Discliamer: They aren't mine, they belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Eenemy, but oh my, aren't they fun to play with.
Summary:This is set in season2 and veers widly off cannon after What's My Line 2. It's more a character exploration than anything else but hopefully the extremely stubborn plot bunny that started this, (it looked like the one from Monty Python and could therefore not be ignored,) will be able to get in there too. This is darker than my usual stuff, but don't worry, I find I can'twrite gratuitous horror very well so it won't be all terror and gloom. There might even be a little romance too. Possibly NC-17 later on, if I don't lose my nerve.
A.N. Eliza Urchin, this ones for you darlin, thanks for your support.
A Shadow And A Dream
The ballroom was like something from a dream. Huge chandeliers lit with flickering candles illuminated a high domed ceiling,the dark blue scattered with silver stars reflected dimly in the smooth lake of the white marble floor, unblemished by any reflection of the whirling dancers who glided smoothly across its polished surface. In this deep subterranean palace, somewhere far below the ground, far away from wind and sunshine, every night was just the same. She would watch them, helpless and despairing, as they wove a dance of rustling satin and horrid laughter. Beautiful faces and cruel voices passed before her in a never ending pattern of evil and death. She did not know how long she'd been here, she almost didn't know how she'd arrived.All that remained were the last brutally clear moments of heat and pain.As she did every night the Slayer replayed those last moments in the abandoned church. Kendra falling under the assassin's knife, the wall of fire that leapt up separating her from her Watcher and friends, she had thrown herself furiously at Spike, trying desperately to get through to Angel where he hung helpless, bound to Drusilla's moaning form. Then the blast of light, Drusilla straightening as Angel burst silently into a shower of dust. She had thrown herself at Spike, blinded by rage and grief intent on killing him, she had seen him smiling in awe at something behind her, then everything went black. She had woken up here, chained at the wrists and ankles in a corner to a marble wall. Since then her time had stretched forward in a bleak succession of days and nights that she could only guess at. During the "nights" the ballroom was filled with the vampire court,weaving there neverending dances and intruigues.During the "days" she sat utterly alone in the palatial room of empty white marble, reapting names over and over in her head to keep fromcracking.Angel, Mother, Giles, Willow, Xander, even the memories seemed hazy now, the grief dim. All that was left was emptiness and the stories she told herself to keep from going mad with loneliness. Stories of the world she had come from. "Buffy" was now a character, just like Willow and Xander and Giles, a girl she had once known in world full of sunshine. She looked down at her dirty jeans, the stained T-shirt whose faded blue was hardly recognizable under the grime. Her toesthat stillbore the remnants of chipped pink polish. "Summer Peach", a color Willow had given her on her last birthday. An innocent color, reminiscent of sunshine and friend's laughter, she never gazed at it for long. Her hair was lank and stringy, falling around her face and over her shoulders in an unattractive tangle of mousy brown and blonde.
She new how horrible she looked, her image was reflected in the slashes of mirrors lining the walls. Mirrors that showed only her, a single figure in a vast hall full of echoes and voices. Every night it grew harder to remember that this was not the world. That they, with their terrible beauty and satin and lace were the alien ones, and that she, the beggar in the corner wasn't a drudge, some strange freak left over from a long forgotten world. She would already be beaten, mad, lost to despair, if it weren't for him.
The vampire in his long black coat.
Always a little apart, always different, watching his adored Princess as she whirled among the courtly dancers. The black jeans and t-shirt he refused to eschew were an aching nightly reminder of someone like her, of a world where she wasn't completely alone. Every night her eyes searched the room until they lighted on his sharp face. At first she had pinned her eyes to him in hatred. He had killed her beloved, he was the reason she was here, who knew what horror he had perpetrated onthe others she had loved. Her hazel eyes burned into his form like a target, reminding herself that he was the first who would die. But after the days, weeks months, had gone by, after she had given up screaming questions and threatsat her jailers, after her whole self had shrunk from simply being ignored and she was beginning to doubt she existed at all, she watched him for a different reason.
He didn't get along with others around him, like her. He was ignored, like her. He seemed out of place, from a different world, just like her. And his voice, when he spoke, was rough and common, echoing stridently across the silken chatter in way that made her feel more awake, more alive, less like a ghost chained in the corner to the steps of a marble throne.
Every morning and night food was left for her, brought by a hollowed eyed drone who stared at the wall, placing it with a clang at her feet. It was always the same. A breast of chicken cooked till the meat dripped from the bone, bread and butter, and some sort of vegetable mixture, all cooked to perfection. After the third week it had all begun to taste like ash in her mouth, but she forced it down, first out of practicality, then out of spite, then out of mindless routine. She was never spoken to, if anyone's eyes happened to light on her they would stare blankly then flick away, as if they had lighted on an interesting decoration or piece of scenery. But sometimes his blue eyes would flicker over her, only for a second before darting away, but ocassionally, for a brief second, she would feel like she had been seen.
Tonight like all the other nights her eyes searched the glittering throng.Straining for the flash of black leather and white hair. There it was! The vampire strutted in hands nonchalantly tucked in his belt, a bored expression on his face as he surveyed the dancers. Beside him glided Drusilla, clad in dress of crimson silk, her hair falling in perfect curls over her white shoulders, the vampiress was in her element. The Slayer watched the flicker of hurt pass through Spike's eyes as the brunette was quickly whirled away by one of the dancers. He let her go every night, always approaching her just before the grand exodus from the ballroom, claiming the last dance for himself as he ran his hands possessively over her body. In the beginning it had caused the pair to leave early nearly very evening, though now that the Slayers fogged brain thought of it, that hadn't happened in a long while. She watched as he strode his way confidently through the dancers, letting them get out of his way, till he reached his usually spot where he lounged against the steps of the empty dias, not far from where she sat, his hard eyes watching his love's partners with a steely gaze. The Slayer frowned, eyes drifting from their usual fascinated perusal of the vampire's face. Something was different tonight. Tonight, the other dancers watched her vampire too, mouths quirking cruelly as his passage was marked with speculative whispers and raised eyebrows. The Slayer felt a tingle climb up her spine. Something was going to happen.
Good. A part of her whispered triumphantly, It's time for him to pay. But the other part was worried, worried for the monster in the black coat, and worried that she was worried for her beloved's killer. She was not fooled by his seemingly nonchalant pose, she had been watching him every night, and was more in tuned to his body language and emotions than he was. A flicker of his eyes or a tensing of his jaw could tell her volumes, and she could see now, that he was tense, ready, waiting. So she tensed to, eyes flicking from his carven profile to the whirl of color in the room, and waited.
It happened when the orchestra struck up its last tune. Spike approached Drusilla as usual, arms sliding sensuously around her waist as he whispered, "Time for my dance pet."
Suddenly a large hulking vampire in rich doublet of purple velvet grasped Drusilla's thin wrist.
"I believe this dance is mine." He purred, yanking Drusilla from her lover's grasp.
Spike's snarl of rage echoed across the room cutting the music to a halt as, in perfect synchronicity, the throng pulled back, creating a circle around the two males. Drusilla stepped gracefully up onto the first step of the dias, basking in the room's attention as her gaze, like their's riveted on the hostile males. Spike gave another furious snarl, "You keep your filthy hands off of her you ponce."
The large male arched an elegant eyebrow. "And why should I do as you say, Spike?" The name was said with light contempt, the demon's tone almost polite in his question.
"Because," Spike snarled, advancing on the larger vampire, "she belongs to me."
"I see no Claim." The voice held a deadly intent and the Slayer shivered as she saw Spikes eyes widen in rage.
"A challenge Vincent?" An exquisitely dressed and aged vampire stepped forward from the circle, directing his question at the vampire in the purple doublet.
The dark haired Vincent's face rippled into it's demon's mask, his feral eyes never leaving the white haired vampire's enraged ones. "A challenge." He confirmed.
The circle of spectators gasped as with a furious roar Spike charged the other vampire, his face shifting into it's demon's guise as he ran. The two males met with a bone jarring crash that made the slayer wince, locking arms as they strained. Finally Spike broke free, executing a smart kick to Vincent's chin. Only to be rocked sightly by the bigger vampire's heavy blow to his jaw. The circle was utterly silent as the two fought, the only sound in the room being the grunts and snarls of rage and smack of fists and feet hitting flesh. Buffy watched them tensely, her eyes devouring the blonde vampire as he fought. He moved with electricity and bursts of speed, rage and passion in fluid motion with his fists. Something in her stirred as she seemed to remember that she had once fought like that. Fists and fury and exaltation. The blood on Spike's face only seemed to delight him, whereas it had enraged his opponent. Finally Spike was able to deliver a crushing blow that sent the richly dressed fighter reeling back into the musicians box where he fell with a crash.
"Wanker." Spike spat, contemptuously turning his back, he approached the dias where Drusilla stood, stalking like a panther, his eyes only for his dark beauty. He did not notice that behind him, Vincent had staggered to his feet. The bruised vamp snatched up the broken stem of a violin, silently padding towards the blonde vampire with murder in his eyes. From her place in the corner the Slayer glanced around frantically as the throng remained absolutely silent. Looking in panic to Drusilla the small blonde saw that the dark vampiress was giving her lover no indication of the danger he was in. Bile rose into the Slayer's throat, bubbling up with the terror of what Spike's death would mean. Cutting harshly against all past feeling of hatred and revenge was the brutal and sudden certainty that if she lost him, she would lose herself. Without his voice and face to look for each night she would go mad, and she did not want to go mad! Her voice sore and rusty from lack of use suddenly tore out of her throat in a hoarse scream. "Behind you!"
Spike didn't take time to register where the shout had come from. He whirled in a split second, grabbing his opponent's arm that held the stake he twisted it up and behind the burlier vampire, breaking his arm even as the odd angle allowed him to drive the stake through Vincent's back into his heart. Spike straightened as his opponent burst in a shower of dust. A grin of manic triumph lighting his features, his chest taking in gulps of unnecessary air. His smile faded as he was greeted with absolute silence, looking around at the cold faces before him he began to feel a thread of unease. He looked for his dark princess's eyes for assurance, but they were blank, almost hostile when they looked back at his, she made no move to stand beside him. With growing horror Spike turned to face the ragged girl in the corner. Her hazel eyes were wide in her thin face, her chest heaving under it's grimy covering of fabric. Most unsettling of all her lips were curved in a slight smile of triumph. Nausea churned in his gut, her. She had saved him. No wonder they all looked him like he was a freak.
Buffy gasped in breath her knees feeling weak as exaltation surged through her system. He had heard her, and it had worked, she had saved him. He would still be there for her to watch. She looked up and was shocked by the sight of two blue eyes searing into hers. He was looking at her, some one was looking at her. She felt dizzy as he approached her, and she could feel the energy of another presence touching her for the first time in what seemed like years. She closed her eyes, assimilating the intoxicating scent of cigarettes and musk that cut so sharply and wonderfully across the sickly sweet perfumed air. Opening them again she found herself pinned once more by furious blue, and then her head snapped back, ears ringing from the force of his blow as the vampire backhanded her brutally across the face, the force sending her to her knees on the hard stone.
"You weren't told to speak bitch." He spat. Turning to the still silent assembly Spike allowed a cocky smirk to spread across his face. "Well to the victor the spoils, the banquet awaits. Dru my love," he held out his hand to his princess who regarded him with calculating eyes. For one instant Spikes heart clenched as he realized she was weighing her assets, had put him in the scales. But he held his pose, and almost gasped in relief when she smiled and took her place at his side. "Yes, let us now feast." Smiling hazily at the room she swept out regally on his arm. The same richly dressed vampire as before stepped forward from the throng.
"A victory." He intoned, his voice deliberately neutral, before following the pair. With a rustle of silk the court filed from the room, their spiteful whispers leaving echoes in the air long after the last demon had departed. Alone in the room the Slayer raised her head. Her cheek throbbed with pain and her neck ached from being whipped so violently backward, but she was smiling as she lifted as she lifted her fingers to her split lip, staring at the red that now stained them. Darting out her tongue she tasted it, warm and salty sweet, and her smile grew. Blood. She could bleed, she could feel pain. Perhaps she wasn't a ghost after all.
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For those of you still interested in Balance, don't worry. I havn't abandoned it. It's just proving obstinate.