WHO: Spike & Buffy Summers
WHERE: the cemetery duh
WHEN: Thurs Jun 9 after sunset.
WARNINGS: violence and potential sadfaces forever....
SUMMARY: Buffy finds out Spike no longer has his chip and is majorly not okay with it.
FORMAT: prose okay
(
you're my perfect little punching bag )
And now?
He was flesh and bone and soul and there was nothing, just the ache of guilt and when his mind had cleared and the scars on his chest had healed, there was just the realization that this place had done more than return his soul. It had given him back his mortality.
Tempered, he had just stayed quiet. Until Buffy.
The Slayer had a habit of being in places at the worst and best times and in this case, she was a beacon of normalcy. Or whatever a hundred and fifty years of violence and blood lust might consider normal, anyway. But he knows her and knows that she's as drawn to him and he is still is to her. Even if he doesn't know her purpose, he isn't surprised to hear her knocking.
Whether or not tonight will give him the courage to tell her anything of real importance is another thing. Either way, the door opens and he steps back to let her in.
"Buffy?"
It's as much a greeting as a question.
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Not having much time to ponder before she's made, she looks past him, then back up at his face. Buffy's not home, only Slayer. She's here to do a job and nothing else. Steeling herself, she propels herself forward, landing a kick to his chest meant to knock him back into the far wall.
She's breathing harder than she should be as she walks past the threshold, leaving the door open as she raises the stake from behind her back. This is it. Years of buildup and it ends like this? It almost seems sad, but maybe Spike can appreciate the poetry better than she can.
"A little birdy tells me you can kill again," she grits out, not daring to breathe and yet out of breath all at once. "Have any last words?"
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But by then, it's was a little too late, reflexes far too slow to avoid the kick that does exactly what she intended it to do. Unfortunately, there's no extra strength to prevent his bones from breaking and he hits the wall with groan, eyes squeezed shut in pain, trying to suck in a breath.
Gritting his teeth, he cracked open one eye to see how far into the crypt she had gotten.
"Waste of effort trying to do that, love. Someone's already done the work for you," he winced, trying to push himself into a more comfortable position and failing rather well at it.
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Her nostrils flare as her eyes rake over him. A man she had trusted, who had begrudgingly become something like a friend to her, albeit reluctantly. And now they stood here, the way she'd always known they would stand some day. All that really mattered was causing him pain, and doing her Slayer duty.
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"Couple of Jedi," he answered quickly, grabbing the wrist holding the stake as tightly as he can manage, knowing he might not even leave bruises, let alone stand any sort of chance to break it. "Not a vampire."
This wasn't how he wanted to tell her, whatever attitude and defense he had been keeping up until then fading into the desperate hope that something he's saying has gotten through. Because he couldn't stand her living with the guilt if she killed him.
"You're not a murderer, Buffy."
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Guilt and horror and confusion are all clawing at her insides, struggling for dominance. For all the curve balls this place could've thrown her, this was the last thing she could've expected.
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"Came back from the dead like this. Still me. Memories and all. Just defanged and more harmless than before. Make Angel look like a bloody Doberman," he almost sounds bitter about it, but the venom fails to really stick when he winces slightly.
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"You do realize Dobermans are attack dogs, right?" But she's not paying attention to the words, eyes slowly making the trek back up to Spike's face. Human Spike, Spike's human face. An eerie calm seems to wash over her and she'd rather have the panic. She'd rather have this all be as simple as vampire, meet stake.
But nothing is simple anymore.
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"Or maybe one of the little ones. All bark. Maybe you should stake me. See if I come back as a vampire."
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Trying to act like it doesn't matter, she hooks her toe around the stake, kicking it towards him. "Stake yourself. I won't stop you."
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"Help me up?"
He knows how pathetic he's being, but can't quite manage the give a damn to sto himself.
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Easier said than done.
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What chance did he have to win her back in this state? Or any considering what he'd done. Here and in their own little dimension.
There's about a million conversations they should have, but he isn't going to start them and he digs into his pocket gingerly to find a pack of cigarettes.
"Should work on that kick. Didn't quite manage to puncture my lung," he says, putting as little of himself into it as he can. It almost works.
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So then what is all this guilt bubbling up the back of her throat. She feels sick and dizzy, and had she even eaten today? So many thoughts and Spike's not volunteering to answer any of her unasked questions.
"Do you have to do that?" She doesn't even look up, staring at her shoes as if they'll tell her all of Spike's secrets. At least they were nice shoes. She could've been ported in wearing flip-flops or something.
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He doesn't bother to answer her questions, but after looking at the carton for a moment, flicks it down onto the table on his way to sit down on the bed beside her. It's as much of a meaningful gesture as he'll give and he looks at her as she contemplates her shoes.
"Are you okay?" he asks, giving up on trying to play the jerk card.
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