Loose Ends
Chapter 6 of 7 (?)
by Lynne C.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' - I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.
Setting/Spoilers: AtS Season 5, generally - and, Spike's "semi-canon" past (London, mid-1970s)
Summary: An unexpected epilogue to an incident in Spike's past, inspired by a throwaway line from Buffy 7.8
Misc: You can look in my ff.net profile for my website, and check there for updates to this story, or to read this part with its proper formatting (italics and such).
Loose Ends
He'd never expected to see the kid again. But he knew him the minute that he did.
"Fucking little pissant!"
It was Chicago, fall of 1982.
They had been laying relatively low of late, the result of some latter-day van Helsing who had been on their tail for some weeks, following them east from San Francisco. Spike had pretty well decided that it was about time to leave the country, and was making a beeline for one of the most convenient Great Lakes ports -- Toledo or Cleveland would probably do -- there to hop on some innocuous cargo-hauler, and beat it down the St. Lawrence to one of the Atlantic ports, to find a ship back to Europe.
So, they'd reached Chicago on the lam, but with Spike confident that they were a day or more ahead of their pursuer. It was all very irritating -- he figured that the Crusader must be some Watcher who was operating independently -- he knew too much about vampires in general and, Spike had the feeling, him in particular. After all, he was the Slayer of Slayers, wasn't he? What a trophy to bag Old Spike! He never engaged directly. He just kept being there, somewhere over Spike's shoulder which, incidentally, had already taken a bolt from his crossbow.
Because he never got too close, Spike hadn't been able to get a scent, and so had had trouble hunting him. But he seemed to be an uncanny urban tracker, picking Spike and Dru's trail up seemingly at will, even after they'd shaken him for several days running. Spike had grown concerned about unwittingly leading him back to their lair, and being roasted in his sleep. So, they'd gone underground and begun moving fast. Which also meant dining cautiously and inconspicuously.
"Eat to live, not live to eat, luv" he'd told Drusilla when she'd turned her nose up at the wino he'd subdued in a dark courtyard of an abandoned housing project near the El tracks. Her hunger had finally persuaded her to partake, and they'd shared the meal, though she was really only eating enough to make him quit nagging her. He'd begun to worrying in recent days as she grew even thinner and paler than usual, and her periods of lucidity seemed notably less frequent.
Concern for Dru was, however, driven from his mind when he caught sight of the face staring up at him from the pages of a discarded rock'n'roll magazine.
"Buggering shithead! Cock-sucking motherfucker!"
He carried on in this vein as he snatched the offending periodical from the ground. It had lain there through at least one rainstorm, leaving the pages rippled and the edges torn. But there he was...the kid from the Sex Pistols concert, and, from the alley afterwards. And from the top of his bleached head to the steel toes of his combat boots, with all the studded leather and ripped denim and eyeliner and safety pins in-between, he'd completely and utterly ripped off Spike's look of the period.
Most of the ranting and swearing that followed was lost on the cold wind that whipped and whined through the empty window frames of the surrounding buildings, and in the clatter of the train that passed just out of sight.
After he'd calmed down a bit, Spike had sworn he'd "make drawin' and quart'rin' look like a bloody picnic" and "feed him his own bowels" if he ever got his hands on the boy. Drusilla had giggled wickedly, and predicted that, indeed, "the ravens will dance at the cotillion" on that day. Then she'd begun to whine about going to find a pretty little girl to dress up and eat, and he was forced to divert her from this idea, and attempt to remain incognito. So, he put aside his ire towards the derivative pop star and focused on the matters at hand.
To be continued….
Chapter 6 of 7 (?)
by Lynne C.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' - I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.
Setting/Spoilers: AtS Season 5, generally - and, Spike's "semi-canon" past (London, mid-1970s)
Summary: An unexpected epilogue to an incident in Spike's past, inspired by a throwaway line from Buffy 7.8
Misc: You can look in my ff.net profile for my website, and check there for updates to this story, or to read this part with its proper formatting (italics and such).
Loose Ends
He'd never expected to see the kid again. But he knew him the minute that he did.
"Fucking little pissant!"
It was Chicago, fall of 1982.
They had been laying relatively low of late, the result of some latter-day van Helsing who had been on their tail for some weeks, following them east from San Francisco. Spike had pretty well decided that it was about time to leave the country, and was making a beeline for one of the most convenient Great Lakes ports -- Toledo or Cleveland would probably do -- there to hop on some innocuous cargo-hauler, and beat it down the St. Lawrence to one of the Atlantic ports, to find a ship back to Europe.
So, they'd reached Chicago on the lam, but with Spike confident that they were a day or more ahead of their pursuer. It was all very irritating -- he figured that the Crusader must be some Watcher who was operating independently -- he knew too much about vampires in general and, Spike had the feeling, him in particular. After all, he was the Slayer of Slayers, wasn't he? What a trophy to bag Old Spike! He never engaged directly. He just kept being there, somewhere over Spike's shoulder which, incidentally, had already taken a bolt from his crossbow.
Because he never got too close, Spike hadn't been able to get a scent, and so had had trouble hunting him. But he seemed to be an uncanny urban tracker, picking Spike and Dru's trail up seemingly at will, even after they'd shaken him for several days running. Spike had grown concerned about unwittingly leading him back to their lair, and being roasted in his sleep. So, they'd gone underground and begun moving fast. Which also meant dining cautiously and inconspicuously.
"Eat to live, not live to eat, luv" he'd told Drusilla when she'd turned her nose up at the wino he'd subdued in a dark courtyard of an abandoned housing project near the El tracks. Her hunger had finally persuaded her to partake, and they'd shared the meal, though she was really only eating enough to make him quit nagging her. He'd begun to worrying in recent days as she grew even thinner and paler than usual, and her periods of lucidity seemed notably less frequent.
Concern for Dru was, however, driven from his mind when he caught sight of the face staring up at him from the pages of a discarded rock'n'roll magazine.
"Buggering shithead! Cock-sucking motherfucker!"
He carried on in this vein as he snatched the offending periodical from the ground. It had lain there through at least one rainstorm, leaving the pages rippled and the edges torn. But there he was...the kid from the Sex Pistols concert, and, from the alley afterwards. And from the top of his bleached head to the steel toes of his combat boots, with all the studded leather and ripped denim and eyeliner and safety pins in-between, he'd completely and utterly ripped off Spike's look of the period.
Most of the ranting and swearing that followed was lost on the cold wind that whipped and whined through the empty window frames of the surrounding buildings, and in the clatter of the train that passed just out of sight.
After he'd calmed down a bit, Spike had sworn he'd "make drawin' and quart'rin' look like a bloody picnic" and "feed him his own bowels" if he ever got his hands on the boy. Drusilla had giggled wickedly, and predicted that, indeed, "the ravens will dance at the cotillion" on that day. Then she'd begun to whine about going to find a pretty little girl to dress up and eat, and he was forced to divert her from this idea, and attempt to remain incognito. So, he put aside his ire towards the derivative pop star and focused on the matters at hand.
To be continued….