![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Buffy Kinkathon
Mar. 6th, 2005 01:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essene_backupTitle: Too Long
Written for:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
herself_nyc
Rating: working into NC-17
Author's Note: Unbeta'd, so if there's anything glaring--my apologies.
A few explanations: This came out of a prompt fromspikes_heart and nicely brought me into herself_nyc’s fic request. Shout outs to Constantine, and The Princess Bride—sorry, sometimes other people’s words just…fit. Also, as my muse decided to wait until the last possible moment, this is only part one. I’m not sure how many parts there will be, but this? This is 1. I'll post the request at the end, and you can judge if I've fulfilled it.
***********************
Amazing. That’s all she could think. She wished she had a thesaurus because this? This is what Roget intended it to be used for, more words than one paltry little string of letters that just didn’t seem quite enough.
She’d followed him from Wolfram and Hart. She’d meant to go in. She had! But somehow she hadn’t been able to compel her feet to carry her through the glimmering doors. She’d followed him from his sketchy little apartment--sketchy apartment, cool car? How does that equation work?--to the office building, so she knew how he’d leave…if he did.
And he had. And she’d followed. Thank goodness she’d hit the rental place at the airport, he drove like a bat out of hell--which was apropos when you thought about it. A bar that was…not so much of a dive, but more atmospheric than anything. And she’d watched. And listened.
My soul is wrapped in harsh repose,
midnight descends in raven-colored clothes,
but soft...behold!
A sunlight beam
cutting a swath of glimmering gleam.
My heart expands,
'tis grown a bulge in it,
inspired by your beauty...
effulgent.
He was at the bar, getting clapped on the back by some big burly type when she approached him.
“Thought you weren’t much of a poet.”
His whole body froze. For a moment it was like he was asleep standing up. That was the only time she’d ever seen him completely still. He didn’t turn.
“’m not, pet.” One little phrase and her backbone melted to jelly. She’d thought she was ready for this. Coached herself through it, played the scenarios over and over--okay, so they all ended with them in bed together, what of it?--but she was unprepared for the reality of his voice.
“That was really amazing up there. I liked it a lot. You don’t give yourself credit for what you can do.”
He turned, and his blue eyes locked on hers. Oh my god, he’s so beautiful. “’s that so?” One brow arched and he leaned into the bar, as if he honestly expected a coherent response from her.
She looked at her shoes, yes, still there. Then back up at him. “Let me rephrase. I didn’t give you enough credit for what you can do.” She raised her hand and placed it on his arm.
Then there was a tinny musical sound coming from Spike’s pocket. Buffy cocked her head, “Is that the Ramones? And since when did you join the technological age?”
He smiled, “Hold on a mo’, right? This is important.”
She watched as he briskly answered the phone and saw his face change from easy relaxation to coiled tension. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He flipped the phone closed and looked at her intently. “Got a job to do, pet. You’ll be here when I get back?”
She knew it with every fiber of her being. She’d be here. She’d always be here.
“Yes.”
He kissed her with harsh urgency, hand cradling the nape of her neck briefly before disappearing in a swirl of leather.
*************
He still hadn’t returned when the bar closed. And considering it was 2 a.m., she felt she had reason to worry. Just a little. Though, with Spike he easily could have stopped for a midnight brawl and lost track of time. She was sitting in the rental, debating whether or not she should just be ballsy and go to his apartment—be waiting in bed with nothing but a smile? Stop it!—or stay here in the car and trust that he’d return sometime before dawn.
The ringing of her own cell phone jolted her out of the pros and cons of nakedness. It was Willow, babbling about some huge shift in the cosmic forces, apocalypse, end of the world, yada-yada-yada, and oh, yeah, by the way, it was centered in downtown LA right now!
She found herself weaving in and out of darkened streets and dilapidated buildings in a part of LA that was familiar…this was the way to Angel’s old offices. She’d followed Willow’s directions in the ear bud without really paying attention to where precisely she was going, just turning when told, and pressing the accelerator as close to the floor as she dared—at least living in Italy had taught her a thing or two about fast paced driving in close quarters.
She felt it before she saw it. It was as if her slayer-self had just stepped into an electrical fence. A nearly painful sensation that engulfed her whole body warning of danger from all sides. The light was the next clue, a strangely dim, and yet ethereal glow that emanated from behind an aging building that she was rapidly approaching. The Hyperion. Angel Investigations central.
Screeching to a halt on burning tires and brakes, Buffy didn’t even bother with any of the general courteous driver niceties, leaving the car running in the middle of the street as she ran to the elderly hotel. As she approached the gates she realized the overwhelming sense of wrong-ness was coming from behind the building and she careened around the corner, blonde hair flying behind her.
The blast knocked her backwards. Later, she supposed she must have looked like some giant marionette whose strings had just been suddenly and violently jerked. Her arms stretched out in front of her parallel to her legs as her torso vaulted backwards. She landed with a crash into a rusted dumpster, leaving more than a sizable dent. She was back on her feet before she had time for another thought; panic well and truly invading her bones.
Heels clicking, she pumped her arms and drove her body forward to the alley, her mind repeating nothing but, “Please, please, please, please…”
Nothing. There was nothing there. Empty brick walls, vacant crates, bare windows. Whatever immense and terribly wrong thing had occupied this space had gone. As sure as she was of that, she also knew he had been here. No, not been here…was still here, had she been in the desert, she would have called it a mirage. There was a faint shimmering down near the end of the alley and she ran to it, for it was far too…Spike shaped to be anything but.
Unlike a mirage however, his form got more substantial the nearer she got, the black leather steaming as if doused with boiling water on a winter’s day, the shock of blonde, just visible upon the pavement.
In the next moment she held his head in her lap, softly cursing at him, “Don’t you leave me again, you undead bastard. Don’t you do it. I hauled my cute ass all the way from Italy for you, I left a perfectly perfect immortal to find you again, you cannot, you WILL NOT, do you hear me? I’ll get Willow to curse you, or Xander to beat you, or Giles to talk sternly, or Dawn to…” She trailed off as Spike slowly opened his eyes.
“Can’t die, pet.” A harsh, thick cough followed his words. “Hell doesn’t want me, and heaven won’t take me.”
Buffy felt a tear roll down her cheek as she said, “Guess I’ll just have to hold on to you for awhile longer then.”
Eyes closing and a small smile crossing his lips, Spike said, “As you wish.”
******************
It felt strange taking him into the place she always associated with Angel. The Angel she was secretly proud of, the Angel she admired, the Angel she loved, the Angel she had always wanted—assured, in control, focused. The Angel she would never have. The Hyperion looked only slightly the worse for wear, a bit of dust, some broken windows, but all in all, not too bad for a year of neglect. She’d gotten him up and supported most of his weight out of the alley, he’d had to brace himself against a pillar while she kicked the door in, but now his weight was back on her shoulders again and that heavy press of his body felt more than good—he was solid, he was real.
The stairs were more of a challenge. Not that they didn’t try the elevator, but it made this horrendous scraping roar of metal that encouraged Buffy to look for an alternate route to the next floor. Damn hotels. Why not have a few easy-access rooms here in the lobby? Although, it did look as if someone, or several someones had been using this as a makeshift settlement—definitely human though, there was none of the usual vampire…haphazardness about the arrangement of things. Why couldn’t he have just stayed here? Why’d he go?
Buffy shook off those thoughts and focused on getting Spike up the staircase and to the nearest bed. She’d worry about things like food, lights, water…blood, later.
She didn’t find what she was looking for until the 3rd room. It was a suite and had everything she was looking for—large chairs (if she was going to be Florence Nightingale, she could at least be comfortable), a big bed which looked to be nearly untouched since being made last, a bathroom, and oddly…a crib.
Spike had passed out again somewhere after the 1st room she’d looked into, and she dropped his now unconscious form unceremoniously on the bed. She may have realized her feelings for him, but that didn’t mean she had to haul his heavy ass around for one more second than necessary.
After shucking him from his duster and boots, and placing his head on a pillow, Buffy looked around and got to work.
*******************
Weird. That was the only word for it. The lights worked. The water worked, both hot and cold. Maybe Angel had remained attached to this place even after his giant corporate wank to the top echelon of demonville. That was the logical explanation, but it still seemed…weird.
To keep herself occupied, she’d gone back to one of the other rooms and scavenged some sheets that she tore up for rags. She’d made a pretty substantial dent in the dust, and things didn’t look quite so dingy now. She’d found the kitchen—not that it looked like it had EVER been used, but amazingly there were some crackers and some deviled ham and some frighteningly mutated potatoes. She grabbed the crackers and ham, and some glasses. Back in the room she found she was definitely hungry enough to eat—even if it was probably older than the FDA recommendation. She was munching a stale saltine and running a bath in the freshly wiped tub, when she heard him.
“Ouch! Bloody hell!” Guess that solves the mystery of if he’s really okay or not, she smiled to herself.
He was sitting up on the bed, head in his hands, looking as if he were nursing the mother of all hangovers.
“How’re you feeling?”
He didn’t speak for a long moment, just sat frozen, “Well, not only is my head going to explode soon, but I’ve obviously gone ‘round the bend again, because I think the Slayer is talking to me.”
Buffy moved to the bed and sat down near his hip. She placed a hand on his forearm to reinforce her next words, “Not crazy, Spike. I’m right here.”
He raised his head slowly, face creased with more than just physical pain, “Sorry I kept you waiting, Goldilocks.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons. You can explain later. Now? Now, it’s bath time.”
Spike’s brows creased and his blue eyes narrowed, “Bath? Maybe I’m not the one who’s gone off his rocker here.”
“You,” Buffy prodded him in his chest—oh my, it was just as muscled as ever, “stink, Mister, and I refuse to share my bed with something that smells like you.”
Spike’s mouth fell open, and Buffy had to stifle a giggle while she moved to help him up, supporting him once again as she guided him to the small bathroom.
Continued here.
Written for:
herself_nycRating: working into NC-17
Author's Note: Unbeta'd, so if there's anything glaring--my apologies.
A few explanations: This came out of a prompt from
spikes_heart and nicely brought me into herself_nyc’s fic request. Shout outs to Constantine, and The Princess Bride—sorry, sometimes other people’s words just…fit. Also, as my muse decided to wait until the last possible moment, this is only part one. I’m not sure how many parts there will be, but this? This is 1. I'll post the request at the end, and you can judge if I've fulfilled it.***********************
Amazing. That’s all she could think. She wished she had a thesaurus because this? This is what Roget intended it to be used for, more words than one paltry little string of letters that just didn’t seem quite enough.
She’d followed him from Wolfram and Hart. She’d meant to go in. She had! But somehow she hadn’t been able to compel her feet to carry her through the glimmering doors. She’d followed him from his sketchy little apartment--sketchy apartment, cool car? How does that equation work?--to the office building, so she knew how he’d leave…if he did.
And he had. And she’d followed. Thank goodness she’d hit the rental place at the airport, he drove like a bat out of hell--which was apropos when you thought about it. A bar that was…not so much of a dive, but more atmospheric than anything. And she’d watched. And listened.
midnight descends in raven-colored clothes,
but soft...behold!
A sunlight beam
cutting a swath of glimmering gleam.
My heart expands,
'tis grown a bulge in it,
inspired by your beauty...
effulgent.
He was at the bar, getting clapped on the back by some big burly type when she approached him.
“Thought you weren’t much of a poet.”
His whole body froze. For a moment it was like he was asleep standing up. That was the only time she’d ever seen him completely still. He didn’t turn.
“’m not, pet.” One little phrase and her backbone melted to jelly. She’d thought she was ready for this. Coached herself through it, played the scenarios over and over--okay, so they all ended with them in bed together, what of it?--but she was unprepared for the reality of his voice.
“That was really amazing up there. I liked it a lot. You don’t give yourself credit for what you can do.”
He turned, and his blue eyes locked on hers. Oh my god, he’s so beautiful. “’s that so?” One brow arched and he leaned into the bar, as if he honestly expected a coherent response from her.
She looked at her shoes, yes, still there. Then back up at him. “Let me rephrase. I didn’t give you enough credit for what you can do.” She raised her hand and placed it on his arm.
Then there was a tinny musical sound coming from Spike’s pocket. Buffy cocked her head, “Is that the Ramones? And since when did you join the technological age?”
He smiled, “Hold on a mo’, right? This is important.”
She watched as he briskly answered the phone and saw his face change from easy relaxation to coiled tension. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He flipped the phone closed and looked at her intently. “Got a job to do, pet. You’ll be here when I get back?”
She knew it with every fiber of her being. She’d be here. She’d always be here.
“Yes.”
He kissed her with harsh urgency, hand cradling the nape of her neck briefly before disappearing in a swirl of leather.
*************
He still hadn’t returned when the bar closed. And considering it was 2 a.m., she felt she had reason to worry. Just a little. Though, with Spike he easily could have stopped for a midnight brawl and lost track of time. She was sitting in the rental, debating whether or not she should just be ballsy and go to his apartment—be waiting in bed with nothing but a smile? Stop it!—or stay here in the car and trust that he’d return sometime before dawn.
The ringing of her own cell phone jolted her out of the pros and cons of nakedness. It was Willow, babbling about some huge shift in the cosmic forces, apocalypse, end of the world, yada-yada-yada, and oh, yeah, by the way, it was centered in downtown LA right now!
She found herself weaving in and out of darkened streets and dilapidated buildings in a part of LA that was familiar…this was the way to Angel’s old offices. She’d followed Willow’s directions in the ear bud without really paying attention to where precisely she was going, just turning when told, and pressing the accelerator as close to the floor as she dared—at least living in Italy had taught her a thing or two about fast paced driving in close quarters.
She felt it before she saw it. It was as if her slayer-self had just stepped into an electrical fence. A nearly painful sensation that engulfed her whole body warning of danger from all sides. The light was the next clue, a strangely dim, and yet ethereal glow that emanated from behind an aging building that she was rapidly approaching. The Hyperion. Angel Investigations central.
Screeching to a halt on burning tires and brakes, Buffy didn’t even bother with any of the general courteous driver niceties, leaving the car running in the middle of the street as she ran to the elderly hotel. As she approached the gates she realized the overwhelming sense of wrong-ness was coming from behind the building and she careened around the corner, blonde hair flying behind her.
The blast knocked her backwards. Later, she supposed she must have looked like some giant marionette whose strings had just been suddenly and violently jerked. Her arms stretched out in front of her parallel to her legs as her torso vaulted backwards. She landed with a crash into a rusted dumpster, leaving more than a sizable dent. She was back on her feet before she had time for another thought; panic well and truly invading her bones.
Heels clicking, she pumped her arms and drove her body forward to the alley, her mind repeating nothing but, “Please, please, please, please…”
Nothing. There was nothing there. Empty brick walls, vacant crates, bare windows. Whatever immense and terribly wrong thing had occupied this space had gone. As sure as she was of that, she also knew he had been here. No, not been here…was still here, had she been in the desert, she would have called it a mirage. There was a faint shimmering down near the end of the alley and she ran to it, for it was far too…Spike shaped to be anything but.
Unlike a mirage however, his form got more substantial the nearer she got, the black leather steaming as if doused with boiling water on a winter’s day, the shock of blonde, just visible upon the pavement.
In the next moment she held his head in her lap, softly cursing at him, “Don’t you leave me again, you undead bastard. Don’t you do it. I hauled my cute ass all the way from Italy for you, I left a perfectly perfect immortal to find you again, you cannot, you WILL NOT, do you hear me? I’ll get Willow to curse you, or Xander to beat you, or Giles to talk sternly, or Dawn to…” She trailed off as Spike slowly opened his eyes.
“Can’t die, pet.” A harsh, thick cough followed his words. “Hell doesn’t want me, and heaven won’t take me.”
Buffy felt a tear roll down her cheek as she said, “Guess I’ll just have to hold on to you for awhile longer then.”
Eyes closing and a small smile crossing his lips, Spike said, “As you wish.”
******************
It felt strange taking him into the place she always associated with Angel. The Angel she was secretly proud of, the Angel she admired, the Angel she loved, the Angel she had always wanted—assured, in control, focused. The Angel she would never have. The Hyperion looked only slightly the worse for wear, a bit of dust, some broken windows, but all in all, not too bad for a year of neglect. She’d gotten him up and supported most of his weight out of the alley, he’d had to brace himself against a pillar while she kicked the door in, but now his weight was back on her shoulders again and that heavy press of his body felt more than good—he was solid, he was real.
The stairs were more of a challenge. Not that they didn’t try the elevator, but it made this horrendous scraping roar of metal that encouraged Buffy to look for an alternate route to the next floor. Damn hotels. Why not have a few easy-access rooms here in the lobby? Although, it did look as if someone, or several someones had been using this as a makeshift settlement—definitely human though, there was none of the usual vampire…haphazardness about the arrangement of things. Why couldn’t he have just stayed here? Why’d he go?
Buffy shook off those thoughts and focused on getting Spike up the staircase and to the nearest bed. She’d worry about things like food, lights, water…blood, later.
She didn’t find what she was looking for until the 3rd room. It was a suite and had everything she was looking for—large chairs (if she was going to be Florence Nightingale, she could at least be comfortable), a big bed which looked to be nearly untouched since being made last, a bathroom, and oddly…a crib.
Spike had passed out again somewhere after the 1st room she’d looked into, and she dropped his now unconscious form unceremoniously on the bed. She may have realized her feelings for him, but that didn’t mean she had to haul his heavy ass around for one more second than necessary.
After shucking him from his duster and boots, and placing his head on a pillow, Buffy looked around and got to work.
*******************
Weird. That was the only word for it. The lights worked. The water worked, both hot and cold. Maybe Angel had remained attached to this place even after his giant corporate wank to the top echelon of demonville. That was the logical explanation, but it still seemed…weird.
To keep herself occupied, she’d gone back to one of the other rooms and scavenged some sheets that she tore up for rags. She’d made a pretty substantial dent in the dust, and things didn’t look quite so dingy now. She’d found the kitchen—not that it looked like it had EVER been used, but amazingly there were some crackers and some deviled ham and some frighteningly mutated potatoes. She grabbed the crackers and ham, and some glasses. Back in the room she found she was definitely hungry enough to eat—even if it was probably older than the FDA recommendation. She was munching a stale saltine and running a bath in the freshly wiped tub, when she heard him.
“Ouch! Bloody hell!” Guess that solves the mystery of if he’s really okay or not, she smiled to herself.
He was sitting up on the bed, head in his hands, looking as if he were nursing the mother of all hangovers.
“How’re you feeling?”
He didn’t speak for a long moment, just sat frozen, “Well, not only is my head going to explode soon, but I’ve obviously gone ‘round the bend again, because I think the Slayer is talking to me.”
Buffy moved to the bed and sat down near his hip. She placed a hand on his forearm to reinforce her next words, “Not crazy, Spike. I’m right here.”
He raised his head slowly, face creased with more than just physical pain, “Sorry I kept you waiting, Goldilocks.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons. You can explain later. Now? Now, it’s bath time.”
Spike’s brows creased and his blue eyes narrowed, “Bath? Maybe I’m not the one who’s gone off his rocker here.”
“You,” Buffy prodded him in his chest—oh my, it was just as muscled as ever, “stink, Mister, and I refuse to share my bed with something that smells like you.”
Spike’s mouth fell open, and Buffy had to stifle a giggle while she moved to help him up, supporting him once again as she guided him to the small bathroom.
Continued here.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-06 09:39 pm (UTC)Lovely. Emotionally tender. And I so can't wait for more. Goooo, Buffy! **smiles**
no subject
Date: 2005-03-07 12:51 am (UTC)I'm glad you approve of my continuation. Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-06 11:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-07 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-07 12:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-07 12:53 am (UTC)