12/07/2015 06:16 PM 

Crossroads

Then.

You're not friends. You'll never be friends
"I love you," she confessed, all the color drained from her face, as the words unraveled in the wind naked and bare.  

They slayer accepted her weakness, the confession burned in the back of her throat,  but she let it out because he deserved to hear it, the dark-twisted-truth.  Her sharp emerald eyes scanned over his presently soft features, comitting them to memory, so she could remember him like this, selfless, brave, a champion, not like how he so often portrayed himself before, vicious.

Deep down, it was always there,  the slayers lust for him metamorphosed, but she buried it, kicked dirt over it because she was afraid of who she was when she was with him. There were people in the world, in her life, that depended on her, but when she was with Spike he awakened something primal, and selfish inside her, and that person she was becoming would destroy everything that meant something to her. 'Just let me go', she had begged him in the past, even then he couldn't see it, she was enslaved to him, and it made her feel so small.

You'll be in love till it kills you both

'I cant. I love you. You think I haven't tried not to' he replied back then and it took a while before the slayer could grasp the idea of a love so great it worked it's will so assiduously until it compelled every atom in you, even if it was illogical, or wicked, or wrong. Love didn't allow your better judgment to weigh in, love didn't care what plans you may or may not have, it was it's own beast.

A hungry beast, demanding to be fed. Every time she told herself it was the last time she'd  give into her urges, another one surfaced, another itch needing sratching. She scratched until she was raw, exposed, and all her friends saw her for whom she was.

Flawed.

With Angel it was different, wrong, but still different. She possessed an excuse to love something cold and dead because Angel had a soul, so her friends judged her less, and Giles's  scorn was less scorny. With Spike, she had no excuses, nothing to hide behind in defense. Her friends couldn't understand her and Giles's pride in her diminished.

You'll fight. You'll shag and you'll hate each other till it makes you quiver, but you'll never be firends

The control she maintained so viliginatly, slipped from her grasp whenever Spike was around. So, she used him, wailed on him, and then abandoned him. All while her need for him evolved, grew, and incompehensibly consumed her. 

For a while, weeks, maybe months she practiced discipline, and kept her relationship with Spike strictly slayer related. In the last year they spent fighting the first, Buffy only slipped once, okay twice, but it was different because now he had a soul too. She trusted him now. 

It made sense he was reluctant to believe her, how he could look into her eyes and rebuk her every testament to feelings that had been clandestinely surging inside the slayer for months, maybe years behind the scenes of her blank expression. "No you don't, but thanks for saying it." 

Part of her wanted to stay and finish the fight with him. The first slayer prepared her for the reality she may not just walk out of the mouth of hell time and time again. Death was her gift, but Spike was adamant she left and Dawn needed her.  The tiny blonde locked eyes with the platinum blonde vampire intently, chewing on the bottom of her lip, she accepted his sacrafice.

The school was falling apart and  Buffy felt the ground  shifting below her. Every step felt like a betrayl to Spike, but she couldn't afford to hesitate, because there were parts of the ceiling collapsing all around her. The slayer had never been one to abandon a soldier, or leave someone high and dry, while she rode off into the sunset . Buffy's short legs sunk in pits of rubble, the remains of Sunnydale Highschool classrooms. She felt a fear expand inside the lining of her stomach as she watched the school bus take off in the distance pass the lobby double doors that flapped open.

Love isnt brains children. Its blood.

Still woozy from the open wound in her abdomen Buffy willed her limbs to scale the closest building before it collapsed, so she could gain some height on the bus and jump down. Now if it would just stop moving. Every tendon in her legs felt like they had caught on fire and muscle contracted as the slayer lept from building to building. before she finally was able to land down on the bus. Her knuckles became increasingly ghastly as she gripped the sides of the bus for balance.

When the gang finally slowed down and veered off the road to stop, the slayer exhaled, and inhaled as much air as her injury would allow. She slid down to the concrete highway and limped down to join the gang. Dawn and her were the first to hug, the blonde flinched as her younger sister clutched her gratefully. 

The conversations of her friends faded into the background as Buffy stared out at the growing crater her home once rested over.  "How did this happen," was the only thing she heard them say.

"Spike," she murmured softly.

Great love is wild and passionate and dangerous it burns and cosumes. Until there's nothing left.

A fair share of high-fiving and commentary was shared by the gang, but Buffy was distracted by a shimmering light off into the distance, it shined past the cloud of smoke from the wreckage, calling out to her. "Spike," she repeated louder, completely non-sequtur this time. 

Her slayer senses started to tickle. She felt a hand nearly pull at her jacket, but miss, as she ventured out over the rubble. The gravel capsized under her, but she forged on, almost entranced, till she reached the light, where a hand shot through the debris. Buffy firmly reached for the hand and tugged hard, grunting in pain. The gang called out for her anxiously unable to thwart her suicide mission. 
Now

They say there is a quiet before the storm, but Buffy always found the one after the storm to be the most defeaning. Slayers and scooby members filled the seats of the school bus in quiet reflection, some wounded, some traumatized, some still scared. They had every right to still be scared, they may have defeated The First today, but if today proved anything, it was that they were definitely outnumbered in the fight between good and evil.

No matter how many slayers were in the world today, there would never be enough to eradicate the world of demons. 

At the back of the bus Buffy held Spikes head in her lap as Willow patched up his burns and abrasions. If Faith hadn't met her in the middle of the caving debris of Sunnydale she would have never been able to carry Spike out of their quick enough before the foundation of rubble further sunk into the core of the earth. 

The vampire was in bad shape, his limbs were swollen, black and blue. Buffy couldn't begin to imagine how many of his bones broke in the collapse, already she could count a broken eyesocket, fractured ribs, and broken ankle, and that was just  a first assesment from a quick glance over.

Giles had taken control of the bus from Robin since he was the one who had lined up a safe house with an affiliate he had met in England decades ago that had ties to The Council. The gentleman was an outside contractor for The Watchers, but since retired, he had kindly offered up some property in a remote area north of California in Oregon.

It seemed like all their worries were behind them until three black vans  pulled up from along side and behind them, at first just tailing, but soon playing bumper cars with them. "Buffy," Dawn called out, her voice childlike, and small, capsulated in fear. 

"I see it," she answered. Willow and her exchanged worried looks. Before, she got up she  clasped Spike's hand tightly. "I'll be back," she promised, her olive hues glassed over with concerned staring at him.

The slayer walked down the aisle of injured slayers down to Giles's side at the front of the bus. "What do you think?" She whispered, under her breath.

"Don't know," he shrugged, focused on the road and holding the bus steady despite the bumps inflicted by their friends on the road, "Unmarked cars, bad driving, bringers maybe?" Giles pondered. Buffy nodded and glanced over at Faith, together they met at the middle of the bus under the hatch opening. 

"We can't afford to stop," Buffy admitted, looking around at the young girls incompasitated by pain. "We have to take them while they're unprepared," the more seniored slayer decided.

Faith laughed and cracked her bloody knuckles. "Real life game of frogger it is then. Let's get this over with. I'm ready to nap." The two girls lept through the hatch at the top of the bus, till they were able to stable themselves ontop. Each slayer took a car beside the bus first, Buffy to the right, and Faith to the left.

In perfect union, they both  dropped to the vans roof, swinging the drivers door open, gripping onto the material of their clothes, and throwing them from the sweat. Each slayer slid into the drivers seat, the flat of each foot connecting with the gut off the passenger, till they doubled over unconscious. Faith clocked the heads of both people in the back of her van enough to cause some heavy interal damage. Buffy took a less violent route and tied them up with some free rope that she discovered in the back of them. Both slayers jumped out the back of the van and shot out for the third van behind the bus. The two of them both managed to pry the locked doors off the hinges of the van and pull out the men camaflouged in black, the van slowly halt as it lost is driver. Faith attempted to knock out the last backseat passenger, but Buffy  interrupted her fatal blow, "No," she instructed. "Him, we use for answers."

The two slayers dragged the man cloaked in black clothes and ski mask off the van. Faith ripped the mask off, human, Buffy already knew that much. She ruthlessly kicked his body down to the ground. "Talk," the blonde ordered. At first he gurgled, some blood spat from his bruised lips, but then he laughed. "You're a slayer, not a killer. I'm not saying sh*t and you can beat me till I pass out, but thats all you can do," the stranger bragged. Faith laughed with him, pulling a dagger out from her back pocket and holding it to his throat. "So you did your homework. Then you should know who I am and what I do. So talk, or don't talk. I will slit your throat and then ask the next ninja that comes along for answers, until I find one that does talk," Faith whispered in his ear. Buffy looked away even though the mercy drained from her after the days events there was still a distaste in her mouth for Faith's interrogation methods. "Who sent you," Faith grunted, driving her  dagger into his shoulder. 

"The Iniative," he devulged, in a single cry of agony. 

A perplexed frown twisted at the edges of Buffys lips as the soldiers confession registered with her. Faith nudged her hip, "The Iniative. Isn't that your army boy's crew?"

"Yeah," Buffy exhaled, "Yeah it is." Riley was a faint memory to her. A moment of normalcy that felt more like a short experiment than a relationship. The first relationship that she discussed dinner plans more than battle tactics with, yet still even that relationship had its secrets and darkness. 

They retreated back to the bus, Faith returned to Robins side, and despite the fact the back of the bus beckoned her, her slayer duties would always triumph over her needs. "It's the Iniative," Buffy informed Giles. Giles finally comfortable enough on the road was able to tear his attention away glanced up at his slayer baffled. "But surely, Riley would have warned us-"

"We don't know that," Buffy shot his trust in Riley down. Buffy had seen in multiple times in Riley, his inability to tolerate things he couldn't explain, and although he truly loved her, she knew he didn't accept what she was. "We need cover, we need to ditch the bus. We'll have to make a pitstop before the next destination," she decided,  the exhuastion worse on her voice.

Buffy stood at Giles's side till he could find a place where they could ditch the bus and find a motel they could crash at and hopefully a few cars the could divide into. The scoobies had pooled all their savings for circumstances just like this, there was enough to hopefully get them out of California and to England where they could safely rebuild the Watchers Council and start seeking out slayer's in need.  

At the back of the bus she kept Spike waiting, not wanting to share with him more worries, not when he so badly needed a break. Buffy wanted to buy him as much time as he needed before he could be back at her side, in full swing. 

Blood screaming inside you to work its will. 

18 Comments  Report Post

Back to Posts

Previous12Next

vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:38 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Quitethevampiregroupie:

All the tendons in her wrist bulged under the Summer's fair skin as she failed to pop the cap of an asprin bottle open. Defiantly, she stretched the shaking digits of her hand open and closed, ready for round twelve against the flimsy plastic container of pharmaceutical drugs. "I will open you," she gritted through her pearly white teeth, annoyed and determined.

A cough in the distance of her bedroom broke her focus, her beady slayer eyes looked up from her lap where her hands squeezed the, groped, and twisted at the bottle of pain killers, to the doorframe of her room, where her two best friends now stood, staring her down with their stares of pity. "You tell that manufactured capsule," Xander mocked, in a cheeky fashion, that today annoyed her more than amused her. Buffy shot her male friend a deathly glare, before giving up, and massaging her strained wrists.

"Guess the drugs the watcher's council doped you with still haven't worn off," Willow quessed, perceptive as ever. 

The slayer was still a weakling, alert the presses, even safety tops could best her. Giles said the opiates would eventually wear off. Eventually, couldn't come soon enough. For the past forty-eight hours Buffy had been reduced to an average seventeen year old girl, high pitched screams aside, not exactly the a weapon of mass destruction against the vampire race.

Both of her friends plopped down beside her in bed. Xander stole the asprin from her hands, popping the cap back effortlessly and handing it back to her. Buffy flashed him a lopsided thankful grin as she poured a handful of painkillers to dull the ache in her bones into her hand and swallowed them back. Willow hunched down to the floor where her backpack fell, pulling out a few books and wrinkled papers, "Assignments, that you won't do," Willow joked, handing Buffy her missed classwork. After Giles's betrayal, she wasn't really feeling the whole school thing today, thankfully almost dying persuaded her mom enough to give her the pass for the day. The black and blues around her right eye socket also helped her case. 

"Thanks Will," Buffy laughed, setting the textbooks she'd barely cracked a dent in the spine of all year on her bedside dresser drawer. The weight of the books, leveled her forearm downward a few inches, not only surprising her, but her friends as well, who pretended not to notice as their bulging eyes gave them away."Heavy," she mumbled embarrassed, her her muscles caved under the mass of literature in her palm. 

Helpless. Small. Fragile. Useless. 

The words swam in her mind, doubt in her abilities and strength crippled her confidence. All the days, she'd been duped by Giles, she cursed herself for being so oblivious, so gullible. She'd known she had been losing time, blacking out, that her physical advantage had been slipping, but her relationship with Giles blinded her, it never occurred to her that he could toy with her, treat her like some experiment or subject, like a charge. 

Forty eight hours was a lot of time to pick apart the past three years, second guess every decision she'd made as the slayer, every relationship foolishly forged. Kendra, she knew, she saw this coming, how her humanity made her weak. Buffy imagined how Kendra would have passed the test, would have never been fooled by shiny crystals or father like figures, but as a slayer been able to distinguish reality from an evaluation. 

The sound of cheeto's crumbling between Xanders molars pulled her drifting thoughts back to present day, he tipped foiled bag of chips in her direction with a goofy smile, but she shook her head in response, declining the orange dyed chips. Xander shrugged, grabbing another fistful of cheetos as he laid back in her bed beside her.

"So Angel's patrolling tonight?" Willow inquired, breaking the silence. Buffy hollowly nodded. Angel was indeed patrolling. A vampire, doing a slayers work, because thats just how her wacky world worked sometimes. "Well I hear the original King Kong is on AMC tonight," Willow offered up, with a building enthusiasm that even made Buffy smile. 

Friends, cheeto's, and movies, the life of an average seventeen year old girl.

Thankfully this time he doesn't push her away, but instead leans his body into her, allowing her to maneuver him back to the bed. It wasn't like him to accept help willingly, but then again he'd known it was as equally as rare for her to exhibit an abundance of patience. She was not above doling out a time out, century old vampire or not, no one was to good for the corner which was probably why he also swallowed back every last drop of Faiths blood back. Good because she was just about at that point to pinch his nose and feed the glass back to him, like her mom had with her when she was sick and had to drink some stomach turning thick pale pink concoction the doctor had always sent back home with them after a visit. 

"Not like me to fancy makin� things easier for people. So, would like some credit that I drank this for the very purpose," Spike responded, licking the remenants from his stained lips. 

A silent chuckle ripped through her tiny chest, she rolled her eyes and shook her head at Spike. "Yes thank you for not desiccating Spike, we all appreciate not having to collect your remains in a dustpan," she sarcastically came back with, her arms folded over her chest, as she looked down at him with her incredulous bright, shimmering, green eyes, flashy like Christmas ornaments, that popped against her translucent skin that hadn't seen the sun for days, possibly even weeks. 

He was unbelievable. The smug persona that use to chip at her tolerance for him was now the same thing that brought the edges of the slayers lips to a smile. He'd worn her down over the years with his dastardly charm. 

�So fill me in. What�s on the agenda?� Spike questioned. The slayer paused before answering, quizzically staring down at him, wondering how he could possibly pretend like she hadn't just found him balled up on the floor. As if there was anything that superseded his current predicament upstairs. But she remembered what it was like, to be wounded and stripped down, so she decided to let him change the subject momentarily, harping wasn't exactly her game. 

Buffy's lips parted to answer as the sound of several explosions filled the spaces between them instead. Instinctively she ducked, both her arms, shooting upward, as a shield over Spike, her neck snapped back in the direction of the stairs, she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was coming. "Buffy, pipe bombs," Dawn screamed, from the kitchen above.

Pipe bombs.

The Initiative, she immediately decided, they'd found them. Buffy chewed on the inside of her cheek as she quickly tried to decide her next move. Split seconds, that's all they had in times like this. "NO ONE LEAVES THE HOUSE," she shouted back at her sister. The Initiative most likely wanted to smoke them out, bottle neck them through the exits, and then god knows what, mow them down with assault riffles, throw a net over them, and drag them into the under bunker of crazy? Whatever their plans were, Buffy wanted no part of them for herself, her girls, or friends. 

The slayer locked eyes with the platinum blonde vampire she'd thrusted her body into out of protection, "I'll be back," she promised, before vanishing up the stairs in a blur. Don't move her eyes had told him, before she peeled herself from him and threw herself in the path of the attack. 

Xander was crouching with Dawn under the wing of her  shoulder, as the younger slayers formed a tight circle around Xander, Dawn, Andrew, Giles, and few wounded slayers that were not infallible against a few soldier boys in their current condition. Buffy's eyes quickly scoured their surroundings for weapons, but came up with a big fat nothing. A few knifes, that's all they had, and Buffy had a thing about sharp objects and humans, her moral high ground didn't really think the two went well together unlike her eccentric-darker-counter-part, Faith.

"Buffy, I can't hold it up much longer," Willow groaned, her fingers curling in the air, magically producing a force field around the house, to buy time.

Time.

They needed more, they weren't ready to go on the offense, not against some trained-highly-skilled-finely-tuned-brigade-of-black-ops-soldiers. "Get Spike and Dawn into the van out back," Buffy ordered, with an cold-admiral-like-tone. "Split into your groups," she told the rest, from over her shoulder, as her and Faith filed down the hallway, Buffy picked both swords up from the dining room table she'd rested them on yesterday."Ready," the blonde asked rhetorically, throwing her fellow senior slayer a sword.

A very typical Faith like smirk appeared on her counterparts face. "You gotta ask," she retorted, gleefully.

Of course, "No one dies," Buffy told her flatly. Before they both did somersaults out the living room bay window, instead of the doorway they were expecting them from. "You knocked?" Buffy quipped budding the forehead of one of the soldiers with the blunt side of her sword, and ducking as another tried to pistol whip her, taking his weapon away with a cartwheel as she came back up, her foot jerking it out of his grip as it collided with his wrist. 

Shots were fired, both slayers managed to move with such agility, none connected with their target. "Now, that's not friendly," Faith observed, her sword went through the foot of one of the soldiers, and her elbow up in the direction of his jaw. 

"Faith," Buffy shouted in response, before whipping around, taking the bottom of her palm to the chin of the assailant that tried to grab her from behind, a wave of champagne curls whirling around with her. "Sorry B, guess I'm kinda cranky," she joked, rushing back up the front porch, clocking two soldiers skulls against each other before they could make it through the entrance of the house. "Something about authority that kinda just makes me wanna rebel," she warned a soldier, with the bottom of her foot pinning a soldier's face down to the floorboards of the porch.

There was no reasoning with the girl and Buffy definitely was not going to waste her time trying, not when their were lives she cared about at stake. Better a sword in a soldiers foot then a bullet through one of theirs, she supposed. Both slayers did a quick sweep of the grounds with their eyes, "I think that's it," Buffy exhaled, clocking a soldier square in the face as he resurfaced from the ground, out cold again. "They're all going to start waking up and back up is probably on the way," Buffy observed, eyeing the fainted soldiers below them carefully. 

"Back up," Faith repeated, a bit winded and surprised.

A blur of suvs and vans pulled out from the back of the country home they barely had a chance to occupy. "Be safe," Buffy told the less rational, more impulsive Slayer, with sincerity they were probably both equally stunned by.

Willow was the last vehicle in the line of ones they'd traded the bus in for, "Everyone okay," she asked, climbing in the back, her hands immediately patting Dawn and Spike down, worried sick, looking for signs of damage on either of them. 




vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:37 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Nyctophiliac:

Shame lived in Spike�s stomach. It had since he was young. The=at nerve wrecking anxiety that stunned him out of motion. He could focus on nothing, just the troubles consuming his mind. Once, when he was a boy, a cat had followed him home. A silly little four legged friend, mostly black, but random spots of white of which had sprouted in a nonsensical pattern.

�I shall call you checkers!� The young boy had declared on his walk home from the schoolhouse.

William Pratt, no more than ten years of age and the only child in his grade who wore frames on his face. All the better for him to read with. He was teased mercilessly for the peculiar look, but wrapped on the hand with a ruler by his teacher if he was found without them on his face. It seemed that back in Victorian England those who bestowed upon the mind with knowledge had no sensitivity,  nor the time, for dealing with bullies. The bullied, rather, had to make do with the fate they were dealt and not disturb their teacher by being unable to see the chalkboard.

Such was one of these days and it stood to reason that he needed a furry friend to call his own. After all, his father claimed allergies of which kept such a huggable little creature out of the young boy�s wanting embrace.

William, not quite a sneak but feeling rather mischievous that day, or perhaps desperate, looked over his shoulder. He checked to his left and snuck a peek to his right. Then, he smiled down at the cat and whispered, �the coast is clear. We shall play in my room today.�

Never once, William couldn�t help but notice, did his father sneeze as William stuffed the wiggly little cat under his jacket before running up to his room. He would roll balls and read to the furry friend who curled up happily on his lap. For several days, he had a friend to call his own. Yet, when word came out that a young girl�s little kitty was missing did William fret ever so.

He wanted the little nugget for himself, but not at the expense of a little girl�s broken heart. At least, either way, the kitten would know love. The same love that William, for once, felt unconditionally bestowed upon himself whilst his father was home. Not by his own parents. Oh no. His father was too busy wedging his hardened ways between he and his mother�s understanding touch. Rather, it was through the animal kingdom that acceptance rang true.

�Always too easy on that boy, Anne! It is no wonder he is growing soft. And have you seen the rubbish of which he writes! I had to confiscate all his journals, at least to keep himself from poisoning his own mind!�

Despite, setting his furry friend free, the cat did follow him home again and again. William dreamed of the girl crying, missing her beloved pet. He failed tests in school and forgot to do his homework because all he could see was a small child drowning herself in tears.

Shame, since he was a boy, killed poor William Pratt�

Now, over a hundred years later, the same distress rested on muscular shoulders and a natural lean frame. It ate at his mind and freshly gained soul, tormenting and calling him names. Yet, whereas his mother could read his eyes and eventually fetch the corrupting facts from William�s loose lips, Spike had learned to shut his trap more firmly over the years.

Spike had learned to hide.

Spike had learned it was easy to fool people.

All he needed to do was have a determined expression, a flippant tongue, and silently persuade people to forget to check his eyes for the truth of what he was really trying to say. And what he really felt.

As he felt Buffy�s strong hands lifting his beaten body off the cold, hard ground he knew he was going to need to pluck that shame off of his face and bury it in the deep dark recesses of an already aching heart. Falling on the floor. Not that big of a deal he supposed. In the grand scheme of the topsy turvy life that he had lived, what was physically falling compared to all the other ways he had stumbled? Yet, as he was placed on the cot, staring up at the Slayer, it wasn�t about his own embarrassment. It wasn�t about being nothing more than a pathetic baby, though he did have his pride.

It was because she needed him.

As a warrior, that was.

He didn�t know much of what was happening upstairs, but he wasn�t daft. He didn�t need to be present to know it wasn�t peace and relaxation occurring up there. Never was there relaxation in the life of a Slayer. Even if there were countless ones out and about. He knew Slayers. He knew the mission was what mattered. And he knew they needed to be fit for doing it. They had won the war, but they were still potentials. Sure, they had given handed the name �Slayer�, but they were new. They were babies in this game and the demons that roamed would eat them for lunch.

They didn�t offer much in the way of back-up, now did they? Who was she going to turn to then? The Carpenter? From now on his aim was going to be a little bit more to the right than desired.

Not that he ever was a good shot.

Willow was buggering strong, but not in a physical battle. Her mojo saved their hides on more than one occasion, but fist to fist, Buffy needed someone with a bit more training. Not to mention that dashing swagger and charm Spike always brought to the battlefield. Yet, here he was, pain shooting through his legs and arms, wrist swelling up since brilliant him had decided to put all his weight on it.

He was a mess.

I�m not ready for you to not be here.

She had said it to him once. When The First was lurking about, looking to make Its move. The air between Buffy and him had been thick and cryptic as it ever was between them, especially since his soul had been shoved back into him. He had stuck around then, given her the lending hand she needed. Now, what good was he? She had work to do. She didn�t have time to babysit him.

There it was. Shame swelling, but he tensed his jaw and looked her way. As he did, grateful to see her not fussing over him, though her eyes fancied a peek at his condition. Who could blame her? Probably wondering if she could gauge how long the buggering hand holding was going to be happening for. He grunted at the thought.

Not long, Ducks. Will see to that.

Once he could push through it. He would push through it. And that would be that. He didn�t care if his body screamed at him, if his nerves pinched, and his bones screeched. The minute he could balance his weight he was getting back into the thick of it. He would be at the top of his game, take the orders given to him, and the lot of his health would be the business of him and him alone.

Dreamin� big there, Spike.

Bugger it. There was work to do. They were reshaping the world, yeah? He imagined as much anyway. It didn�t sound like Buffy was just throwing the girl�s to the wolves judging from all the grunting and hollering he heard going on outside. There were also more Slayers out there in need of this vicious training that would save their lives; otherwise, there were going to be a lot of dead bodies out there from girls not formulating the understanding of their capability. It was a lot of work and Buffy didn�t need a weak chain in her group.

He never wagered himself to be the weak chain.

Drink.

Her words cut through his agonizing thoughts and he felt the cup in his face. The strong pungent smell made his mouth immediately water. He didn�t need to ask = what was in that cup. It was the very same thing that had given him his wits back about him. There was, after all, only one of live�s essences that could get his mouth on the frits the way it was and his stomach rumbling an avalanche.

Slayer�s blood.

So much for kicking the human blood habit. He stared up at her disapprovingly, but took the cup in his shaky hands. Quivering, but ignoring how his hand wanted to drop the cup, he forced it to his cracking lips. The tone in her voice left no room for argument. Tough room. Yet, for a bloke who didn�t want coddling, he wasn�t about to complain. If only it didn�t involve taking blood out of some hero�s veins. A question formulated on his lips.

This from you?

He almost tipped the cup away from his mouth. He could stomach, he supposed drinking just about anyone�s blood, but her�s�

Hurt the girl�

Hadn�t he taken enough?

Yet, the unwavering glint in her eyes told him he just needed to shut up and drink. There was enough of a burden that her shoulders were still carrying. The war was over, but now she had countless newbie Slayers strapped to her back and hardly a place to go right then. She needed to think. She needed to plan. Even he knew she didn�t need him being the bleach blonde pain in the ass he often was.

Why was it when he was trying to be sensitive that that was when he was seen as his most annoying? Stuff shrinks were made for. Now if they only had the sort for vampires.

He swallowed the blood greedily, letting it slide down his throat easily and his stomach greeting it all too happily. It buggered him, sickened him that he lapsed it up so quickly. Oh yeah. He was feeling all warm, fuzzy, and good from this soul, wasn�t he?

He sighed, �not like me to fancy makin� things easier for people. So, would like some credit that I drank this for the very purpose.�

That and the bleedin� fact that he could barely resist it. Minor detail. Not worth mention�.

He looked up at her, determined to show her just how much his wits were about him, he stuck his chin up at her with interest in his eyes. Why not skip over the fact that she found him face down on the floor or that his body was aching and searing from the inner sunburn he had. More minor details, �so fill me in. What�s on the agenda?�

What were the lot of them doing now? Where were they going? What were they facing? He needed to find out sooner or later. He needed to at least know the game that way he could jump back in full force the second his body so much as looked like it would let him. 





vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:37 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Quitethevampiregroupie:

Shadows settle on the place, that you  left.
Our minds are troubled by the  emptiness.

Each one of them possessed the same   supernatural strength, agility, and  stamina as her now, no more, no less,  but their reflexes, there reflexes  remained the same mound of clay that  appeared at her door on Rovello drive  from day one. They had no idea, they  thought they did, but they were wrong.  All of them, they thought one battle,  one apocalypse earned them the title of  slayer, victors, gladiators, survivors,  but they'd barely scraped the surface  of their powers.

Her job was long from over, it would  require months of molding, months of  sculpting them before they could go out  on their own. They were sheltered,  babied, going out in groups, always  having a second pair of eyes, someone  covering their backs, they'd been  coddled, spoiled. 

No more.

The potentials thought she was tough  before, but that had been nothing, it  had been one long kumbaya session. From  this point on, thunder dome rules. They  had a real chance to tip the scales,  once and for all, in the good guys  favor, but only if they did it right.  The others wanted to build squads,  teams, not Buffy, for every city, she  wanted one slayer. Why not? They had  the numbers and if they followed her,  trained with her, god the possibilities  were endless. Eradication? Was actually  possible.

A world without vampires. Buffy's  equilibrium went still at the thought.  For once her lifetime would be about  something more than passing on the  torch to the next girl, but about  winning, about taking over.

Destroy the middle, it's a waste of  time.
From the perfect start to the finish  line.

"Cross block," Buffy called out,  walking down the two aisles of girls,  in the configuration of two and two she  split them in, observing the girls  form. 

"Rising punch," she followed up with,  placing her hands at Rona's side, to  correct the position of her hips.  "Exhale completely through you mouth,  inhale, count off, one, two, three,  four, hold your breath, count off, come  on, one, two, three, four, five, six,  seven, exhale, and repeat, a slayer is  nothing if she can not pace herself,"  Buffy educated them, tapping against  the abdomens of the girls as she  passed. 

"Leg sweep," she ordered next, "Chest  area kick," she quickly instructed  next, to see how fast the girls could  keep up. "You're best isn't good  enough," the slayer reminded them  flatly. There was a misconception that  she was there to be their best friend,  there den mother, someone to braid  their hair, or promise them everything  would be okay. Buffy needed them to  realized she could and would only do  one thing for them: teach them the  difference between life and death, that  was all she had for them. And for the  ones that would listen, maybe they'd  out live her, at least she hoped as  much. And for the ones that didnt,  they'd end up with all their friends,  lined in graves, graves she was tired  of digging.

This was the harsh truth. This was a  Slayers truth.

"Upward elbow smash," she yelled,  "Reverse knife hand strike," she called  out. "Circular block and punch," she  threw drill after drill at them, until  their shirts weighed them down, from  the sweat that poured off from them,  until she could see the tendons in  their limbs pulse with exertion. "Your  tired, you want to quit, you're bones  feel like a ruberband, and like I'm  going to snap them, your feet feel like  their going to shrivel if you stand ten  seconds longer, push through it, absorb  that pain, and use it, harness it,  because out there, when there's ten of  them and one of you, there is no  quitting, there are no time outs,  there's no tagging in, there is no back  up, there is you," she talked them  through the exertion. The girls heaved  over, with their palms pushing down on  their knees as their bodies quivered.

Sure, they could rely on adrenaline  when they were in the thick of it, but  adrenaline was messy, unfocused, she  wanted them to rely on muscle memory,   to know this dance frontwards and  backwards. 


Flash back

"You have no form," Giles noted, with a  judgy stiff upper crust voice, his arms  folded across his chest, leaning  against a bookcase in the library, as  they trained.

The tightly wound sixteen year old flashed her Watcher a tired look, like he could properly gauge anything, with his spectacles deep behind the binds of some musty watchers diary. 

Dear Diary, today I saved the word, with my eyeballs and dry English humor, not. Buffy rolled her eyes and threw the medicine ball in his direction, discarding the blind fold he put around her to the floor. "Well this was fun, but if I really wanted to be belittled, I'd be doing my chemistry homework right now," she retorted, willfully, swinging her black jansport backpack filled with more stakes, holy water, and rosemary's than say perhaps oh school books and notebooks that would help increase her less than stellar D average. 


In true fashion, never one to disappoint Giles removed his glasses for a quick sweep with his hankerchief, "Buffy, there's going to come a day, where your form, will cut down the time you spend on the field, the amount of energy you exert, and," the older man, sighed powerfully, "and...save your life." 

Buffy watched his shadow disappear into the tiny corner office of the library. Her hands balled into two fists at her side, as she chewed over the words he casually used about her life.

Save your life.

Like he knew, like her death would mean anything, stop anything. Where one dies, another one rises, what did it matter to them anyway, one less pencil to sharpen. They had no idea what it was like, to watch life through kaleidoscope eyes, all fractions of her life skewed, because the world needed her, more than her schoolwork, more than her family, her friends, her hobbies, and passions.

Now

"Now, show me a lower sideward sweeping  block," Buffy asked of them, concealing  a small smile as they found their  second wind. "Double spear hand thrust,  into flying front kick, and split block  punch," she commanded next. 

"Buffy-," Willow cried out from the  kitchen. The slayer's body whipped  around, her gold man swishing around  her neck as she found Willow's voice.  From the twisted expression of Willow's  Buffy knew whatever the topic was, it  wasn't one for the classes ear.  "Kennedy, wrap it up," Buffy turned the  training session over, returning back  to the kitchen.

Dawn and Andrew were standing at the  top of the basement entrance, their  ears pressed against the wooden door.  Buffy immediately looked to them, and  then to Willow with wide eyes, a silent  anxiety growing in her chest. "No, no,  I mean...I don't know," Willow jumped  to reply, waving her hands off, to ease  Buffy's panicked expression. "We just  heard....sounds," the red head mumbled,  sputtered nervously.

"Sounds," Buffy repeated,  inquisitively, the stress in her voice  not exactly corporeal, but not  invisible either. "Yeah," she replied, the automated response,  lacked any real degree of shock, because  with Spike the unexpected, was usually  what you expected. "Do we have-"

Her best friend handed her a coffee  tumblr before she could even finish her  sentence. "Right," Buffy said under  breath, looking down at the travel mug,  Faith's she imagined, since all the  other girls were out with her. She  looked over at Faith, thankfully, with  Faith she kept things on a verbal scale  simple. Words weren't really necessary  with the fellow senior slayer, she  quietly nodded, as if to say things  were cool. Andrew, and Dawn cleared a  path for her, so she could check on  Spike.

And if you're still breathing, you're  the lucky ones.
'Cause most of us are heaving through  corrupted lungs.

A full twenty four hours and she  figured, well she didn't know what she  figured. She didn't know how far out of  the school he made it, or if he made it  out all, if it was the explosion that  pushed him through the rubble, or just  by pure dumb luck he'd been able follow  her out, but not soon enough as the  buildings came crashing down and all  around.

Then it flickered through her mind, the  flames, instinctively she rubbed her  palm, remembering the flames that  ignited between their entwined hands,  she looked down at her hands at the top  of the stairs, it wasn't even red  anymore, you'd never know just twenty  four hours her flesh had been encased  in fire, but Spike, some of his wounds  hadn't even patched over last night. 

The slayer froze mid-step down the basement steps at the sight of Spike laid out on the floor. A bunch of angsty misfits in yoga pants who could barely operate a curling iron without burning a house down, that was not her ideal back up plan.

Spike, that's who she counted on, with her life, with Dawn's. That was her back up plan and her back up plan, was looking pretty horizontal. Before she counted her favorite race horse out, she picked her jaw off the floor and trudged over to his side with a travel mug of blood. 

"Come on," she murmured softly, hooking an arm under his that he could position his weight on, as she helped him back to the bed, averting her eyes. She knew the deal, in and out, she didn't want to make it any bigger of a deal than it was, before his ego splintered.

Setting fire to our insides for fun
Collecting names of the lovers that  went wrong

From under the thick black eyelashes it was hard though, not to want to study his appearances, asses his damage. Carefully, Buffy tried to be subtle about the amount of lip chewing she did around him.

What? Her, alarmed? No...

We are the reckless,
We are the wild youth

"Drink," she gestured, nodding her head in the direction of the travel mug she placed at his bed side, her arms folded over the small of her frame, her tone more determined then yesterday. 

The democracy where each Scooby got an equal vote was crumbling all around, the single voice, of a one-slayer-army-regime. 




vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:31 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Nyctophiliac:

Despite the blood that had roused him, it wasn�t long before he had found himself knackered once more. The lull of the TV put Spike�s weary eyes to sleep. When he dreamed there were no more visions of hell or his past. Then again, maybe that was a redundant observation. Regardless, it was a dreamless sleep. When he awoke late in the afternoon he found that his eyes wished for nothing more than to be asleep once again. Despite it, he raised his slender arm and wiped the sleep from his blurred vision. Seconds later, he rolled over expecting himself to brush into the form of the Slayer. Instead, his face met flat sheets.

Right. Slayers weren�t ones for keeping vampire hours, now were they?

He let out a deep breath that he didn�t realize he had been holding until expelled. It seemed the awkward muttering of where they found themselves positioned upon wakening had been avoided. Given their track record, it wasn�t as though they had too many checks in the �handled it well� column. He lay on his side, face buried in a cotton sheet, breathing in the fresh scent of Tide. It appeared Mr. and Mrs. Farmer kept up on their laundry duties. Comforting fact. Rather than being able to have his mind taken away by the rank scent of sheets, it seemed he had no choice but ruminate about the one question that he fancied running away from.

Buffy.

It was so much easier when she was simply labeled as The Slayer too him, wasn�t it? It wasn�t about a person then, yeah? It had been about two warriors meeting on the battlefield. Two entities who were destined to take out each other�s kind. More than that, it had been buggering fun! A right fight for him! He chased the high of a fight against a true warrior. He had sought out Slayers to do in good and proper because there had been nothing like a fight that could end in his own dust. The real joy was in the suicide mission of the battle, when the stakes could get no higher. It was like a gambler going all in, having everything to lose.

Now�she was a human woman. She was someone he respected. She was Buffy Summers. She was someone he knew and who knew him. She was someone with a history with him. It was a history that was viler than most people could stomach.

Thanks to you, Mate�

With fresh eyes after a well-rested sleep the one thing he could see clearly was this: he was running. He was running and he never ran from anything. He put one foot in front of the other and he charged head first into the battle no matter how bloody it�d turn out to be. He had dusted to take out The Hellmouth, but he couldn�t look Buffy in the eye? He couldn�t clear the air between them. He couldn�t say to her with great clarity, ��m buggerin� lost,� or, �don�t know who I am?�

Instead, he turned the telly on and lost himself into Soaps because it was easier than bearing his soul. It was easier than being vulnerable.

You�re beneath me.

Twice he had =been humbled by these cutting words. On the ground, looking up at someone with great strength and height that flew above him every day. Spike. William. They never measured up to those images. It might have been the stutter, the bad hair, or the nonconformist ways of his past. Now, he was an unclean, dead, evil thing. Though, his hair was better if you asked him. He was never enough. He never equaled to that of which he set his sights upon. He was a right shag, but not one who could be loved.

Once upon a time, it hadn�t been fair. William, as much of a buggering ponce as he was, hadn�t been a bad bloke. He would have made a kind, loving husband. He would have been as equal as a kind and loving father. He might not have made it in the world of poetry, but it wouldn�t have put much of a damper on his heart. All he had needed was love.

Just as much hadn�t changed through being turned, chipped, and souled. It seemed William�s longing for someone warm to sleep next to had never ceased its hold within him. The difference was, whereas William was deserving of the wish, Spike had not been. Until maybe now�maybe

How much of his past mattered? How much didn�t?

Who are you?

Why can�t you ever truly be enough?

The question would haunt him, but he couldn�t lay about all night obsessing. He had to suss out who he had become and laying about all the time wasn�t going to allow him to discover as much. Neither would avoiding Buffy and what had or hadn�t passed between them. He had to face the lot of it head on, just like he always did. Even if facing it head on meant being vulnerable once again, getting his heart dragged through the mud and dirt. He was finding himself. Starting at square one. Could it make sense to the peppy blonde or would it be too baffling since her world had been shaped for her from the start? A destiny deciding who she was for her.

Validation might have been something that Spike craved, but after living as long as he had, it was no longer something he expected.

Groaning, Spike took in the sensations around him. He could hear the hustle and bustle above him once again. The life they lived was never one to allow for rest and relaxation. There was always more work around the corner. Even for the sort like himself. Vampires, yeah, they did get an extra bit of downtime, didn�t they? Well, that was when they were evil. All they had to do was wait around the corner for the White Hats to run past where evil was busy lurking. The black clad beasties jumped out, knocked the hero down, and went home to watch their telly. At least, he did anyway�

The hero stressed from there, trying to find their enemy, and foil their plan. A plan that took one night of work, but a week or more for the White Hat to suss out. They sweat day and night while evil simply did what they fancied. Now, being a vampire with a soul, he was getting a taste of the active lifestyle. Where he didn�t crave the violence, it wasn�t as sweet as it once had been working alongside the Scoobies.  It didn�t mean he�d turn away either. With that bit in mind, he needed to get up. There was work ahead of them and he didn�t fancy being the dead weight they carried around.

Granted, he wasn�t above being the drunk they dragged around when he had too much whiskey and couldn�t keep his legs under him. Hell, he had his boundaries on what behavior he would and wouldn�t cut off. Lazy and needy wasn�t going to be what he was known for. He was a drinker. Not a whiner.

�Right then. These boots were made for walkin�. Innit so?�

Groaning, he rolled himself over onto his back, �better.�

Better, but he felt himself breathing in and out from the simple action alone. What the buggering hell was he? Some pansy that couldn�t move an inch, �not havin� that,� he reprimanded himself.

He was a buggering master vampire, wasn�t he? He had lived through rebellions.  He had survived how many apocalypses?  He had been tortured and beaten down time and time again. What now? He was going to start crying, begging people to kiss his buggering wounds because he had been burned with sunlight from the inside out? He didn�t think so! He didn�t whine over a few bumps and bruises. He was a warrior and warriors sure as bleeding hell could, at the very least, pull themselves off a sodding cot.

�Now get up!� He demanded of himself.

Sharp pains shot throughout his body as though he were being torn in half. His bones felt as though they were ripping out of his arms and legs as he lifted up into a standing position. He was going to get up those stairs and he was going to suss out what the situation was. At the very least, he was going to lean against the hallway�s wall and make fun of the bad job everyone was doing. It�s what he did. He told everyone they were stupid and all going to die that way they would up their game. Sounded cruel. In the past, it really had been for the sake of being cruel. Now, it had a buggering purpose. He was a demon. He had his insights. He knew angles they didn�t that would help.

Of course, with The First gone the next step didn�t involve demons�

So, maybe he didn�t have insights right yet. He could at least wisecrack, someone needed to provide a dose of sarcasm. It was important.

More than anything, he just didn�t want to be stuffed down here helpless. Needing to be taken care of. He shuddered at the thought. No one took care of him like some sodding sappy little baby! He took care of himself!

�Now move legs!� He demanded through gritted teeth while grinding his jaw.

His right foot stepped forward�

And�

Thump!

He landed flat on his face.

As he tipped over he tried to grab onto the cot for support, but rather than saving himself from the crash, he was flat against the hard floor. The white sheet on the bed floated down on top of him. So, he was humiliated, but at least he was covered up.

More like tangled up�

�Bloody hell,� he groaned.

He moaned as pain seared through him, as though he were being liquefied from the inside out again. It seemed that one cup of blood hadn�t done the trick. What was he supposed to do? Lay here. Wait for someone to come and coddle him like a small, helpless child all over again. Like hell! He was going to get himself up. He was going to get going. He�d be up those stairs.

Any day now�

He was a lump on the floor. His body yelled at him all the while he tried to tell it to go to hell. Why couldn�t it just mind him? He was the buggering one that was in control of his heap of flesh? He was its master, yet it refused to move. Every time he tried to lift an arm to push himself up, he swore as he felt something creak within him. Bones of paper. His cheek lay against the floor and he scoped beneath the cot. He wondered if it would be interesting for Buffy to know that they had slept over a spider web all tuckered in last night.

Hmmm. Something he didn�t know about her.

Did spiders get her skin crawling?

Well, easy enough way to find out since he had a new complaint to make about the conditions this bleach blonde hero was getting.

�Balls, really need to get up before I start talkin� to the creepy crawly.�

He was on a one way train to crazy town if he didn�t watch himself. Conversations about his identities and then spiders were becoming too interchangeable. Before he knew it he would be talking to Charlotte here about his problems. He needed to get up. He needed his body to work. He pushed his arms against the hard ground once more, feeling it shaking beneath his weight. His chest lifted from the floor, sweat dripping from his forehead as he tried to force himself up.

Almost there�Almost there�

SNAP!

Fire shot through his wrist, �Buggering hell!�

He slapped back down on the floor, his arm lying limply out in front of him while his wrist pulsed. Bones like paper was buggering right. It seemed he had knocked his wrist right out place, surely damaged from the sun poisoning that had coursed through him. Everything was weakened, though he could hold a steady thought now, his body didn�t seem to be cooperating as well.

�Helpless lil baby,� he badgered himself, �bugger off.�

He placed his forehead against the cold floor, defeated.




vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:31 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Quitethevampiregroupie:

Buffy watched him carefully, gazing over his  casually stoic expression as he rambled about  soap operas. She observed his blue eyes latching  onto the tube, as if it was some sort of life  vest, to keep him from going down on the Buffy  Summers ship.

He rattled on about some melodrama's she'd never  heard of before, insecurity pinched at the  slayer as she realized Spike was more apart of  the world than she was. She looked down at her  nails, nails she hadn't manicured since god  knows when. She couldn't even remember the last  time she stepped into a salon. Eight maybe, ten  years? Not exactly you average girl.

She could barely remember the last time she was  home after sundown, by the time she was climbing  through a window, the only thing on television  was QVC, or telemundos, which of course she  could never follow because she was failing  Spanish miserably, the whole not attending class  probably had something to do with that.

But, Spike, he had shows, hobbies, that's if  kitten poker constituted as a hobby. The point  was even in his unlife, he lived, he existed in  the world. The slayer, she just motioned through  it. Even in college, she'd never really given a  semester her all, if she was truly honest with  herself, when she looked back, the truth was  clear as day. On campus, she was never Buffy  Summers the student, she still hunted, she  sought out the monsters.

Buffy's cheeks flushed as she remembered the  cold air whipping through her hair outside the  bronze, as Spike nailed her to the cross,  "because you're just a little bit in love with  it. Death is your art. You make it with your  hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look  of peace. Part of you is desperate to know,  what's it like? Where does it lead you? And now  you see, that's the secret. Not the punch you  didn't throw or the kicks you didn't land. She  merely wanted it. Every Slayer... has a death  wish." Even Spike knew, she could pretend she  hated the gig, tell her friends she wanted more,  fight Giles about her responsibilities, but the  gig was ingrained in her, from the moment she  was born, she had been branded for this. Buffy  Summers, it was just a name her mother gave her,  something for a birth certificate, it wasn't a  title, it didn't speak for what she was.

The chosen one. The slayer. Class protector.  Destructo girl. Hurricane Buffy. Miss save-the- world. Slaymaster general. Slayer of the  Vampyrs. The prodigal slayer. The scourge of the  underworld. Vampire slayer extraordinaire.

A million nicknames, but they meant all the same  thing, all her friends knew, this is what she  was, this is who she was. 

So, Spike wasn't swooning for this version of  her, pajama's, flirtatious banter, and just your  everyday average California girl act, who could  blame him. She wasn't dating material, she was a  soldier, a fighter, a killer. He liked that part  of her, the feisty, unattainable, obstacle  course part of her. 

The television hummed in the background of her  thoughts, and the slayer felt his body sink  comfortably into the bed beside her, still with  a laser like focus on the moving pictures before  them. It wasn't long before the slayer was  completely out. Her weary eyes blinked a few  times, before completely retiring.

In the morning, she stretched out her arms, her  tired muscles felt like elastic, a fire shot  through her nerves, and her arms coiled back to  her sides in pain, "Ow," she mumbled against  Spikes bare chest. Her sharp emerald eyes  immediately snapped open as her lips brushed  against what felt like cold skin. Soon, the  slayer had realized she had somehow in her sleep  shifted from resting her head on the pillow to  Spike's chest. Buffy bit her bottom lip  embarrassed, trying to coyly wipe the drool from  Spike's chest, all while trying not to stir him.

Above, she heard a loud commotion from the  kitchen, distracting her from her attempt to  remove some damning evidence of unconscious  cuddling. The slayer followed the noise  upstairs, pulling a black hoodie off the couch  she'd also borrowed from the owners collection  of clothes she'd rummaged through when she got  out there, and changing into her tight powder  blue skinny jeans now frayed from the fight the  day before. She climbed the stairs following the  source of the sound, in the kitchen she found  Willow and Dawn holding their hands up with  guilt, "We wanted to do something nice," Dawn  quickly yelped.

"We were going to cook breakfast for everyone,"  Willow awkwardly paced in place, with a goofy  grin on her face. Buffy's attention turned from  them, to the floor where all the pots and pans  hanging from the ceiling were now on the floor  along with the iron rectangular pot rack that  ripped from the ceiling. 

"How," is all Buffy asked, her tone even, and  flat.

Dawn winced, "I may, or may not have,  underestimated the weight it could hold," her  sister vaguely explained, shrugging innocently.

The slayer shook her head, "I'm not going to  even ask," Buffy replied, pinching her nose, trying to hide the  amused grin on her face. Leave it to Dawn,  Destructo Girl JR, she was always trying to hang  and swing from things, like a laboratory monkey  full of energy. Mom and her were always having  to chase after Dawn from the moment she learned  to walk, or at least from the memories the Monk  created she remembered. 

"Hows Spike?" Willow asked, from behind the mane  of red hair that fell over her face, as she bent  down to pick up the fallen pots and pans with  Dawn, so they could begin cooking breakfast.

Buffy paused, thinking back to yesterday, how  quickly Spike had transformed from crazy  basement guy to just regular old Spike, their  Spike, well not quickly, but faster than his  last episode, at least with a little help of  some slayer blood. "We'll need more blood," was  all Buffy chose to inform them. She still hadn't  seen him move much, which she was fine with, if  he over exerted himself it could set them back  days.

Willow and Dawn stared blankly at Buffy and then  delved their eyes into the meats, eggs, and  dairy products in front of them, quietly  preparing breakfast. "What?" Buffy asked, dead  panned. 

"Kennedy took one of the rooms hostage for  herself last night, and locked everyone else  out. I had to sleep with eight girls in an  already cramped room that could barely sleep  four," Dawn babbled, despite the glare Willow  shot off as a warning flare when she opened her  mouth.

The older Summers rolled her eyes, brat, was  the only word she had to describe her least  favorite slayer in training. Her jade optics  honed in on her best friend inquisitively, with  a hint of judgment. It was like Buffy was  saying, this is who you choose to date? Without  saying the words. Not that she exactly had a  pedestal she could confidently sit from, like a  throne of superiority where only the most  rational romantic decisions were made, but  still, at least Spike had become less annoying  over time. "Hey, I got stiffed cuddles last  night," Willow shot black, in a tantrum, and  playfully whiny voice. The red head pouted,  "I'll talk to her, but for the mean time, maybe  Faith can do the charitable wrist slitting  today?"

Buffy nodded softly, despite the fact she wasn't  a big fan of Kennedy, she still held compassion  for her best friend. No one wants to be stiffed  cuddles after surviving an apocalypse, even as  cold and stone like as she was, she knew that. 

Xander, Giles, and a few of the other girls who  were mobile enough to be moving around hobbled  down from the second and third floor down to the  kitchen, "Man need bacon," Xander announced,  pounding his chest like a neanderthal.

The room filled with giggles, something Buffy  hadn't expected to hear so soon, the sound of  the groups laughter, especially her sisters,  brought a sense of relief to her. Her and Giles  exchanged a knowing look, a look of gratitude,  perhaps even hope that all wasn't lost, that the  death of Anya and some of the potentials  wouldn't crush them, and the unknown before  them, wouldn't encapsulate them in a bubble of  fear.

"Okay, Will, Dawn, you're on Kitchen duty.  Giles, Xander, Andrew, I want you on map duty,  find us a way to Oregon. I want public roads,  I'm not playing Grand Theft Auto with our  commando boys. We wanted to travel  inconspicuously on deserted back roads to keep a  low profile and that's pretty much what they  expected from us, what they'll expect us to do  again. So, we prove them wrong, we prove we can  think outside the box. We have suvs and vans  registered to seemingly average citizens, the  kind that cops don't run plates on, so that will  be our cover," Buffy placed an open palm on her  forehead, trying together her thoughts,  anticipate further obstacles. "Once we get to  Oregon, we'll need another road map to Seattle,  we'll be able to fly the younger girls back to  England without issue, Xander and Giles you'll  go with them. Andrew and Faith have records  though, so they'll be looking for them, so I  want Wood, Kennedy, traveling with them, find a  Cargo ship going out west for them," the scooby  gang nodded as Buffy handed out a list of  orders.

"What about you, Spike, little-bit, and Willow?"  Xander inquired, tapping his pencil absent  mindedly against an open map. Buffy nodded,  acknowledging her uncertainty, and lack of a  plan.

Buffy sighed, "I don't know," she admitted,  pushing back the waves of fold hair back, with  stress. "I need Will in-case things get hairy, if  I need like a cloaking or protection spell. And  Dawn...I just need Dawn close," she said, in a  lower, more vulnerable tone, that even Dawn a  foot away could catch, putting a tiny almost  unnoticeable smile on her sisters features.

One half of the scooby gang go to work on a  battle plan while the other half worked on a  menu to feed the gang. The kitchen quickly  filled with the smell of bacon, sausage, ham,  eggs, grits, pancakes, and freshly squeezed  orange juice, it was a regular Old McDonald  buffet. "Slayer Newbies, with me," Buffy spoke  up, leading the girls outside.

The girls held their hands out over their eyes,  some flinching painfully from the sun pouring  into their fresh wounds, like salt, filling in  all the nooks and crannies of their shredded skin. Renee, Rona, Satsu, and Vi stood before her out on the farm, squinting. "Yesterday we defeated the first," Buffy confirmed, with her hands on her hips. The girls clapped their hands together, giving each other high fives, and cheered, except for Buffy who stood still, motionless. "And today we're being hunted," she educated them, watching their eyes dilate with exhaustion. They wanted to stop, smell the roses, and rest, but slayers couldn't afford rest, rest wasn't in our vocabulary, Buffy knew it, Faith knew it, and a bunch of very dead slayers before them knew it.

"This is the gig, this is the life. We don't win an apocalypse and go out for pizza after, there is no summer vacation, there is just this, just the fight, so let's stretch," Buffy told them, the girls nodded in acceptance. The five of them joined in a circle, where Faith and Kennedy later joined them in lumbar extensions, hamstring stretches, abductor stretches, hip flexor stretches, thoracic extensions, and tricep stretches. With ever movement it felt like an electric surge was buzzing in her limbs, occasionally zapping her from within.

This was the gig. 

This was the life. 




vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:30 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Nyctophiliac:

He found his mouth unable to keep from speaking. It was something that he did bloody well. Talked. He didn�t have to say anything in particular, but still his big mouth wouldn�t shut. Uneasy silence was no trouble for him. There was always a way to fill it. Sarcastic quips. Jokes at other people�s expense. Nothing was out of his reach. Yet, right now, his heart was fluttering and he found himself unable to simply exist. Existing with Buffy was never trouble. Oh, sure, he knew what he was in for often enough. A punch to the face or more, but it never made him quiver. What of it? Rejection and, in retrospect, rightfully so.

You�ll love me.

I don�t.

Not yet.

He had pushed with the expectation that one day, out of the blue, she would surprise him and surrender to what was clearly between them. Until then, he would take each blow and every scathing word because he knew the reward of where it was leading. It had to be leading to the two of them becoming one, yeah? It just had to be! Nothing else seemed plausible. Of course, this was once upon a time when he didn�t have a soul, so how could he possibly understand all the reasons why that was simply a delusion. A sociopathic miscalculation. She had to reject him. She had to because, as it had been so eloquently put, he was beneath her.

He might have been the dirt that she fancied rolling around in, but that didn�t mean she was going to make a home in it. A pig only bathed in mud to cool off from life�s heat waves, but that didn�t mean they actually liked getting dirty. He had been a place for Buffy to take a break, but that didn�t equal her being proud of the choice  she made. Now, all soulful and tingly inside, he could see why pride alluded her. After all, his skin wasn�t exactly something he was proud of wearing any more than it was something she wanted inside of her.

Until she had.

I love you.

He hadn�t forgotten that she had said it. Granted, he hadn�t had a lot of time to dwell on those words and allow them to sink in. He had hardly been conscious for five minutes since his escape, but here he was and the words were flying back to him. Suddenly, all he could do was talk. Talk about anything other than that. Once upon a time the subject of them was the only thing that he used to ever be able to speak on. Like a flip of a switch, it was exactly what he was trying to avoid. He was standing where she had once been standing.

Who the buggering hell was he?

 I love you.

No, you don�t, but thanks for sayin� it.

He was what he was. A soul didn�t change his history. Just as that thought came to mind she gave his mind something to examine from every buggering angle. At least now there was someone who didn�t fancy his dust. A year ago, everyone would have lined up to shove a stake in him. Hell, he was surprised Buffy didn�t finally get fed up and do him in after they had shagged. He could have woken up in hell. Of course, Buffy wouldn�t do that. She wasn�t a coward. She�d look him in the eye if she had decided he was better off moving on to whatever came next for a horrific bloodsucker. She�d give him that decency to let him fight for his unlife, even if she had the advantage.

He could never kill her�

Her clothes came off and suddenly she looked at him, over her shoulder�quick as it was, but the look had been there.

He tilted his head to the side. Bewildered.

Somethin� happenin�?

He sucked in a breath to calm his quivering bones. He stared at the soundless telly that came only a few feet away. For so many reasons he couldn�t look as she undressed.

Hurt the girl.

His soul screamed, reminding him of things�

You should have burned back in Sunnydale.

The voice was low, deep seated in the back of his brain. A hollow, soulless sound that commanded his death and the icy grip took hold of the shy heart of a Victorian poet. He felt his nerves freeze over, his legs felt swollen, purple from the lack of blood rushing through his veins. Blood hadn�t pumped to his shriveled heart in over a hundred years. It was his mind playing tricks, he knew it. His mind was playing with him, his soul burning him with a blue fire inside out. He should have died for the many things he had done, but especially that one. He should have died.

He couldn�t look at her as she undressed.

What did she want with him? Why would she want anything with him?

Who the buggerin� hell are you anyway?

Suddenly, with every fiber of his being he wanted to rush from the cot and flee up the stairs out into a burning sun. Mr. and Mrs. Old McDonald weren�t keen on keeping the sunlight out as it were. Buffy had said so herself. It would be easy enough, except his body wouldn�t cooperate. He was more of himself now that he had drank blood, but his body had a long way to go before it made its own choices. It was a good thing for it in that moment, because a second later he understood something perfectly.

Not Angel! Not some sniveling crybaby broody vampire! Were a master! Master soulless vampire and can be a master vampire again! Sod off and quit whining!

He had done terrible things, but brooding in front of a fireplace throughout his nights and days wasn�t going to be how he handled it.

Buffy crawled over him and he didn�t know quite how to handle that either.

All he could do was demand the telly be put on and focus on as much for now, despite how close she suddenly was. The hairs on his arms stood up and he hadn�t been spooked being this close to a woman since he was William the Bloody Awful Poet. It was no surprise to anyone that he hadn�t had much in the way of game back then. He swallowed and suddenly he felt the way that he did in that era. Unable to speak what he wanted to say.

Somehow, it was easier when she was punching him in the face.

He snorted and lifted an eyebrow at her. He shook his head, �Dawson�s Creek ended. Will give you that it was this year, but is over. Wouldn�t say no to repeats,� he shrugged, �have a thing for bad telly. Soaps. Teen dramas. Hospital dramas. Like myself a good bit o�rubbish,� he then placed a hand over his heart, �Melrose Place was good for that. Bloody brilliant. Did everythin� you shouldn�t do when writin� a show. Was perfect. Nothin� was worse�� He frowned, �do miss it terribly.�

He rested back against the pillows. It was good. The telly would be on. They�d watch it. Sure, he doubted they had ever done something as mundane as this before. He remembered watching soaps with Joyce. Good woman she was. He knew he had been right to take a fancy to her. He didn�t take a fancy to most with a beating heart�

Telly time. Right. It was good. He wasn�t nervous. He wasn�t replaying what should have been his final moments over and over again in his mind. He wasn�t thinking about how Buffy had looked over her shoulder at him or crawled over him so nonchalantly. She was Buffy and he was Spike and everything was normal�

Who the buggering hell was he kidding?

The tension was here. Thick. There were words left unsaid. Questions that had now been raised that neither one of them knew how to approach. Hell, did he even want to approach it? He was different now, wasn�t he? The world was different now. That meant something�it meant a lot of things�

It meant there were more question marks floating around his head---everyone�s head---than there had ever been before.

He wasn�t Spike and she wasn�t Buffy anymore. The world was different. He was different and for the first time he was able to feel just what it meant to have a soul.

He was no longer the entity that she had believed him to be anymore. In fact, he didn�t know who he was anymore either�

Was he Spike or was he William? Was he entirely someone new? For the first time, he breathed that reality in. His brand new reality as though he were a wide eyed baby looking out at the world for the first time. He wasn�t fresh and innocent like a newborn, but he had to get to know himself just like one. What he liked. What he didn�t like. What was right and what was wrong. What he hated and�

And what he loved.

He had to learn everything over again with a fresh perspective. He had to get to know himself. The war with The First had given him little chance to, in a way, date himself. Now, he lay here thrust in the middle of complicated interpersonal relationships with no ideas on what his role was�or if he truly should, could, or even wanted to have one.

Who was he?

Who was lying beside him?

It all felt so familiar and so foreign at the same time.

Hurt the girl�

There was that too.

�Put the telly on. Let�s see if Melrose Place is lurkin� �bout,� he never ran, but suddenly he felt himself running. Telly time was the easiest thing to say. The easiest way to avoid what shouldn�t be avoided until he got his bearings.

Put the telly on, Slayer. Let someone else fill the silence until we have to move again�





vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:30 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Quitethevampiregroupie:

They held a stare for a few moments till the platinum blonde vampire begrudgingly swung the glass full of slayer's blood to his lips. Her body felt a moment of ease as she watched Spike's resolve crack and finally agree to drink something. There was a sigh of relief as he finished the contents and although it wasn't by much Buffy could notice the difference in his health just by the way his features morphed back and forth without discomfort."Never were much for the coddling bit, were you?" Spike cracked, his first joke, earning a huge grin from the slayer, her emerald eyes sparkled with life to see him talking.

"I don't know," she whispered under her breath, "I never heard any complaints from you before," the slayer replied with bated breath.

The slayers inclination toward the unknown of their relationship found broader strokes to paint with in their conversation. Sex was never complicated with Buffy, she never struggled with her urges, she never put thought behind them. Sex was an escape, a time to feel anything, other than everything else she was feeling. Sex was the only time she didn't feel like the slayer, the chosen one, or someones sister. When she shed her clothes she was shedding herself of the responsibilities and pressure, the titles and expectations. It was the only time she didn't need to think about what she was doing. Talking about it though, talking about sex, somehow to Buffy that was more obscene then the act of it. She never wanted to talk about it or analyze it, she didn't have time, life was complicated enough.

She didn't have time for feelings or other peoples needs. Angel, Riley, they had needs, needs that they expected to come before her and her duties, they just didn't get it. Or maybe she didn't, maybe she couldn't, not with them. At first she thought it was because she was broken, but it was because they were broken, her and Angel, her and Riley, it didn't work out not because of her, but because it wasn't suppose to. They placed her on a pedestal her feet dangled to far off from with Spike she was grounded, their was no picture of morality she had to hold herself to, for once she could just exist in her flaws and imperfection unapologetically.

Things were different now though, she was different. She wasn't a child anymore and she didn't have to look after Dawn anymore, she didn't owe anyone anything, she wasn't even the chosen one anymore. She was just Buffy Summer's now and she got to choose what that meant and...who it meant something with. She'd had her fair share of time being someone's girlfriend and being alone. She had time to sort out what she wanted from what she didn't, and now she was taking small steps toward her future, instead of hiding from it, and it started here and now.

And it was absolutely terrifying. At the risk of sounding daft or like Faith, Buffy attempted to flirt, or what she remembered flirting sounding like. God, flirting with Spike, she was daft, no it was hopeless she told herself, she was an idiot, worse than an idiot, she was a daft idiot. Dawn was right, she was hopeless, she had mom hair, and was just a cat short of a shut in old maid.

Thankfully the conversation shifted from her lame attempt at being sexy, "�Half ass job down here,� Spike spoke up, drawing her back from her self loathing, �take my upstairs. Fancy a room with view. Fresh sheets. And I want a chocolate left on my pillow every night when I wake up,� Buffy's mouth twitched with amusement, her smile growing wider with Spike's growing sarcasm. The ends of her lips split so far to each side of her cheek, it pained her to smile, but she wouldn't have traded it for anything else, watching Spike's arms fold across his chest in a declared tantrum, brought the slayer to giggles. �need it. Patient here. �m recoverin�.�

Buffy stared at Spike blankly with her 'oh please' look, shaking her head, with a few airy laughs. "Sorry pal, Mr. and Mrs. Old Mcdonald had a Farm don't exactly share your affliction for sunlight. They're not exactly big on your blackout curtains," she explained, patting Spikes chest with a mocking empathy. "Hey it might not be a mint chocolate on your pillow, but at least ya know someone still wants you alive," she teased,"Which is more than you could say a year ago," she reminded him, in her cheery look on the bright side way, playfully.  

Leaving him to chew on that, the slayer's body lifted from the pull out bed and wandered over to the couch across from him to retrieve a change of clothes. The rest of the gang was starting to settle down upstairs and frankly superhuman or not her body craved the same thing.

The slayer flashed an incredulous look Spike's way, amazed to see his humor returned just after the episode he had just a few hours earlier, the slightest smirk across her candy apple red lips as she turned her back to him slowly peeling away her tattered white blouse that did not survive the afternoon battle. Shimmying out of her jeans, the slayer bit her bottom lip, a wave of insecurities flooding over her while she undressed in front of Spike, an act they had practiced more in one year than brushing her own teeth. The rhythm of her heart picked up with each second her California sun kissed skin was exposed to him, every moment her curves lingered in front of him, and if you blinked you would have missed it but casually, curiously, and hesitantly, over her shoulder she glanced back toward Spike from the corner of her eye as she pulled her arms through a loose, baggy, plaid collared shirt that she found laying about in a pile of fresh laundry the owners left in their haste out the door under Willows influence. 

He is in my heart.

Last night.

They still hadn't addressed it, they were so busy marching a thin line between victory and death there hadn't been time to put last nights events into words. Did he even know? Could he even tell the difference? Her eyes cast down toward the ground in uncertainty as she buttoned the plaid shirt. Before she thought they could win, back when it was going to be their last night on earth, she finally allowed herself to give into her feelings. She let herself love him and that's why, why last night was so different, so monumental. 

And why is it that I always get shoved down in the basement anyway? Might be a monster, but we�re just as deservin� of four star accommodations. Just set myself ablaze, didn�t I? Think I�d get a room with a Jacuzzi or some rot," his protests and demands made her laugh harder. Turning around she stared at him silently, glowing with joy to hear him so...Spike. 

The slayer eyed the bed analytically for a moment, the only way to get in the bed was to slide Spike across or climb over him. Joking or not, she suspected he still wasn't prepared for physical activity, so she didn't want to jostle him more than he had already been jostled today. Then there was climbing over him, her nose wrinkled for a moment as she debated it like a school girl afraid to make things awkward she cursed herself for being so stupid, it's just Spike she told herself, he's seen you naked a million time, he's seen you-- no, she blinked, not going to think about that. The slayer internally rolled her eyes, and climbed over him, so she could occupy the empty ride side of the pull out bed, avoiding eye contact with him afterwards for a few moments as she adjusted, or well fidgeted with the blankets awkwardly, as if she hadn't just mounted him mid air.�least put the telly on. So bleedin� behind on my programs, if I don�t try catchin� up now, might never be able to," she heard him mumble over her thoughts.

"Huh?" She asked, with a vacant, lost expression. "Oh," she recovered as she heard it again in her head."Telly-" she repeated, shaking her head as the word awkwardly slipped from her lips. "Television," she corrected. "Right," she followed his rationality hollowly. "We could do that," she mused, a small smile crept over her features as the slayer realized she couldn't recall the last time she did something as normal as watch tv."Is Dawson's Creek still a thing?" She asked sheepishly, a bashful red deepening in her cheeks from her outdated references. God, she was pathetic, like some unearthly alien, void of social grace. Not being the chosen one meant she was actually going to have to be apart of the world, their was a whole era of reality television she didn't even know existed.

"I can watch tv," she offered in a tiny, indecisive voice as her eyes drifted from his pale blue hues to his his lips, the slayer held onto a breath at the back of her throat for safe keeping, incase she forgot to breath again. Television, she could totally watch television, her, spike, and some good old fashioned television watching, no problem the slayer told herself.




vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:29 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Nyctophiliac:

Nausea should have washed over him from the prominent scent of Slayer�s blood. It didn�t. He felt the sting of chapped lips being overtaken with drool. His stomach flipped and flopped, but not out of sickness. It was celebrating. Delicious blood. Life in a cup and it stared him in the face. Hell, the original Slayer was passing it to him, just about ready to pour it down his scorched throat. His head pounded as though his brain were kicking him in the side of the head, trying to push him towards the glass as if to say, �hello, you sorry sap, that bit o�food you need to survive is right in front of you!�

He looked away from the cup. His headache increased from the scent and his stomach seemed to cry like a whiny child. Are you completely daft?

Do you want to die? Do you want to take the boat ride straight into an eternity of torture? It�ll make your skin being ablaze look like a trip to the spa with one of those full body massage only some blokes are so lucky to get.

He felt the conflict of his stomach and his mind rushing towards each other armed with the two truths he knew in his heart. He couldn�t drink human blood because he wasn�t a buggering savage any longer. He also couldn�t pretend that blood was no longer a factor because he was still a vampire. A vampire with a soul, mind you, but a vampire nevertheless.

The argument tugged within himself. Yet, once more, his vision was clouding over. The stress was taking him somewhere and he didn�t want to go anywhere. Not because the past was unpleasant. Bloody hell. Wasn�t he a liar if he said that bit wasn�t the truth? It wasn�t the whole truth though. He needed to be here. He needed to be here to help her. He saw her eyes. He heard her voice. Vulnerability was a nasty bit of thing for The Slayer. Wasn�t it always spit right back in her face? Those emerald eyes sparkled with longing and hope that the one sod she knew was in her corner wouldn�t pull a disappearing act, or force her out, as she had been abandoned once before.

The vein in his head intensified, a fire that spread through him as intense as when the chip had once seared him from the inside. His long fingers cupped his head, trying to sort out the pain and find the here and now that Buffy so desperately had tried to make him feel. Yet, he was lost in a looming cloudiness.  Suddenly, he was choking on a fiery mist that felt as though it were pouring in through his eyes and nose, making them water, as his brain continually thumped, hollering at him to understand.

Is that what you want to be, you Pillock? Haven�t you buggered up enough in your time? Aren�t you the big man then? Takin� such a righteous stand over blood. �s blood.  Fancy yourself a hero now all of a sudden? Blood is goin� to be your platform. Yeah, you�re the big, mighty hero, aren�t you? While you�re off tryin� to make some point �bout how you�ve changed, save your soul because�what? You�re sorry. The real hero is givin� you a chance to do somethin� useful, save a few lives. Savin� your life in the process. Too daft to see it then? Don�t buggerin� deserve that soul.

Without warning, his head shot up. His back was off the cot and he was sitting, his eyes gold, his fangs out, his features bumpy. He grabbed hold of the cup that Buffy held, all of his strength going into gulping it down. The blood massaged his throbbing throat, and though it wasn�t exactly the temperature he would have preferred, he found himself, for once, unable to be picky. All he knew was the aroma of blood. He knew the joy in his stomach as it began absorbing the nutrients it so desperately needed to heal. Within moments it was gone, blood staining the side of his face. His features shifted back, the cup falling out of his weak hand and rolling on the floor. He rested his head against the pillow, feeling as though he did after a trip to Woodstock. Blood, just then, was much better than any high he could possibly imagine.

Slowly, regaining a bit of himself, he focused his eyes back on her. He looked at her for a moment, half amused, �never were much for the coddlin� bit, were you?�

He snorted, but he wasn�t complaining. She had pushed him, the way that she did. She had always pushed him. He had always pushed her too. They always pushed each other. He�d push her to see the truth. She might push him away, but it wasn�t always such a negative connotation. Not that he blamed her for understanding the monster and all its glory that lived inside him. She had pushed him to be more, to be better because she wouldn�t settle for anything less. He wasn�t there yet. Bloody hell he wasn�t there yet! He didn�t know what there looked like. He didn�t know what he looked like�in this world�with a soul. What did it all mean? But she had pushed him to be more. Now, he was exactly that. His journey wasn�t over. It was just starting. He was bleeding puppy that needed a leash because it still got �come� and �sit� mixed up. His buggering self might just go and play in traffic too if there wasn�t a watchful eye on him. Nevertheless, he was still more than the dead, evil thing that lurked at night and only didn�t kill her friends because of a chip in his head that controlled him.

Or because she wouldn�t have liked it.

Her lack of coddling had pulled him out of the darkness. It had banished the demon back into its cage. Now, it was keeping him out of that very same cage himself. She kept him out of the dark. Here he was. He was able to see her. He was able to feel the cot and he smelled the musty scent of a basement that he suspected was growing mold in the corners.

�Half ass job down here,� he took note. �See they have a telly. Have some furniture down here, but it�s not really a made basement. Not exactly a thing you want to only do half the job on,� he stuck his chin out and said with a light tone, �not my taste. Give me a crypt and I can make it posh with no budget. They have money from there tomatoes or whatever the bleedin� hell they grow here and this is the buggerin� best they can do. Bloody hell.�

He then pointed his chin towards the stairs, �take my upstairs. Fancy a room with view. Fresh sheets. And I want a chocolate left on my pillow every night when I wake up,� he folded his arms over his chest with a demanding air about him, �need it. Patient here. �m recoverin�.�

God it felt good to be able to give lip again. Given the hell they had lived through a little lip was called for. At least, for him it was. It made things manageable. It was his shell. It had always been his shell. His skin wasn�t simply easily torn as all skin is found to be.. His skin had been torn years ago. His skin had never healed.

His words were his shield protecting every grain of salt that anyone might possibly pour into his wounds.

Even those he trusted.

Maybe especially those he trusted, which was a list with a measly sort of number. No bleeding surprise to anyone there.

Who was he now with a soul? William. Spike. Some mix of the two. How could someone over one hundred years old have lost something as simple as identity? Then again, he hadn�t really had one in over a hundred years and even as William the Pathetic Poet, that hadn�t been much of an identity to write home about. He had spent his life with a chapped heart.  From there, he was always someone�s boy toy or trying to make his name based on other people�s fear, the things he did, it was all exterior. It was easier to work on the outside then face each unanswered question posed within. Identity. It was a new question for him, was it? Yet, finally, being older, being soulful, he finally had the capacity to face it.

Hell, maybe it took just about �dying� to do exactly that.

The war was over. He wasn�t just another bloke in the trenches. He knew how to do that right well. Suddenly, more awake, his soul called to him to bleed and his mind begged him to suss himself out before he found himself ripping his hair to shreds again.

Not bloody likely, Mate. Not the fanged bloke with the gigantic forehead sniveling �bout over here. Won�t fall to pieces cause I�m bad.

Balls!

Was bad.

Still, he might not whine, but as he looked up at Buffy he knew one thing for certain, if he was going to be any good fighting beside her in the future he needed to identify himself. How? He couldn�t figure it, but for now his sharp tongue ought to keep the lot of everyone from being all too suspicious of the confusion that nibbled at him from within.

�And why is it that I always get shoved down in the basement anyway? Might be a monster, but we�re just as deservin� of four star accommodations. Just set myself ablaze, didn�t I? Think I�d get a room with a Jacuzzi or some rot,� he sighed and then tilted his head towards the TV, �least put the telly on. So bleedin� behind on my programs, if I don�t try catchin� up now, might never be able to.�





vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:28 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Quitethevampiregroupie:

Fractured memories echoed under the slayers skin as her fingers laced with Spike's, her jaded green eyes mirroring a resonating insecurity deep inside the slayer, hesitant to to take her relationship with Spike from the shadows, to exhibit feelings, something real and deep. Real and deep, so deep, like quicksand it represented itself deceptively to you with whispers of a promising foundation, but eventually Buffy found the 'real and deep' stuff was what pulled you down, frighteningly attaching itself to your strength, and claiming it's ownership of your flight mode, until your trapped, victim, left for dead. 

This thing, whatever it was, this seed between her and Spike, there was no knowing what was ahead for them if they could ever have something. If the past was any type of accurate indicator for their future they were doomed. Buffy Summers doomed, another chapter, another ex-boyfriend for the book.

Yet despite all their history, her history, and stellar bad luck, their was this magnetic pull to stay, and try. Sometimes it was masked by pure mortification, fear of judgement, but lately the mortification was slowly chipping away to nothing more then a poor excuse to live her life.

If Xander could date vengeance demons and Willow could flay the bad guys, why couldn't she twist in the sheets with fire? Why couldn't she have Spike? The reasons were dwindling and the only thing left was burning curiosity.

I knew you were trouble when you walked in
So shame on me now

The Bronze. School

The first time they saw each other, when the plotting began, the first steps in a failed take down. That's when she saw it in his eyes, the hunger, he flirted with it. She became his favorite mouse to toy with, his play thing.

There was a point before he was chipped, a time before the soul, when she knew with an unwavering certainty, that he'd never hurt her-- not because he cared, but because he'd miss the hunt too much. The slayer could sense the delight he took from each blow, the joy of the throw. She'd become a game, his favorite game to play. No, he never wanted to kill her, his need for her was insatiable and draining her would never quell that time of desire.

Another slayer wouldn't do the job this time. It had to be her. Always her, he wanted to dance with only her, her bones had screamed inside of her sure of it, when her brain got the message she was unsure. Knowing, accepting, acknowledging-- they don't always happen at the same time, but somewhere between Angelus and Riley she knew, she knew Spike needed her, that there dance would never end.

She just never expected this.

--Expected to be waltzing with him.


Oh, oh, trouble, trouble, trouble
Oh, oh, trouble, trouble, trouble

"Take it we won then?" He spoke, the words were rough, dragging out from his mouth in a croak.

Her emerald eyes shined brightly at him, a broad smile spread across her face, and her body radiated in response to his voice. A c*cky smirk flirted at the edges of her mouth, her head tilting back, as if to say 'what do you think'. The slayer's eyes drifted from him to their locked fingers.

"I did most the work," she teased, her voice a gentle, playful whisper, her heart skipping several beats as she dipped her toes into the water, embracing the frigid cold, the unknown, the relationship phase of the pool where she decided to move from this existence they shared, existing side by side, fighting side by side, and try something else.

Something else.

--like this, like holding hands, and jokes. Like sacrificing one's self for the other one, like today. Like now.

She was the slayer. She had come across the worst things in this world, overcome every obstacle, and beat death, but nothing scared her like this, nothing made her heart jump like a skipping stone till now.

With Angel it had been different, there had been instant trust. Angel was neutered by his soul, plagued with guilt, he was never a threat in the beginning. With Spike she knew the worse things he was capable of because before he was anything to her, he had been her sparring partner first. 

Flew me to places I'd never been
Now I'm lying on the cold hard ground

The animosity was so powerful it could only be replaced by something equally powerful and it couldn't be love, not then, so lust, it became lust, and who was to blame it became hard to keep track of.

Who was guilty? Him? Her? A chain of events? The domino effect? Who knew.

Eventually the dance became nothing more than a reflex, unprompted and unpremeditated, eventually it was just part of their dance, part of the routine. And when she was with him she didn't need to think, it was the only time she ever let someone else pull the strings, and was reactionary.

Bliss, that's what he gave her, overwhelming, blinding bliss. 

That he's the reason why
You're drowning, you're drowning, you're drowning

�I was drunk when I killed Nikki.�had been out drinkin�� Wasn�t lookin� for her. Some chit staggers up to me at the bar and asks, �on the fourth of July, do British people sit �bout sippin� tea all angry like. I followed her into the subway to bite her later. Instead, for the second time, I ran into Nikki. And Slayers�.Slayers were always a more interestin� chase," Buffy's eyes gazed back up at Spike darting left to right and back as she attempted to understand his crazed spontaneous confession.

The Summers heart contracted at the painful murmur of the past slayer's name, the hideous reminder of Spike's past sins, the ultimate defense the other's held against her-- Spikes past. He's a killer, he's killed, they were right. Two slayers and countless more, Buffy could never forget that. Wood would never forget that.

"Shh, shh, shh," her voice cracked, each hush ending quickly at the end of her tongue, broken, and caught in her throat, she violently shook her head, snapping her eyes shut at the flood of faces of Spike's victims, of dead slayer's eyes.

The blonde heroin slowly retreated behind her guard fortified by stone, blinking away the pain and sight of blood from her vision, till she could see him again, plain as day, no distractions, or pictures of violence. 

"Spike that was then, this is now," she coaxed the vampire earnestly her crystal moss orbs burning through him, reaching out with dire need to find him in the crazy. "Stay in the now with me," she pleaded, gripping his hand tighter, scanning his face for hope. 

It's all she needed, a clue, a hint he'd come out of this.

�What�s goin� on, Buff?� Wasn't that the million dollar question.

 
When your saddest fear comes creeping in
That you never loved me or her or anyone or anything. She found him once before, she'd find him again. Save him from himself.

Her coral pink lips pursed together thoughtfully as she mulled over the days events, "You're just tired," she excused,  freeing his hand from her grip she reached her hand up toward his face tenderly brushing her fingertips against his forehead, down the line of his jaw, and back through his loosely gelled platinum blonde hair.

I'll fix you her eyes promised as she looked over him. So many time he'd done the same for her. He'd been her whipping boy when she needed, her punching bag, her one night stand, her shoulder, her back up, her friend, she'd be damned if she wasn't about to do the same now. 

��m dyin�. I know it. Don�t mean that much. Know what�s wrong with me. But�there�s more. Can see it.  Feel it," Buffy listened to his words, her eyes pinched with confusion, trying to follow his incoherent rambling.

But sometimes enough is enough, and sometimes you can't coddle the patient, sometimes you have to push back until they found their point of intolerance, but not before. There was no quitting. The world did not have time for people like them to become quitters, it demanded more from them. 

"Hey, hey, listen to me," Buffy shot, as the army general of their troop. "You are not dying okay-- well," she waved her hand off impatiently at the irony. "Because technically you're dead and dead thing's can't die, we're digressing from the point, and the point is you are here, you're here," her hand traveled back down to his, grasping it in hers to show him, "this is you, being here," she advised, the slayers voice hard and stubborn.

The time for casualties in this war was over, Buffy was not allowing anyone else become apart of that death count. It was the time for the rest to decide whether they would become a survivor or a warrior.

Would they become the person who survived tragedy or the person that fought it off and lived to do it again tomorrow?
 
Oh, oh, trouble, trouble, trouble
Oh, oh, trouble, trouble, trouble

"Be here with me?" She whispered weakly, selfishly. The slayer's body said it all, I need you it screamed.

She brought the glass filled with Kennedy's blood on his nightstand to him, "Sit up," she commanded, pressing the edge of the glass to his lips and tipping it backward slowly. 

Heal.

Drink.

Find me.




vampire𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘦

 

Dec 7th 2015 - 6:27 PM

Comment | Message | Block

Nyctophiliac:

Calming fingertips trickled against his face. Reality was in this basement. It wasn�t 1857. He wasn�t in the bad place, a place of brimstone and psychological torment. Not today. Today he was in this basement with calming fingertips and eyes that pleaded with his own. He blinked several times while looking at Buffy, realizing both the reality of her being there and the troubles that lurked behind glassy green eyes.

I�m not ready for you to not be here.

It lacked permanence, but that was them, wasn�t it? There was no stone carvings for them. The pair would not be in the history books. They would be a secret passage of each other�s story. It didn�t matter how much Spike had shouted his thoughts from the rooftops for the whole bleeding world to hear. The world was deaf to what he felt inside, old and new. They always had been. It was his curse. William Pratt was seen, but what people heard was their own interpretation. That was the danger of the poor poet. Or the poor artist of any kind. They handed out the most vulnerable sides of themselves. They gave themselves to greedy hands demanding a story to be told only for them to make it their own. They decided who you were instead of asking what it all meant.

Monster.

Thing.

Demon.

Mamma�s Boy.

That last bit was true.

Buffy had finally seen him. To be fair, she had seen him when it was right for him to be seen. She called him a thing and he was at that time. He was a demon parading around in human clothing. The trouble was he hadn�t known it officially then. He didn�t understand the difference between the immoral and the moral. He simply figured that those with a moral compass were far too sensitive. It wasn�t their fault, now was it? They were born that way and with a little reason maybe they might lighten the buggering hell up. He couldn�t know, couldn�t understand what heroes stood for, because a sociopath is incapable of it. Buffy was right. He was beneath her once upon a time. Maybe he still was, after all. He was buggering new to this whole soul business, yeah? How could he know what it was to be a human being when his last days as one had been back in the 1880�s?

He was brand new to this world. Who was he?

All he knew was that he was here, with calming fingers on his face that he had no right to feel. He stared in the eyes of the woman who needed him now. She needed him to be better, to be stronger, to be her anchor as he had been in their war. His mind caught up with him, a little sleep did wonders for a vampire, and blood would do better. Slowly, yeah, but he would get there.

Just need your wits �bout you, Mate.

With a sharper mind, he could carry himself through from there. It wouldn�t be easy, but he could get his legs beneath him and help them push forward in whatever direction they were taking themselves in. He could help Buffy for as long as she needed him here. Then, as it was inevitable, he could be left behind in the dust.

You�re a monster. Vampires are monsters. They make monster movies about you.

Not a monster anymore. Not in the literal sense anyway. Who are you? His mind circled the drain with memories spinning around in his brain, beckoning him to see his past. Too bleeding far into the past. The chip. Glory. Times as a helpless boy. Times as a helpless puppet for Dru. They all had one thing in common. Helpless. Helpless as he was now. He carried no identity. He never had. He molded himself into the form he wagered people wanted and needed him to be. Most of the time, it turned out rather unsuccessfully. Of course, pretending never carries you very far, does it?

Who was he?

The thought made him ache for an answer the way that his tongue craved the blood he could smell lingering around the room. His face, from weakness threatened to vamp out. His eyes took a golden hue for a moment, but he shook his head. He shook away the desperation. He didn�t care how vulnerable he was comfortable getting around Buffy, desperation wasn�t much of a color he was willing to show anyone. Even if his body still felt as though it were bursting into the same flames that had lit him up in the Hellmouth before.

He cleared his throat, �take it we won then?�

He said, his first clear thought since being pulled from the wreckage he couldn�t figure how he had been freed from. There was another question that bit at him. How was he still here? Buffy had gotten back to the bus. He was left to dust because it was the only way to close up shop in Sunnydale for good. He saw himself beginning to crumble, every nerve exploding inside himself, and here he lay. His chin tilted down, looking at his bare body resting on tossed sheets. He was burnt alright. He had been set off like a firework. Fourth of July had come early for ol�Spike. He wagered he could skip the festivities this year, after all, given that he had already been lit up like one. Wasn�t like it was much of his country anyway.  Then again, no country was his. Not being what he was. He belonged to nothing and to nowhere. He traveled the world as though it were his own, but he went against nature. He was its only mistake.

He took the neck�s of those who defended it and snapped it. He drank their blood. He stole their jackets. He had worn them as a prize. His eyes glassed over.

�I was drunk when I killed Nikki.�had been out drinkin�� Wasn�t lookin� for her. Some chit staggers up to me at the bar and asks, �on the fourth of July, do British people sit �bout sippin� tea all angry like,� he spoke softly, a deathbed confession, �I followed her into the subway to bite her later. Instead, for the second time, I ran into Nikki. And Slayers�.Slayers were always a more interestin� chase��

He tilted his head to the side.

Where had that come from?

The room started to blur. He shook his head quickly. His mind was blurring again. The Ghost of Christmas Past wasn�t letting up. He took Buffy�s hand, grounding himself. He was here. Here. If he let himself slip too far again, soon he would be killing Nikki Wood. What a treat that would be for everyone? The Principal probably wasn�t too far off from here. The last thing he needed was to hear replays of his mum�s death from Spike�s Greatest Mumbling Hits. The bloke would try to do him in good and proper for it. This time, hell, even Spike couldn�t suss out blaming him.

He had hardly been able to blame him much the first time. The Principal was alive still, wasn�t he?

He stared back at Buffy, her need, and his need. They were circling the drain together. He was here. He was here, so he knew what had just happened. They had fought a war that she had only been put back in charge of because Faith had gone and gotten herself all blown up. She was serving with the very people who had caused a mutiny. Her friends. Her own buggering sister. The Potentials that she had trained well enough that some of them had survived this war. They�d all be dead if it weren�t for this woman right here before him now. Was she alone in a room full of people? The way she looked at him now, he gauged as much.

He needed to remember he was here. Too much time traveling. It was all reflection. He wasn�t much for the self-reflection, but he couldn�t escape it.

Who are you?

He didn�t know, but right about now it couldn�t matter. He sensed it, looking at her; they were still in the thick of something, though he couldn�t put his finger on what. Maybe it was just the aftermath of war. On to reconstruction. Maybe it was something else. Could it be something else? The knights had attacked them in the car�but they hadn�t. He knew it now. He knew it well. So, who had attacked them? Or was all in his mind? Was it all dream?

How much was real and how much wasn�t?

�What�s goin� on, Buff?� He said, asking her, his eyes round with concern that he couldn�t hide. He cleared his throat, ��m dyin�. I know it. Don�t mean that much. Know what�s wrong with me. But�there�s more. Can see it.  Feel it.�

He was coherent. Now was the time for him to know. Maybe with a little motivation he could fight off the injuries that were trying to take him. There was a dying process for all living beings. He wasn�t living, however, but he wondered how different it was with the undead. Hallucinations were part of it, yeah? Part of a living death and as he was slowly melting away from the damage the sun had caused him, he had to assume that�s why his mind continued to mush all his former realities together.

What was this reality? Maybe he could hold onto it. He could fight. He could fight and he could help her because no one should have to do it alone.  




Previous12Next

Back to Posts

TOU | Privacy | Cookies | Copyright

© 2024 RolePlayer.me All Rights Reserved.