Title: RETURN
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Like I could create these guys.
All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: A Spike-centric alternative ending (which you can bet will never happen) for Ep. 22 of this season, incorporating many (though not all) recent spoilers. The end of BtVS, and the beginning of The Spike Show.
SITUATIONAL SPOILERS - VERY VAGUE, BUT STILL
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
RETURN
Part 13. Much Wondering
Shadows were beginning to creep across the lawn when Spike awoke, comfortably sprawled on Buffy's bed. At first it was disorienting; it was the first time he'd slept in a bed in some time, though he wasn't exactly sure how long, and this one smelled distractingly of Buffy. As he woke more fully, he automatically checked himself for damage, a useful new habit he'd developed. At first he was rather surprised to find there was none. In fact, his only physical symptom right now was hunger.
He had not felt this relaxed in what seemed like years. Or was it really months? He literally didn't know. Time had seemed slower or faster at different stages of his recent adventures. But rest hadn't figured prominently in them, in any case. What happened was now a blur of pain, fury, and utter determination -- when thought failed, when consciousness itself failed, he had clung fast to his resolve, and to the strength of his rage. He would not be broken down, shattered, remade, or forced into a mold by anyone or anything, succeed or fail. He kept his vital aim in view, but also fought to preserve himself as himself. Perhaps that obstinacy made his trials more strenuous; he knew he had to give up something, to truly risk, but selfhood was one thing he refused to give up.
He was still trying to figure out how, specifically, he was different. He knew he must be different. He remembered the secret look of horror Angelus had worn when his soul was restored, the sick, disbelieving expression, as if he were being eaten up inside by something corrosive and shameful. Spike didn't feel anything like that. He wondered how his new friends were protecting him, and from what, exactly.
But he had noticed a peculiar, dream-like feeling; now he was beginning to suspect that this in fact was his new reality. And that it was dream-like to him simply because it had been so terribly long since he had lived without the constant, nagging craving for violence -- except in his dreams. There had always been dreams of blood and fire and death, true; not exactly nightmares, either, to one of his kind. But there had also been painful, aching dreams of his life before he was changed, his mother, his sisters, his lost commonplace mortality in the sun; beautiful, impossible dreams of some kind of love and peace with Buffy; all evanescent as smoke, brief respites that dissolved on awakening. All unrecoverable when awareness returned, and his demon soul once more hummed with its endless hunger for violence.
Not that he minded violence. In fact, he enjoyed it, even now. He was still part demon, after all -- in fact, technically he was even more of a demon, since a few vampire Watchers demonic souls were banded together with all the others now a part of him. (Right around this part of his analysis, Spike usually began to get a headache.) Of course, he was more of a -- well, more of a human, too. Sort of. But the yearning, the screaming, back of the head longing, wherever he was, whatever he did, day or night, alone or in company, that urged him to put his fist through walls and kick furniture to bits (at the very least) when even slightly thwarted -- that was gone. It left him with a strange lightness, a subconscious struggle no longer needed, a seemingly endless battle unexpectedly won. He was free.
He let himself wallow for a snug moment in the memory of Buffy's caresses, the piercingly sweet feel of his arms around her, her ardent, demanding mouth, her slight, hot little body pressed to his, her new tenderness. It was like a gate had unlocked somewhere deep within her, and a river of love and generosity now flowed freely. When he fell asleep in her arms, he felt her fingers stroking his hair so gently, her small, strong heart beating steadily where his head rested on her breast.
He hadn't anticipated this. He'd been willing to return to the Slayer's side as a companion and now a guide, and nothing more, or even to return anonymously, if that's what would truly help her. But she had greeted him with such passion it still made his chest ache to think about it, and his brain seize up with wonder.
He stretched comfortably and sat up. The warm, creamy pastels of Buffy's bedroom made him feel embarrassingly sentimental; he tried automatically to suppress it, without success. Not that he ever could. He was the most sentimental git in the world now, he supposed. In any world. A living monument to sentimentality; well, all right, a non-living monument. All this for a slip of a girl -- a blazing, golden goddess of a girl, true, but a fallible, mortal woman nevertheless. But worth it. Oh, yes.
He stood up and the stuffed pig seemed to catch his eye again. Somehow, it looked a lot friendlier now. He stretched out his hand to chuck it under the chin or something, and stopped himself just in time. God, he was turning into a poncing moron. He'd have to watch that. Instead, he ran his hands over his disordered hair, and headed downstairs. He needed to talk to Giles.
Passing the Niblet's room, and Willow's, he checked briefly with his mind and found them both still sleeping. On the staircase he caught the sound of gentle snoring from the living room -- in two keys -- and saw Xander and Anya wrapped around each other on the sofa.
Making his way to the kitchen, he heard Giles and Buffy talking through the screen door. "Who could have imagined what he would become?" Giles was saying.
Spike stepped out onto the porch behind them. "'Evening, all," he said, "any chance of a spot of dinner?"
Buffy turned, her face lighting up. Giles couldn't help being glad to see that, whatever the cause. She sprang to her feet and went to Spike, standing on tiptoe to kiss him like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I got everything you need," she said happily, going into the kitchen and starting to pull things out of cupboards.
Spike looked after her for a moment with the most unguarded expression Giles had ever seen on his face; and Giles had to admit to himself that it was heart wrenching. Poor bastard, he thought. He remembered then that it was Spike, after all, but hadn't the heart to take his sympathy back.
Spike caught his eye, and ducked his head for a moment. Then he said, "I didn't expect this, you know, Rupert. I had no idea she'd -- that she would still -- "
"She'll always surprise you," Giles said quite kindly. "You should be used to that by now."
With this unlooked-for encouragement, Spike sat next to him on the step. In a low voice, he asked Giles, "So did you tell her?"
TBC
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"That day I oft remember, when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed,
Under a shade, on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how."
Milton, Paradise Lost
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Like I could create these guys.
All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.
Feedback: Please!
Summary: A Spike-centric alternative ending (which you can bet will never happen) for Ep. 22 of this season, incorporating many (though not all) recent spoilers. The end of BtVS, and the beginning of The Spike Show.
SITUATIONAL SPOILERS - VERY VAGUE, BUT STILL
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
RETURN
Part 13. Much Wondering
Shadows were beginning to creep across the lawn when Spike awoke, comfortably sprawled on Buffy's bed. At first it was disorienting; it was the first time he'd slept in a bed in some time, though he wasn't exactly sure how long, and this one smelled distractingly of Buffy. As he woke more fully, he automatically checked himself for damage, a useful new habit he'd developed. At first he was rather surprised to find there was none. In fact, his only physical symptom right now was hunger.
He had not felt this relaxed in what seemed like years. Or was it really months? He literally didn't know. Time had seemed slower or faster at different stages of his recent adventures. But rest hadn't figured prominently in them, in any case. What happened was now a blur of pain, fury, and utter determination -- when thought failed, when consciousness itself failed, he had clung fast to his resolve, and to the strength of his rage. He would not be broken down, shattered, remade, or forced into a mold by anyone or anything, succeed or fail. He kept his vital aim in view, but also fought to preserve himself as himself. Perhaps that obstinacy made his trials more strenuous; he knew he had to give up something, to truly risk, but selfhood was one thing he refused to give up.
He was still trying to figure out how, specifically, he was different. He knew he must be different. He remembered the secret look of horror Angelus had worn when his soul was restored, the sick, disbelieving expression, as if he were being eaten up inside by something corrosive and shameful. Spike didn't feel anything like that. He wondered how his new friends were protecting him, and from what, exactly.
But he had noticed a peculiar, dream-like feeling; now he was beginning to suspect that this in fact was his new reality. And that it was dream-like to him simply because it had been so terribly long since he had lived without the constant, nagging craving for violence -- except in his dreams. There had always been dreams of blood and fire and death, true; not exactly nightmares, either, to one of his kind. But there had also been painful, aching dreams of his life before he was changed, his mother, his sisters, his lost commonplace mortality in the sun; beautiful, impossible dreams of some kind of love and peace with Buffy; all evanescent as smoke, brief respites that dissolved on awakening. All unrecoverable when awareness returned, and his demon soul once more hummed with its endless hunger for violence.
Not that he minded violence. In fact, he enjoyed it, even now. He was still part demon, after all -- in fact, technically he was even more of a demon, since a few vampire Watchers demonic souls were banded together with all the others now a part of him. (Right around this part of his analysis, Spike usually began to get a headache.) Of course, he was more of a -- well, more of a human, too. Sort of. But the yearning, the screaming, back of the head longing, wherever he was, whatever he did, day or night, alone or in company, that urged him to put his fist through walls and kick furniture to bits (at the very least) when even slightly thwarted -- that was gone. It left him with a strange lightness, a subconscious struggle no longer needed, a seemingly endless battle unexpectedly won. He was free.
He let himself wallow for a snug moment in the memory of Buffy's caresses, the piercingly sweet feel of his arms around her, her ardent, demanding mouth, her slight, hot little body pressed to his, her new tenderness. It was like a gate had unlocked somewhere deep within her, and a river of love and generosity now flowed freely. When he fell asleep in her arms, he felt her fingers stroking his hair so gently, her small, strong heart beating steadily where his head rested on her breast.
He hadn't anticipated this. He'd been willing to return to the Slayer's side as a companion and now a guide, and nothing more, or even to return anonymously, if that's what would truly help her. But she had greeted him with such passion it still made his chest ache to think about it, and his brain seize up with wonder.
He stretched comfortably and sat up. The warm, creamy pastels of Buffy's bedroom made him feel embarrassingly sentimental; he tried automatically to suppress it, without success. Not that he ever could. He was the most sentimental git in the world now, he supposed. In any world. A living monument to sentimentality; well, all right, a non-living monument. All this for a slip of a girl -- a blazing, golden goddess of a girl, true, but a fallible, mortal woman nevertheless. But worth it. Oh, yes.
He stood up and the stuffed pig seemed to catch his eye again. Somehow, it looked a lot friendlier now. He stretched out his hand to chuck it under the chin or something, and stopped himself just in time. God, he was turning into a poncing moron. He'd have to watch that. Instead, he ran his hands over his disordered hair, and headed downstairs. He needed to talk to Giles.
Passing the Niblet's room, and Willow's, he checked briefly with his mind and found them both still sleeping. On the staircase he caught the sound of gentle snoring from the living room -- in two keys -- and saw Xander and Anya wrapped around each other on the sofa.
Making his way to the kitchen, he heard Giles and Buffy talking through the screen door. "Who could have imagined what he would become?" Giles was saying.
Spike stepped out onto the porch behind them. "'Evening, all," he said, "any chance of a spot of dinner?"
Buffy turned, her face lighting up. Giles couldn't help being glad to see that, whatever the cause. She sprang to her feet and went to Spike, standing on tiptoe to kiss him like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I got everything you need," she said happily, going into the kitchen and starting to pull things out of cupboards.
Spike looked after her for a moment with the most unguarded expression Giles had ever seen on his face; and Giles had to admit to himself that it was heart wrenching. Poor bastard, he thought. He remembered then that it was Spike, after all, but hadn't the heart to take his sympathy back.
Spike caught his eye, and ducked his head for a moment. Then he said, "I didn't expect this, you know, Rupert. I had no idea she'd -- that she would still -- "
"She'll always surprise you," Giles said quite kindly. "You should be used to that by now."
With this unlooked-for encouragement, Spike sat next to him on the step. In a low voice, he asked Giles, "So did you tell her?"
TBC
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"That day I oft remember, when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed,
Under a shade, on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how."
Milton, Paradise Lost