Checkpoint #3 | "A Vampire Walks Into a Bar..." (2/?)
Title: A Vampire Walks Into a Bar...
Wordcount: 1025
Rating: PG-13 (for some language)
Type: het (Spike/Illyria)
Chapter: 2/?
Prompt: Checkpoint 3
Chapter 1
Anya was leaning against the side of Angel’s car, trying to hide behind a pair of expensive sunglasses, when Mr. Bright pulled up. He hopped out, put a quarter in the meter, and strolled over to her as though he were a normal guy parking his car before running a normal errand in the town center.
“You want me to rob the bank, don’t you,” she sighed, expecting this rather trite demand.
But Mr. Bright chuckled at this suggestion. “Goodness, no, Miss Jenkins.” The way he ended nearly every sentence with ‘Miss Jenkins’ galled her. It wasn’t even her name. In fact, the only bit of her - the old her, the Olaf-loving, brown-haired, Viking girl Aud - that was left was… well… bunnies. She shuddered at the thought. “No, I have a different task for you. This man has become… rather a bother. We need him eliminated.” He held out a manila folder.
“You realize that all this will put me severely behind everyone else, right? I’m just gonna have to do another penalty, and then another penalty, and… and this is just a downward spiral of lateness is what this is!” Her voice was escalating histrionically, and Mr. Bright waved his hand at her, trying to calm her before she disturbed passersby.
“I assure you, Miss Jenkins, everything has been accounted for. This man has been tracking our operation, and it should not at all be out of your way.” With that, he turned, got in his car, and drove away.
Anya opened the manila envelope. Mostly, there were pictures, all of the same person: a boyishly handsome young man with blonde hair and sharp features. And, also, there was a gun. She’d killed people before, lots and lots of people, but she’d sort of tried to give that up. And now, knowing what awaited her in the afterlife, she wasn’t too keen on becoming a murderer again. Of course, if she didn’t kill this guy, she’d never win the Race, and she’d go straight back to Hell anyway.
“Fuck.”
-----
The storage closet was tiny and cramped. Spike was reminded of his basement apartment, which was really only meant to house one, but which had become more and more Illyria’s and less and less his over the years. At one low point, he’d even found himself sleeping on his own couch, though that phase, thankfully, was over.
“Hey,” he said quietly, grabbing her hand.
She had been facing the door, about to push it open, but at the sudden contact she turned back to him. “What is it?” she demanded. There was a slight whine in her voice that would never have been there three years ago, which Spike knew she had picked up from him. It made her sound more human.
“I just…” He tightened his hand around hers. “Who knows what we’ll be facing out there…”
She jerked her hand out of his and crossed her arms peevishly. “These lawyers are insignificant worms, not worthy even to look at me. I can kill fifty of their kind in a heartbeat.”
“Only fifty?” he joked.
She glanced around the closet, and seemed to draw in on herself. Spike was reminded sharply of how tiny Fred had been, and how tiny Illyria had become by taking Fred’s body. He reached out a comforting hand to her, but she shied away from it. “Your world is small.”
“This isn’t the world, love. It’s a closet.”
“The world is hardly larger than this.”
Spike shrugged. “Yeah. Anyway, just wanted to do this.” Without further prelude, he pressed his lips against hers. It was the third time he’d kissed her, the first being after he’d gotten very very drunk following a brief reunion with Clem, and the second being very early in the morning, while he was still sleep-befuddled and had thought she was Buffy. After that, she’d thrown him through the refrigerator and had not spoken to him for weeks. But those had been old kisses, Sunnydale kisses, when he still thought he was the man that had held Buffy all night and professed his love for her in terms not at all related to shagging. Clem and Buffy were dim memories of that man he’d been, the man who’d died in a column of fire beneath the earth. The new Spike didn’t play kitten poker, or have friends, or love Buffy Summers. The new Spike got drunk at eleven in the morning and lived with the God-King of the Primordium and read his poetry to strangers and tried to fight the good fight and still wasn’t as good a man as Angel.
He wondered how long he had loved her - he wasn’t honestly sure. He wasn’t even sure how much he loved her, and how much he loved the wisps of Fred that were in her, which grew more pronounced with each passing year.
When he broke the kiss, she didn’t hit him. She merely glared up at him with cold brown eyes, and said, “Your displays of affection are meaningless.”
Spike shrugged and opened the door for her.
-----
“Geez, what took you guys so long?” Angel demanded grouchily when Spike broke through the door to their prison. Behind him, Illyria was finishing beating the last remaining guard.
“I happen to live on the opposite side of the bloody country, you know!” Spike grumbled. “Oh, what’s she doing here?” he shouted in dismay, pointing at Eve.
Eve merely smiled. “Glad to see you, too, Spike.”
With a resigned grimace, Spike beckoned Illyria forward. “Don’t suppose you could give the door a kick, Blue?” He realized the nickname had become obsolete even as he said it. No one else, however, seemed to care that she had stopped being blue.
Angel backed away quickly, and Eve scurried after him. Illyria gave the cage door a kick, and it crumpled in on itself, allowing Angel and Eve to squeeze out. “Thanks,” Angel said to her. “We gotta go.”
“Right,” Spike said from behind his grandsire. “You’re welcome…” He trailed off as Angel, Illyria, and Eve vanished through the door. Quickly he ran after them.
Wordcount: 1025
Rating: PG-13 (for some language)
Type: het (Spike/Illyria)
Chapter: 2/?
Prompt: Checkpoint 3
Chapter 1
Anya was leaning against the side of Angel’s car, trying to hide behind a pair of expensive sunglasses, when Mr. Bright pulled up. He hopped out, put a quarter in the meter, and strolled over to her as though he were a normal guy parking his car before running a normal errand in the town center.
“You want me to rob the bank, don’t you,” she sighed, expecting this rather trite demand.
But Mr. Bright chuckled at this suggestion. “Goodness, no, Miss Jenkins.” The way he ended nearly every sentence with ‘Miss Jenkins’ galled her. It wasn’t even her name. In fact, the only bit of her - the old her, the Olaf-loving, brown-haired, Viking girl Aud - that was left was… well… bunnies. She shuddered at the thought. “No, I have a different task for you. This man has become… rather a bother. We need him eliminated.” He held out a manila folder.
“You realize that all this will put me severely behind everyone else, right? I’m just gonna have to do another penalty, and then another penalty, and… and this is just a downward spiral of lateness is what this is!” Her voice was escalating histrionically, and Mr. Bright waved his hand at her, trying to calm her before she disturbed passersby.
“I assure you, Miss Jenkins, everything has been accounted for. This man has been tracking our operation, and it should not at all be out of your way.” With that, he turned, got in his car, and drove away.
Anya opened the manila envelope. Mostly, there were pictures, all of the same person: a boyishly handsome young man with blonde hair and sharp features. And, also, there was a gun. She’d killed people before, lots and lots of people, but she’d sort of tried to give that up. And now, knowing what awaited her in the afterlife, she wasn’t too keen on becoming a murderer again. Of course, if she didn’t kill this guy, she’d never win the Race, and she’d go straight back to Hell anyway.
“Fuck.”
-----
The storage closet was tiny and cramped. Spike was reminded of his basement apartment, which was really only meant to house one, but which had become more and more Illyria’s and less and less his over the years. At one low point, he’d even found himself sleeping on his own couch, though that phase, thankfully, was over.
“Hey,” he said quietly, grabbing her hand.
She had been facing the door, about to push it open, but at the sudden contact she turned back to him. “What is it?” she demanded. There was a slight whine in her voice that would never have been there three years ago, which Spike knew she had picked up from him. It made her sound more human.
“I just…” He tightened his hand around hers. “Who knows what we’ll be facing out there…”
She jerked her hand out of his and crossed her arms peevishly. “These lawyers are insignificant worms, not worthy even to look at me. I can kill fifty of their kind in a heartbeat.”
“Only fifty?” he joked.
She glanced around the closet, and seemed to draw in on herself. Spike was reminded sharply of how tiny Fred had been, and how tiny Illyria had become by taking Fred’s body. He reached out a comforting hand to her, but she shied away from it. “Your world is small.”
“This isn’t the world, love. It’s a closet.”
“The world is hardly larger than this.”
Spike shrugged. “Yeah. Anyway, just wanted to do this.” Without further prelude, he pressed his lips against hers. It was the third time he’d kissed her, the first being after he’d gotten very very drunk following a brief reunion with Clem, and the second being very early in the morning, while he was still sleep-befuddled and had thought she was Buffy. After that, she’d thrown him through the refrigerator and had not spoken to him for weeks. But those had been old kisses, Sunnydale kisses, when he still thought he was the man that had held Buffy all night and professed his love for her in terms not at all related to shagging. Clem and Buffy were dim memories of that man he’d been, the man who’d died in a column of fire beneath the earth. The new Spike didn’t play kitten poker, or have friends, or love Buffy Summers. The new Spike got drunk at eleven in the morning and lived with the God-King of the Primordium and read his poetry to strangers and tried to fight the good fight and still wasn’t as good a man as Angel.
He wondered how long he had loved her - he wasn’t honestly sure. He wasn’t even sure how much he loved her, and how much he loved the wisps of Fred that were in her, which grew more pronounced with each passing year.
When he broke the kiss, she didn’t hit him. She merely glared up at him with cold brown eyes, and said, “Your displays of affection are meaningless.”
Spike shrugged and opened the door for her.
-----
“Geez, what took you guys so long?” Angel demanded grouchily when Spike broke through the door to their prison. Behind him, Illyria was finishing beating the last remaining guard.
“I happen to live on the opposite side of the bloody country, you know!” Spike grumbled. “Oh, what’s she doing here?” he shouted in dismay, pointing at Eve.
Eve merely smiled. “Glad to see you, too, Spike.”
With a resigned grimace, Spike beckoned Illyria forward. “Don’t suppose you could give the door a kick, Blue?” He realized the nickname had become obsolete even as he said it. No one else, however, seemed to care that she had stopped being blue.
Angel backed away quickly, and Eve scurried after him. Illyria gave the cage door a kick, and it crumpled in on itself, allowing Angel and Eve to squeeze out. “Thanks,” Angel said to her. “We gotta go.”
“Right,” Spike said from behind his grandsire. “You’re welcome…” He trailed off as Angel, Illyria, and Eve vanished through the door. Quickly he ran after them.