward to spending time with Spike? Granted, Spike is newly souled-up and now pretty insane, therefore a lot quieter--when he's not screaming about the invisible Ghosts of William the Bloody's Past--but he's still Spike. Still an evil undead, nevermind the chip and the soul working together to defang the one-time Big Bad.
But crazy, conscience-toting, specter-seeing Spike is a huge improvement over the spell-induced jealousy and love declarations being flung around by Buffy and Dawn. I swear, estrogen levels were rising to the point where I felt like slapping on some lipstick and declaring that I, too, had fallen prey to RJ Brooks's ill-gotten charms. Just so I wasn't left out. So anyway, good on Willow for giving me--us, Spike and I--an excuse to get out of the house.
****
The door swings open and...oh, wow. Lance Brooks, he of high school football fame and chewing-gum-to-hair torture, looks like complete crap. Seems like those warnings I gave Spike on the way over don't even apply anymore.
It's pitiful, really. I mean, back in high school he was extremely popular--and cruel, but that kinda goes with the territory--and seemed to be going places. Now, he's a fast food grillmonkey proud to be in the management program of some rinky-dink Sunnydale pizza pit. Even *I'm* doing better than he is, a lot better.
I question the guy, and Spike wanders a bit; I can see him eyeing the porcelain figurines on one of the particleboard shelves, and then I see his hand, white as porcelain itself, reach out and turn an angel around so that it had its back to him. But back to the interrogation, something definitely doesn't fit with RJ.
"Used to be all into comic books, Model UN... geek stuff. No offense, Xander."
I deny that any was taken. Okay, so pre-high school RJ used to be some kind of supergeek on level with me or maybe even Andrew and Jonathan. He wrote poetry too, and I can see faint contempt in Spike's icy eyes as Lance mentions this. At RJ, for writing the poems, or at RJ's meathead of an older sibling disdaining poetry?
I realize it suddenly. The jacket! The stupid Sunnydale High letterman's jacket. It was Lance's, and he had girls falling for him all over the place because he was a big strong prettyboy jock. He gives it to RJ--who now has girls falling for him all over the place because he's a big strong prettyboy jock--and promptly becomes a reclusive loner pizza store manager.
Gotta go. Gotta find the jacket, gotta get rid of the thing.
****
Okay, not good. Upon entering Casa del Summers, I get the sense of a definite tingle in the air. Not a nice one like 'my feet fell asleep and now the feeling's coming back,' or 'just came in from the cold to a warm room' type tingle. More like a 'Willow's got the magical mojo a-workin' again' tingle. Spike and I trade a glance which reveals that he feels it too; s'got his hackles up, so to speak.
We race up the stairs and now I can hear Willow, mid-chant and clearly warming up for a big league spell. Oh, shit. Oh, shit shit shit. And let me repeat in case you didn't catch that: 'Oh, shit!' She's got the door open. Candles are lit, mystical stones are glowing, and yeah, there's the magic energy, all visible and scary. Quick prayer that this won't incinerate me on the spot and then I lift the little dish of crystals from its place.
"What are you doing? Now I'll have to start the spell over!" Willow cries.
I demand, "What were you trying to do, Willow?"
"I'm proving that I love RJ the most!" Willow explains. Like that clears things up.
"Will, honey… RJ's a guy." I inform her, but I also have the sick, sinking feeling that Willow intended to emasculate the guy in the worst way--idiotspeak translation, that her spell was basically 'penis go poof, here's some breasts and a uterus for ya.'
"I did notice that, yeah! It's why I'm doing my spell, because, you know, he doesn't have to be!" Willow retorts. Score one for Xandman; I know my girl Willow. And I also know Buffy. If she and the others got into a bet about 'who loves RJ the most,' Buffy must be planning something with major slayage.
"Buffy's going to kill Principal Wood."
Again: 'Oh, shit.'
****
Driving over to Sunnydale High, I tell Spike that he had to go in after Buffy. After all, if she's gone completely Slayerific on us, Spike's got the best chance of stopping her.
"Sure, pet. I'll show 'em...not so Big Bad now...gonna do good, gonna *stop* somebody killin', gonna do good..." Spike replies in that *charmingly* vague way he's had lately.
"Right. Good Spike," I mutter, playing along.
****
When we arrive, Willow immediately buckles down to a locator spell. We're not worried about Anya; a vengeance demon can take care of herself, but Dawn is a different story. Spike vanishes into the main building and is gone for five minutes. Those are five minutes in which I, previously and proudly declared vampire-hating demon-magnet Scooby donut boy, worry that Buffy has murdered her boss and turned Spike into dustpan fodder.
But I certainly didn't expect Spike to come running out with a fucking *rocket launcher* in his arms. Not just any rocket launcher either. It's a 72mm Shoulder-launched Multi-purpose Assault Weapon...a SMAW. Those things were originally designed to destroy enemy bunkers and fortifications, and can penetrate up to eighteen feet of sandbags. And Buffy was going to use *that* on Mr. Wood. And while I'm sure that such a scenario has been the fantasy of many an authority-hating high-schooler...
Why, oh why did the Soldier have to show her how to use that AT4?
****
"Figured out the cause of the love spell, stopped Willow from gender-switching a guy, prevented Principal Wood's demise via military-issue assault weapon, got to Dawn in time to save her from being flattened by a train...we're four-for-four, Spike. Wanna keep it up?" I ask.
"Doin' good..." Spike mumbles. I nod. The vampire has a point.
"Doing *really* good," I correct him, "In fact, doing great. So now we're got to figure out a way to get that letterman jacket and destroy it."
We're both silent after that. Spike is tracking down Lover Boy, and I'm thinking about how to get rid of this athletic version of the Golden Girdle. Then Spike starts singing, "Ashes, ashes, all fall down..."
Despite the rather mean thought that Spike might be channeling his insane ex-girlfriend Drusilla, I realize that he's given me an idea. Why is it that crazy Spike is so much more helpful than when the Bleached Wonder is lucid? "I've got it!" I tell him, "We'll steal the jacket and burn it!"
****
Does the boy have no decency? He's even targeting a crippled girl! I glare at RJ and his crutch-supported victim for a moment, and then ask Spike, "You know the plan, right?"
"Right," he breathes. The Hyena in me sense and appreciates the killer instinct in him, and likes the knowledge that tonight, a brother of the hunt is with me. Him. Us.
Anyway.
The big plan is: bum-rush RJ, pull off his jacket, and run like hell. For once, the plan is carried out without a hitch, so maybe simplicity is the key. And there's some totally juvenile wild thrill about running away and leaving that moronic jockboy standing there stunned, wondering what in the world *that* was.
We've got the stupid jacket, and I'm laughing, and Spike's laughing too--at RJ, who really does deserve every bit of snarkiness that Spike can dredge up--and I could swear that everything is okay, just for now.
END
A/N: That ended up a lot better than I thought it would. Only slight revisions from the original that took me two hours to write. Good on me, I suppose. But you tell me! Was it okay? Did it suck? Am I stupid? C'mon, reveal the inner workings of your mind to me...all you have to do is submit a review.
According to BuffyGuide.com, the weapon that Buffy used could not have been the same M136 AT4 rocket launcher that they used against the Mayor. (Apparently, that was a one-time use disposable thing. BuffyGuide.com theorises that it was a SMAW.)
The dialogue isn't going to all be spot on. Nine bad words within for those who are counting.
****
"The Jacket" [a buffy the vampire slayer fanfiction by SchizoAuthoress]
What does it say about our current situation when I, Xander L. Harris, vampire-hating demon-magnet Scooby donut boy, actually look forward to spending time with Spike? Granted, Spike is newly souled-up and now pretty insane, therefore a lot quieter--when he's not screaming about the invisible Ghosts of William the Bloody's Past--but he's still Spike. Still an evil undead, nevermind the chip and the soul working together to defang the one-time Big Bad.
But crazy, conscience-toting, specter-seeing Spike is a huge improvement over the spell-induced jealousy and love declarations being flung around by Buffy and Dawn. I swear, estrogen levels were rising to the point where I felt like slapping on some lipstick and declaring that I, too, had fallen prey to RJ Brooks's ill-gotten charms. Just so I wasn't left out. So anyway, good on Willow for giving me--us, Spike and I--an excuse to get out of the house.
****
The door swings open and...oh, wow. Lance Brooks, he of high school football fame and chewing-gum-to-hair torture, looks like complete crap. Seems like those warnings I gave Spike on the way over don't even apply anymore.
It's pitiful, really. I mean, back in high school he was extremely popular--and cruel, but that kinda goes with the territory--and seemed to be going places. Now, he's a fast food grillmonkey proud to be in the management program of some rinky-dink Sunnydale pizza pit. Even *I'm* doing better than he is, a lot better.
I question the guy, and Spike wanders a bit; I can see him eyeing the porcelain figurines on one of the particleboard shelves, and then I see his hand, white as porcelain itself, reach out and turn an angel around so that it had its back to him. But back to the interrogation, something definitely doesn't fit with RJ.
"Used to be all into comic books, Model UN... geek stuff. No offense, Xander."
I deny that any was taken. Okay, so pre-high school RJ used to be some kind of supergeek on level with me or maybe even Andrew and Jonathan. He wrote poetry too, and I can see faint contempt in Spike's icy eyes as Lance mentions this. At RJ, for writing the poems, or at RJ's meathead of an older sibling disdaining poetry?
I realize it suddenly. The jacket! The stupid Sunnydale High letterman's jacket. It was Lance's, and he had girls falling for him all over the place because he was a big strong prettyboy jock. He gives it to RJ--who now has girls falling for him all over the place because he's a big strong prettyboy jock--and promptly becomes a reclusive loner pizza store manager.
Gotta go. Gotta find the jacket, gotta get rid of the thing.
****
Okay, not good. Upon entering Casa del Summers, I get the sense of a definite tingle in the air. Not a nice one like 'my feet fell asleep and now the feeling's coming back,' or 'just came in from the cold to a warm room' type tingle. More like a 'Willow's got the magical mojo a-workin' again' tingle. Spike and I trade a glance which reveals that he feels it too; s'got his hackles up, so to speak.
We race up the stairs and now I can hear Willow, mid-chant and clearly warming up for a big league spell. Oh, shit. Oh, shit shit shit. And let me repeat in case you didn't catch that: 'Oh, shit!' She's got the door open. Candles are lit, mystical stones are glowing, and yeah, there's the magic energy, all visible and scary. Quick prayer that this won't incinerate me on the spot and then I lift the little dish of crystals from its place.
"What are you doing? Now I'll have to start the spell over!" Willow cries.
I demand, "What were you trying to do, Willow?"
"I'm proving that I love RJ the most!" Willow explains. Like that clears things up.
"Will, honey… RJ's a guy." I inform her, but I also have the sick, sinking feeling that Willow intended to emasculate the guy in the worst way--idiotspeak translation, that her spell was basically 'penis go poof, here's some breasts and a uterus for ya.'
"I did notice that, yeah! It's why I'm doing my spell, because, you know, he doesn't have to be!" Willow retorts. Score one for Xandman; I know my girl Willow. And I also know Buffy. If she and the others got into a bet about 'who loves RJ the most,' Buffy must be planning something with major slayage.
"Buffy's going to kill Principal Wood."
Again: 'Oh, shit.'
****
Driving over to Sunnydale High, I tell Spike that he had to go in after Buffy. After all, if she's gone completely Slayerific on us, Spike's got the best chance of stopping her.
"Sure, pet. I'll show 'em...not so Big Bad now...gonna do good, gonna *stop* somebody killin', gonna do good..." Spike replies in that *charmingly* vague way he's had lately.
"Right. Good Spike," I mutter, playing along.
****
When we arrive, Willow immediately buckles down to a locator spell. We're not worried about Anya; a vengeance demon can take care of herself, but Dawn is a different story. Spike vanishes into the main building and is gone for five minutes. Those are five minutes in which I, previously and proudly declared vampire-hating demon-magnet Scooby donut boy, worry that Buffy has murdered her boss and turned Spike into dustpan fodder.
But I certainly didn't expect Spike to come running out with a fucking *rocket launcher* in his arms. Not just any rocket launcher either. It's a 72mm Shoulder-launched Multi-purpose Assault Weapon...a SMAW. Those things were originally designed to destroy enemy bunkers and fortifications, and can penetrate up to eighteen feet of sandbags. And Buffy was going to use *that* on Mr. Wood. And while I'm sure that such a scenario has been the fantasy of many an authority-hating high-schooler...
Why, oh why did the Soldier have to show her how to use that AT4?
****
"Figured out the cause of the love spell, stopped Willow from gender-switching a guy, prevented Principal Wood's demise via military-issue assault weapon, got to Dawn in time to save her from being flattened by a train...we're four-for-four, Spike. Wanna keep it up?" I ask.
"Doin' good..." Spike mumbles. I nod. The vampire has a point.
"Doing *really* good," I correct him, "In fact, doing great. So now we're got to figure out a way to get that letterman jacket and destroy it."
We're both silent after that. Spike is tracking down Lover Boy, and I'm thinking about how to get rid of this athletic version of the Golden Girdle. Then Spike starts singing, "Ashes, ashes, all fall down..."
Despite the rather mean thought that Spike might be channeling his insane ex-girlfriend Drusilla, I realize that he's given me an idea. Why is it that crazy Spike is so much more helpful than when the Bleached Wonder is lucid? "I've got it!" I tell him, "We'll steal the jacket and burn it!"
****
Does the boy have no decency? He's even targeting a crippled girl! I glare at RJ and his crutch-supported victim for a moment, and then ask Spike, "You know the plan, right?"
"Right," he breathes. The Hyena in me sense and appreciates the killer instinct in him, and likes the knowledge that tonight, a brother of the hunt is with me. Him. Us.
Anyway.
The big plan is: bum-rush RJ, pull off his jacket, and run like hell. For once, the plan is carried out without a hitch, so maybe simplicity is the key. And there's some totally juvenile wild thrill about running away and leaving that moronic jockboy standing there stunned, wondering what in the world *that* was.
We've got the stupid jacket, and I'm laughing, and Spike's laughing too--at RJ, who really does deserve every bit of snarkiness that Spike can dredge up--and I could swear that everything is okay, just for now.
END
A/N: That ended up a lot better than I thought it would. Only slight revisions from the original that took me two hours to write. Good on me, I suppose. But you tell me! Was it okay? Did it suck? Am I stupid? C'mon, reveal the inner workings of your mind to me...all you have to do is submit a review.