![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
WIP amnesty - post 1
Feb. 6th, 2004 04:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essene_backup::kisses:: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
svmadelyn Oh, man, it's like a weight being lifted. Brace yourselves, there's a bunch---and unbeta'd of course, so shaddup.
She wasn't the only one to ever make him regret hislack of humanity. Not the only one, and certainly not the first
*******
"What d'ya say to that, aye Angelus?" Spike grinned cockily at the older vamp, wiping the gore from his face.
Disgustedly the vampire answered, "As usual, I think it was done with your usual lack of style and grace."
Undeterred, Spike bounced on the balls of his feet, too strummed up to take any real notice of his grandsire's disdain. The scene laid out before them was one of particularly gruesome delights. Drusilla was naked in the center, swaying gently to whatever voices were singing in her head, arms raised above her, allowing the blood to course down and over her pale body. She'd wanted a bath. Spike had provided.
Seven bodies lay scattered around her, their bodies having provided the necessary liquid for Dru's bath. Young girls, all, save one young man who Dru had picked herself, drawn to his eyes, calling them, "pools of shiny things, like stars and cod."
"My girl's pleased. That's what counts." Spike watched Drusilla with a combination of tender adoration and base lust.
Angelus casually punched him, kicked his feet out from under him and placed a shining boot upon Spike's throat.
"Hear me well boy," Angelus put the emphasis on the last word. "If we have to pay in any way, shape or form for your recklessness, I will take it out of your hide. You'll beg me to stake you before I've even begun."
With a final grind and a carefully aimed gob of spit, Angelus left the cellar.
"Daddy doesn't want to bathe?" Drusilla pouted at Spike as he groaned and sat up.
"No, pet, I'd say he's not overly eager at the moment." He crooked his neck until it cracked back into place, got up and walked towards her.
"Can I wash your back, my sweet William?" Drusilla traced a nipple with a dripping fingernail, leaving bloody glyphs on her pert flesh.
Spike smiled wolfishly and stripped.
***************
Later he went for a walk. Best to stay out of the ponce's way for a while. Drusilla was excused for her actions, she always was, but Spike tended to get under Angelus' skin. He knew it and took great satisfaction in it most days, but he wanted to revel in the pleasure of his and Dru's private bacchanal for a while longer. The broody bastard would only ruin that with his yelling and vacant, yet piercing stares.
France was infinitely better than London. No tiny, filth ridden streets with cess pools every few footsteps. And here? Here the aristocracy was the soul of debauchery. You could get in a good game of whist while getting your dick sucked, listen to a fine bit of opera and get thouroghly pissed. Didn't have to hide in the shadows here; here his manners and intelligence counted for something, made him more than, rather than less.
He wasn't really looking when he saw her. Just passing by, peeping in the gardens, interested in the layout, letting himself just BE for once. He liked the brutality of his new life, the unbelievable power of it, but sometimes he missed indulging in the romantic. The phrasing of a fine poem, the pull of a symphonic chord, the beauty of a garden.
So he was looking. It was either very late, or very early, depending on how you looked at it; either way he wasn't expecting to see anyone out in this section of the city.
_______________________________________________________________________
This is dropped mostly because it's set in NY and I know NOTHING about NY, which will become painfully obvious as you go..
"She never told us you know."
Angel swiveled his chair to face the ghostly vamp.
"Who?"
Spike continued to stare out on the glittering glass and metal landscape. "Darla."
"Funny. Silence was never her strong suit."
"She kept her fair share of secrets though. Things she was ashamed of," Spike punctuated this last statement by a pointed look at Angel over his shoulder.
Angel stared coolly back.
Crossing to the desk, Spike said, "I never knew until that night in Sunnydale. You almost had me you know. You always were a self-righteous prick, but I thought you'd just given in and become a complete ponce, with all the accessories."
**************
Angel was feeling pretty good for once. He's spent the afternoon in the Guggenheim, followed by a stimulating poetry reading in Greenwich. He was on his way to Protvsky's for his nightly purchase of blood when he saw her.
She hovered on the edge of a crowd, at the corner of 5th and Vine. Ethereal and slightly dazed, weaving slightly to whatever mad tune was dancing a jig through her scattered brain.
He hung back, but followed her through the shifting crowds, down streets around corners, a seeming aimless and meandering route. On a corner filled with quirky shops and street vendors she abruptly stopped and clutched a building corner. Her head twisted and her dark eyes caught him. Shock, joy and revelation passed over her face in moments, followed by a coy smile.
Angel stood transfixed, unsure how to feel about her discovery of him. It was the smile that decided for him. When Drusilla disappeared around the corner, Angel gave chase.
********
The eventually wound up in Brooklyn where he watched her go down a flight of stairs into some sort of club. He surmised from the people going up and down the stairs and milling about, this was some sort of hangout for that new "punk" thing.
He rolled his eyes as it all clicked together. Spike. Always up for the new and rebellious, he had dabbled in gin, opium, absinthe and frequented gaming hells during their time together; why should the 1970's be any different?
Passersby were beginning to give him odd looks and he supposed that given the context, he didn't quite fit. Bell-bottomed trousers, butterfly collar, long hair. A far cry from the studded chokers, safety pins, black leather and stiff hair that dominated here.
He wasn't sure why he had followed her�nostalgia, curiosity; those were a part of it. It had been more than 60 years since he had last seen her. But the snicker at the back of his brain chided him and told him the truth: loneliness. He was lonely.
_____________________________________________________________________
What I noted when I started: A huge nod to Clive Barker here. A few scenes from The Damnation Game really gripped me and said, "Hey! Buffy could use some spicing up like this," so herein I played liberally with his words and ideas; even going so far as to just up and place Buffy characters in the situations given in the book. How it's all going to work out, I have no idea. Or IF it's going to work out.
Umm...so obviously it didn't. Work out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He waited. In the back of his thoughts he felt him. He knew he would come. That the pull was irresistible.
Cloaked beneath his duster he sucked stoically on his cigarette. Watched the darkness. Felt the presence. He'd tried to ignore the fingers that crawled over the back of his neck, the pressured insistence at the top of his spine, the pull of the game. For over a year, he'd resisted, but now...now he had to follow his compulsion.
"You came to play?" Soft words drifted to him over the gravestones.
"If he wants me to." He flicked away the butt and blew out the smoke.
"I wouldn't be here otherwise." Melodic, teasing.
"Show me the way then." He turned and scanned in the direction of the voice.
The girl came from behind the mausoleum. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, tracing her ripe, bare breasts with shadow and sheen, her narrow waist emphasized by the billowing skirts she wore that rippled even though there was no breeze. Perfect feet peeked from beneath the waves of her garment, a strange companion to the travesty that perched atop her neck.
Spike strained to withhold the grimace that begged to be set free at the sight of her face-or what was left of it. His body torn between desire for her perfect form and disgust at her visage. Torn and mangled skin, so badly scarred it still screamed red and angry. A twisted mockery of a mouth that grinned with perfectly white teeth. As if her face was not horror enough, the tableau was framed by a glistening, writhing mass of snakes.
********
She'd felt lost for a while now. She thought she'd found her place, understood her role, began to truly live, but now...now she was uncertain and shaky in her foundations. Things she had always known or thought to be true, had recently proven themselves false, those strongest and most fearsome had become shallow shells of their former selves.
The voice had come first as Buffy, but she had felt the insincerity behind it. She knew it was not as it appeared. Dawn watched and listened as the voice droned on in tones remarkably like those her sister used. Finally, tired of the facade, she asked, "Who are you?" pausing, she revised, "No, WHAT are you?"
For a moment the illusion quavered, seeming startled at the abrupt probing of its audience, then chuckling it faded away and the voice answered, this time with no faulty imagery.
"Something very, very old." It was a cultured voice, clipped, smooth, masculine, and yet there was a tinge of something--other. Something not--human.
Eventually, she got used to the voice and its visits. Occasionally, she would feel a compulsion to tell someone, anyone about it, but that swiftly passed as she remembered the soft, sweet words it would whisper to her. Words of comfort, words that affirmed, words that sang through her blood, words that assured her sense of place.
So when the voice suggested slumber and a journey, she agreed.
***********
With supple fingers he shuffled the cards. Nimbly dealt them out. Quietly made his calls, subtly upped antes, folded only when absolutely necessary, and never bluffed. It was restraining the impulse to lie that was causing him difficulty. Usually he was full of cheek and bluster, but somehow he knew this opponent was different, that his usual chicanery would work only to hasten his own downfall.
The stakes had remained fairly even, give and take, what was lost regained at some point in the long game, but finally, Spike was down to his last raise, and his opponent remained implacable across the table. He had neither smiled nor frowned at loss or win. He had begun the game with a serene expression, remained placid throughout the events of the game and now was possessed of the same statuesque countenance. For the first time in a very long existence Spike felt a tinge of true dread.
"We're down to it then, sir?" The quiet voice echoed through the room.
Startled by the appellation, Spike searched momentarily for words, then lifted a brow as he gazed at the empty space in front of him where his winnings had lain, "It appears so."
"If you so choose, I will allow you to continue to bet," the voice contained a small inflection of humor-the first sign of emotion that evening, "provided of course, you sign an IOU."
Studying the man across from him, then his cards, Spike considered.
***********
Dawn awoke to find herself by the sea. Surrounded by a stark, cold, bleached villa in a sun-drenched land. A voice invaded the stillness; gooseflesh crept over her as she heard his voice in her head. That clipped, silken voice, it's undercurrent rotting with depravity. So familiar and famous in her dreams. A welcome visitor in her hallucinations, but suddenly here, an unsettling interloper. He was here. Not just his voice, but his presence was palpable in the air. To realize that he was real, he was tangible, not just another hazy imagining--terrified and yet comforted her.
"Dawn, I have a favor to ask of you." His words flowed through her mind, warming and soothing her, raising the hairs on her neck, chilling her spine.
"What?"
"I'd like you to find Willow. You do remember Willow?"
Of course she remembered. The sad eyes, the brainy yet quirky treatises, the black veins.
"Do you think you could find her?"
"I don't know how to."
"Of course you do. Open your mind, feel for her, go to her. You know the way, Dawn."
"Why can't you do it?" Plaintive, tired.
"Because she'll know me. She'll have defenses, and I'm too tired to battle at the moment."
"Is she afraid of you?"
Silence. "Probably."
"You're going to hurt her."
"That's my business."
"I don't think I want to."
"Aren't we friends?"
"No," she said, "Never."
She felt him move closer to her. Enter the villa, slide through the rooms to her. She retreated to the bedroom corner like a trapped animal.
"You can't make me."
"Dawn," he said quietly, chiding, "Don't tempt me."
Her hand began to twist with worry through the strands of her hair.
Suddenly his face loomed clearly in her head, his mouth uttering the words she so clearly heard. "Come now, Dawn. I've known you before you could walk, before you could breathe, before there was thought in your young little body," a brief chuckle escaped him, "before you had a body." She felt as if he was speaking in her ear, lips pressed close to her head, "You carry such gifts little one. Such gifts that none other can dream of...I could teach you Dawn, teach you such things...."
The voice was so seductive, it seemed to wrap around her, enfold her, the way arms had when she was young. She was a babe in his grasp; he cooed and wooed her.
"Just find Willow for me. Is it so much to ask?"
Rocking. She was rocking in the cradle of his arms. Loved.
"You've never been loved. They don't love you. It's all a lie."
Gasping, her eyes flew open and she shoved desperately at the presence in her mind, willing it out, "Go to hell!"
"Don't defy me," he said, the cooing had gone from his voice.
"Get out!"
"As you wish."
There was a falling note to his words, as if resigned to his position. And the images began. Not hazy and dreamlike, but real and full of sensory expression. Such odors, horrifiying pictures, the worst possible things crawling over her and seeping into her skin.
Dawn began to scream and tried to get up to run, but was assaulted by wave after wave of filth and depravity. Her limbs were queasy and her head heavy and disconnected. She flattened herself to the floor, searching for some tenuous grip on reality. Barrage after barrage of terror and emotion washed over her, brought on wings of blood, flesh and offal.
"Make them go away, " she whispered.
"Find Willow."
"Make it stop," pleading.
"Just say yes."
Her teeth began to chatter, her body started to spasm in the throes of uncontrolled nausea, she felt unseen claws rip down her body.
"Say yes."
"No."
A tide exploded from her and she saw a creature lying before her, mewling in the liquid she'd expelled. It began to grow.
"Please!" She screamed.
"Just say yes."
The eyes had opened now, the muscles began to ripple.
"Yes! Yes! Anything! Yes!"
It was all gone. The only waves that crashed were those outside the villa. A cool breeze soothed her fevered skin.
That night she opened her mind to him, and bore on her wings he found Willow.
********
"Done then?"
"Done." Spike sealed the bargain with the word.
svmadelyn Oh, man, it's like a weight being lifted. Brace yourselves, there's a bunch---and unbeta'd of course, so shaddup.She wasn't the only one to ever make him regret hislack of humanity. Not the only one, and certainly not the first
*******
"What d'ya say to that, aye Angelus?" Spike grinned cockily at the older vamp, wiping the gore from his face.
Disgustedly the vampire answered, "As usual, I think it was done with your usual lack of style and grace."
Undeterred, Spike bounced on the balls of his feet, too strummed up to take any real notice of his grandsire's disdain. The scene laid out before them was one of particularly gruesome delights. Drusilla was naked in the center, swaying gently to whatever voices were singing in her head, arms raised above her, allowing the blood to course down and over her pale body. She'd wanted a bath. Spike had provided.
Seven bodies lay scattered around her, their bodies having provided the necessary liquid for Dru's bath. Young girls, all, save one young man who Dru had picked herself, drawn to his eyes, calling them, "pools of shiny things, like stars and cod."
"My girl's pleased. That's what counts." Spike watched Drusilla with a combination of tender adoration and base lust.
Angelus casually punched him, kicked his feet out from under him and placed a shining boot upon Spike's throat.
"Hear me well boy," Angelus put the emphasis on the last word. "If we have to pay in any way, shape or form for your recklessness, I will take it out of your hide. You'll beg me to stake you before I've even begun."
With a final grind and a carefully aimed gob of spit, Angelus left the cellar.
"Daddy doesn't want to bathe?" Drusilla pouted at Spike as he groaned and sat up.
"No, pet, I'd say he's not overly eager at the moment." He crooked his neck until it cracked back into place, got up and walked towards her.
"Can I wash your back, my sweet William?" Drusilla traced a nipple with a dripping fingernail, leaving bloody glyphs on her pert flesh.
Spike smiled wolfishly and stripped.
***************
Later he went for a walk. Best to stay out of the ponce's way for a while. Drusilla was excused for her actions, she always was, but Spike tended to get under Angelus' skin. He knew it and took great satisfaction in it most days, but he wanted to revel in the pleasure of his and Dru's private bacchanal for a while longer. The broody bastard would only ruin that with his yelling and vacant, yet piercing stares.
France was infinitely better than London. No tiny, filth ridden streets with cess pools every few footsteps. And here? Here the aristocracy was the soul of debauchery. You could get in a good game of whist while getting your dick sucked, listen to a fine bit of opera and get thouroghly pissed. Didn't have to hide in the shadows here; here his manners and intelligence counted for something, made him more than, rather than less.
He wasn't really looking when he saw her. Just passing by, peeping in the gardens, interested in the layout, letting himself just BE for once. He liked the brutality of his new life, the unbelievable power of it, but sometimes he missed indulging in the romantic. The phrasing of a fine poem, the pull of a symphonic chord, the beauty of a garden.
So he was looking. It was either very late, or very early, depending on how you looked at it; either way he wasn't expecting to see anyone out in this section of the city.
_______________________________________________________________________
This is dropped mostly because it's set in NY and I know NOTHING about NY, which will become painfully obvious as you go..
"She never told us you know."
Angel swiveled his chair to face the ghostly vamp.
"Who?"
Spike continued to stare out on the glittering glass and metal landscape. "Darla."
"Funny. Silence was never her strong suit."
"She kept her fair share of secrets though. Things she was ashamed of," Spike punctuated this last statement by a pointed look at Angel over his shoulder.
Angel stared coolly back.
Crossing to the desk, Spike said, "I never knew until that night in Sunnydale. You almost had me you know. You always were a self-righteous prick, but I thought you'd just given in and become a complete ponce, with all the accessories."
**************
Angel was feeling pretty good for once. He's spent the afternoon in the Guggenheim, followed by a stimulating poetry reading in Greenwich. He was on his way to Protvsky's for his nightly purchase of blood when he saw her.
She hovered on the edge of a crowd, at the corner of 5th and Vine. Ethereal and slightly dazed, weaving slightly to whatever mad tune was dancing a jig through her scattered brain.
He hung back, but followed her through the shifting crowds, down streets around corners, a seeming aimless and meandering route. On a corner filled with quirky shops and street vendors she abruptly stopped and clutched a building corner. Her head twisted and her dark eyes caught him. Shock, joy and revelation passed over her face in moments, followed by a coy smile.
Angel stood transfixed, unsure how to feel about her discovery of him. It was the smile that decided for him. When Drusilla disappeared around the corner, Angel gave chase.
********
The eventually wound up in Brooklyn where he watched her go down a flight of stairs into some sort of club. He surmised from the people going up and down the stairs and milling about, this was some sort of hangout for that new "punk" thing.
He rolled his eyes as it all clicked together. Spike. Always up for the new and rebellious, he had dabbled in gin, opium, absinthe and frequented gaming hells during their time together; why should the 1970's be any different?
Passersby were beginning to give him odd looks and he supposed that given the context, he didn't quite fit. Bell-bottomed trousers, butterfly collar, long hair. A far cry from the studded chokers, safety pins, black leather and stiff hair that dominated here.
He wasn't sure why he had followed her�nostalgia, curiosity; those were a part of it. It had been more than 60 years since he had last seen her. But the snicker at the back of his brain chided him and told him the truth: loneliness. He was lonely.
_____________________________________________________________________
What I noted when I started: A huge nod to Clive Barker here. A few scenes from The Damnation Game really gripped me and said, "Hey! Buffy could use some spicing up like this," so herein I played liberally with his words and ideas; even going so far as to just up and place Buffy characters in the situations given in the book. How it's all going to work out, I have no idea. Or IF it's going to work out.
Umm...so obviously it didn't. Work out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He waited. In the back of his thoughts he felt him. He knew he would come. That the pull was irresistible.
Cloaked beneath his duster he sucked stoically on his cigarette. Watched the darkness. Felt the presence. He'd tried to ignore the fingers that crawled over the back of his neck, the pressured insistence at the top of his spine, the pull of the game. For over a year, he'd resisted, but now...now he had to follow his compulsion.
"You came to play?" Soft words drifted to him over the gravestones.
"If he wants me to." He flicked away the butt and blew out the smoke.
"I wouldn't be here otherwise." Melodic, teasing.
"Show me the way then." He turned and scanned in the direction of the voice.
The girl came from behind the mausoleum. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, tracing her ripe, bare breasts with shadow and sheen, her narrow waist emphasized by the billowing skirts she wore that rippled even though there was no breeze. Perfect feet peeked from beneath the waves of her garment, a strange companion to the travesty that perched atop her neck.
Spike strained to withhold the grimace that begged to be set free at the sight of her face-or what was left of it. His body torn between desire for her perfect form and disgust at her visage. Torn and mangled skin, so badly scarred it still screamed red and angry. A twisted mockery of a mouth that grinned with perfectly white teeth. As if her face was not horror enough, the tableau was framed by a glistening, writhing mass of snakes.
********
She'd felt lost for a while now. She thought she'd found her place, understood her role, began to truly live, but now...now she was uncertain and shaky in her foundations. Things she had always known or thought to be true, had recently proven themselves false, those strongest and most fearsome had become shallow shells of their former selves.
The voice had come first as Buffy, but she had felt the insincerity behind it. She knew it was not as it appeared. Dawn watched and listened as the voice droned on in tones remarkably like those her sister used. Finally, tired of the facade, she asked, "Who are you?" pausing, she revised, "No, WHAT are you?"
For a moment the illusion quavered, seeming startled at the abrupt probing of its audience, then chuckling it faded away and the voice answered, this time with no faulty imagery.
"Something very, very old." It was a cultured voice, clipped, smooth, masculine, and yet there was a tinge of something--other. Something not--human.
Eventually, she got used to the voice and its visits. Occasionally, she would feel a compulsion to tell someone, anyone about it, but that swiftly passed as she remembered the soft, sweet words it would whisper to her. Words of comfort, words that affirmed, words that sang through her blood, words that assured her sense of place.
So when the voice suggested slumber and a journey, she agreed.
***********
With supple fingers he shuffled the cards. Nimbly dealt them out. Quietly made his calls, subtly upped antes, folded only when absolutely necessary, and never bluffed. It was restraining the impulse to lie that was causing him difficulty. Usually he was full of cheek and bluster, but somehow he knew this opponent was different, that his usual chicanery would work only to hasten his own downfall.
The stakes had remained fairly even, give and take, what was lost regained at some point in the long game, but finally, Spike was down to his last raise, and his opponent remained implacable across the table. He had neither smiled nor frowned at loss or win. He had begun the game with a serene expression, remained placid throughout the events of the game and now was possessed of the same statuesque countenance. For the first time in a very long existence Spike felt a tinge of true dread.
"We're down to it then, sir?" The quiet voice echoed through the room.
Startled by the appellation, Spike searched momentarily for words, then lifted a brow as he gazed at the empty space in front of him where his winnings had lain, "It appears so."
"If you so choose, I will allow you to continue to bet," the voice contained a small inflection of humor-the first sign of emotion that evening, "provided of course, you sign an IOU."
Studying the man across from him, then his cards, Spike considered.
***********
Dawn awoke to find herself by the sea. Surrounded by a stark, cold, bleached villa in a sun-drenched land. A voice invaded the stillness; gooseflesh crept over her as she heard his voice in her head. That clipped, silken voice, it's undercurrent rotting with depravity. So familiar and famous in her dreams. A welcome visitor in her hallucinations, but suddenly here, an unsettling interloper. He was here. Not just his voice, but his presence was palpable in the air. To realize that he was real, he was tangible, not just another hazy imagining--terrified and yet comforted her.
"Dawn, I have a favor to ask of you." His words flowed through her mind, warming and soothing her, raising the hairs on her neck, chilling her spine.
"What?"
"I'd like you to find Willow. You do remember Willow?"
Of course she remembered. The sad eyes, the brainy yet quirky treatises, the black veins.
"Do you think you could find her?"
"I don't know how to."
"Of course you do. Open your mind, feel for her, go to her. You know the way, Dawn."
"Why can't you do it?" Plaintive, tired.
"Because she'll know me. She'll have defenses, and I'm too tired to battle at the moment."
"Is she afraid of you?"
Silence. "Probably."
"You're going to hurt her."
"That's my business."
"I don't think I want to."
"Aren't we friends?"
"No," she said, "Never."
She felt him move closer to her. Enter the villa, slide through the rooms to her. She retreated to the bedroom corner like a trapped animal.
"You can't make me."
"Dawn," he said quietly, chiding, "Don't tempt me."
Her hand began to twist with worry through the strands of her hair.
Suddenly his face loomed clearly in her head, his mouth uttering the words she so clearly heard. "Come now, Dawn. I've known you before you could walk, before you could breathe, before there was thought in your young little body," a brief chuckle escaped him, "before you had a body." She felt as if he was speaking in her ear, lips pressed close to her head, "You carry such gifts little one. Such gifts that none other can dream of...I could teach you Dawn, teach you such things...."
The voice was so seductive, it seemed to wrap around her, enfold her, the way arms had when she was young. She was a babe in his grasp; he cooed and wooed her.
"Just find Willow for me. Is it so much to ask?"
Rocking. She was rocking in the cradle of his arms. Loved.
"You've never been loved. They don't love you. It's all a lie."
Gasping, her eyes flew open and she shoved desperately at the presence in her mind, willing it out, "Go to hell!"
"Don't defy me," he said, the cooing had gone from his voice.
"Get out!"
"As you wish."
There was a falling note to his words, as if resigned to his position. And the images began. Not hazy and dreamlike, but real and full of sensory expression. Such odors, horrifiying pictures, the worst possible things crawling over her and seeping into her skin.
Dawn began to scream and tried to get up to run, but was assaulted by wave after wave of filth and depravity. Her limbs were queasy and her head heavy and disconnected. She flattened herself to the floor, searching for some tenuous grip on reality. Barrage after barrage of terror and emotion washed over her, brought on wings of blood, flesh and offal.
"Make them go away, " she whispered.
"Find Willow."
"Make it stop," pleading.
"Just say yes."
Her teeth began to chatter, her body started to spasm in the throes of uncontrolled nausea, she felt unseen claws rip down her body.
"Say yes."
"No."
A tide exploded from her and she saw a creature lying before her, mewling in the liquid she'd expelled. It began to grow.
"Please!" She screamed.
"Just say yes."
The eyes had opened now, the muscles began to ripple.
"Yes! Yes! Anything! Yes!"
It was all gone. The only waves that crashed were those outside the villa. A cool breeze soothed her fevered skin.
That night she opened her mind to him, and bore on her wings he found Willow.
********
"Done then?"
"Done." Spike sealed the bargain with the word.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-07 01:21 am (UTC)Too bad about the New York one. Man, that idea does have potential. So was Angel in NYC in the 70's or is he just there because we know Spike was there? Maybe Spike could go on vacation to the southwest, where Angel might be seeing Barry in Vegas? Oh, dammit. Barry was at the top of his game in the late 70's, he wouldn't be in Vegas. Poop.