Title: What Became
Season: Alternate Season 4
It’s been such a long time since I’ve been on LJ, let alone posting to Seasonal_Spuffy, so saying I’m nervous is an understatement. What I’m posting today is really just the beginning of a much bigger story that I’m still planning out. I apologise that there is not more to it at this point, but I have high hopes for it. It’s set in a world where Buffy didn’t send Angel into Acathla Hell. And that is all I can say…
Hope you like!
Spike hears them whispering across the basement. He’s across the room—not a huge space, but it’s jam packed with humans and peace-loving demons and for the most part, none of them are trying to keep it down, not even for the evil vampire trying to get his kip. Truth be told, it’s Buffy’s voice that carries, and not because her cutesy valley girl accent grinds on his last nerve. Not anymore. Now, it’s the urgency, the fear that he picks up on that never seems to leave her. She’s talking about her mum, imploring her watcher to tell her how they can find a doctor, and Spike closes his eyes, resigned yet pained. He knew Joyce’s headaches would be more, knew it like they knew everything now was life and death in the blink of an eye. Only docs they came across in their travels were the intellectual kind, and they never lasted long in this new world. What the Slayer was after was a brain doctor, and without the machines they’d become reliant on in the old world, what good would one of them do now? Joyce was as good as dead. He knew it, Giles knew it, hell, even Buffy knew it, but he knew the slayer would never accept it, couldn’t, and it was something he admired about her even now.
Still, it hurt. She’s a good woman, the slayer’s mum. She’s tough, but fair, kind and compassionate where the younger lot aren’t. Sensitive enough to give him the space he needed whenever he was feeling the loss of Dru, when her daughter would be all up in his face, completely clueless to his pain. Not that he didn’t do what he could to pay Buffy back tenfold over the big forehead that ruined all their lives, though these days it was mostly out of sport than any real lingering anger or blame. No point to tearing each other apart with words anymore. The demons lurking outside are more than eager to rip their bodies apart for real, blood and gore as they laugh and feast on the misery Angel, the great ponce, brought upon them all.
Out of the corner of his eye—he’s trying to sleep, yeah?—he sees her coming, her stride determined as the bodies surrounding her seem to part like the Red Sea. Spike’s forced to open his eyes and watch the phenomena; he never tires of seeing her power as it radiates amongst the people while the little sheep don’t even notice they do it.
She’s before his cot in half a minute, staring down at him with that expression on her face he likes to think is a mix of courage, regret, and the ever-present stick up her arse. He knows what’s coming, and he just doesn’t want to hear it.
“Spike, I need your help.”
She’s dreaming if she really thinks they can go on a road trip and find what she’s looking for. He eyeballs her with one lazy eye, shows his usual contempt for her needs—why upset the balance now?—and then promptly attempts to get more comfy in his cot. It’s a privilege he’s got for helping to keep the throngs safe, and he’s not about to say no to not sleeping on the floor with the rest.
He counts…one…two…thr…and there she is, hands grasped crushingly around the balls of his shoulders as she gets all up in his face, her hot breath nearly burning his neck as she leans in, practically growling in his ear. It makes his body tingle, so he holds extra still and hopes she keeps doing it for a while longer.
He gives up the pretence of trying to ignore her and lets one brave hand grasp her around the waist, keeping their little tete-a-tete intimate but wondering what she’d do if he hauled her right on top of him. Not like he hasn’t dreamed of doing exactly that for at least nine months now, approximately about the time he started valuing his unlife again, making the action damned near suicidal at a time when he’d decided he wanted to remain undusty. Instead, he balls his empty hand into a fist and tries not to think of the certain death that is ahead of them if he takes her up on her ill-thought out mission.
“Where?” he growls out against her cheek, already knowing there’s only one place they have any chance of getting to in one piece and locating the needle in the haystack she’s after.
“Put that biscuit in your smoke and pipe it,” blasts across the room at him, and Spike’s eyes widen. “I’m not your Princess, Peppy.” Joyce’s voice carries like her daughter’s, moreso because of the stark shock of her nonsense words and the Scoobies trying to keep her under soothed and calm when she comes back to herself. Spike nods in their direction, makes eye contact with the witches and with Rupert, and knows he really has no hope, let alone desire, to say no to the Slayer.
“I can take you,” he says. “Won’t be easy, though. You’re not going to like what we’ll have to do to get there.”
She’s tough, his Slayer. He can already tell she’s thought it all out, thinks she knows just how rough it’s going to be, thinks she can pretend to be his human slave and mistress when he’s sure she still hates the sight of him. He can fool himself most of the time that they are friends after being on the run together for two years, but every time she looks at him he can see how haunted she still is, how she can never see him for anything other than what she’s convinced herself he is. Nothing he is able to do will sway her from the hard and fast teachings of the Council, not even living in literal Hell and keeping her and her mates as safe as he can.
And just like that he’s agreed, ready to sacrifice himself up for her mother and a pie in the sky.
Originally posted at https://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/634266.html