The Open Halls of the Soul, chapter 7
TITLE: The Open Halls of the Soul
AUTHOR: Cindy
RATING: R for now
SPOILERS: post-NFA
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: Spike, Buffy, Spike/Buffy, others
WARNINGS: Character death, violence, disturbing post-Apocalypse-type imagery
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine, but Joss said I could play with them.
SUMMARY: Spike always said it would take the end of the world to keep him away from Buffy. And he was right.
A/N: this part not yet beta'd.
Previous parts can be found here.
The farm house seems to rise out of the cornfields like an oasis from the desert. The grass surrounding it - weeds, really - are waist high, and it appears for all the world abandoned. But as he gets closer, his steps slow. Not abandoned; far from it. He can smell them. Hear them. Many people, many heartbeats. Most of them beating in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep - it's barely dawn, after all. He's heard rumors of these places, in passing. Snippets of conversation that his sensitive ears picked up along the way. Safe houses. People gathering together for protection. He guesses this must be one of them.
The last thing Spike feels like doing is socializing, given recent history, but he doesn't have much of a choice. There's a barn behind the house, but he figures that'll be filled to the brim as well. The front door seems the best option; he wants them to trust him, not think he's sneaking up on them. It's a good thing he can pass for human, as long as they don't look too hard. He's found most people don't. He can already feel the sun, which is just now peeking above the horizon, and his skin begins to prickle in warning. He quickens his pace.
Spike breaths a little easier having reached the relative safety of the porch. His arm hangs useless at his side now, bloodless and throbbing. His formerly white t-shirt has a bullet hole in it and is soaked with blood. He peels it off and tosses it over the railing, figuring the button down shirt is the lesser of two evils. That's blood stained too, from its stint as a tourniquet, but it's not that noticeable on the navy fabric. Somewhat less scary looking now, he raps on the door. A boy not more than fourteen answers, tough as nails, or trying to be, in army fatigues and a shoulder holster. He's got long red hair tied back at his neck, and his eyes are green and wary.
"Password?" he barks. The kid doesn't even shave yet, probably never drove a car. But he's handling a semi-automatic weapon like a pro. It's a different world, Spike is once again reminded.
"Been quite a while on the road, mate."
The boy raises his weapon, complete with silencer, and clicks off the safety. "Password?" the kid asks again, calmly.
Spike sighs. He's tired. He's hungry. His shoulder hurts like hell. He really doesn't want to do this. "Look, kid..." he says, taking a step forward. "Can I just talk to whoever's in charge?"
"I'm in charge of the door." He pokes Spike in the chest with the end of his gun. "See?"
"What's going on, Kyle?" asks a voice out of the darkness. A man with hair a few shades lighter than the boy's and graying at the temples, walks into view. "Everything all right here?"
"He doesn't know the password," Kyle says, without taking his eyes off Spike.
"He's a newcomer, son. He's not going to know the password, is he?"
"I... guess not," Kyle says reluctantly. "But I thought we were full anyway..."
"Can't turn people away for no good reason, Kyle. Now just do a quick check, and then let him in so I can talk to him."
Kyle reaches for an object that's hanging from a cord on the wall and holds it in front of Spike.
Bloody hell, it's a mirror. Seems he's underestimated them.
"He's a vampire, Dad!" Kyle says, dropping back a few steps and training his sites on Spike. He sounds more smug than fearful, and Spike supposes that's because he's seen a lot worse than vampires of late. His father quickly reaches for the cross-bow leaning against the wall, lifting it to his shoulder.
Spike closes his eye for a moment. Maybe it'd be better this way. The way things have been going for him, all signs seem to point to impending disaster anyway. But he can't do it. Has to finish what he started. And he'll be damned if these trigger-happy humans are going to bugger it up for him.
He lets out a low growl, and the slow crunch as his features change are enough to scare little Rambo back a step, at least. Spike disarms the kid and shoves him into his father before dear old dad is able to get a shot off. Before they know what's happened, they're both pinned against the wall, Spike's good arm pressed against their chests.
"Know you're scared. You've a right. But listen here. Today alone I was shot, nearly run over, and then left for dead by people I was tryin' to help, whose lives I bloody well saved, and I've had just about enough of this SHIT! Now all I want is a place to sleep and get out of the bloody sun, and you're gonna let me. I have a soul goddammit!"
"You know, the making with the fangs and the grr is probably not the best way to convince them of that," says a deep voice so eerily familiar that the hair stands up on the back of Spike's neck.
He's afraid to turn around, afraid that'll he'll be wrong. But he does, he has to, features sliding back to human, Kyle and his father already forgotten. The hair is longer, and maybe a bit grayer. There are a few more lines etched into his face. And if the voice didn't give him away, the eye patch definitely would. Still, Spike has to blink a few times to convince himself that this is not, in fact, a mirage. His face begins to feel funny; that's when he realizes he's smiling. It's been awhile.
"It's really you," Harris says. Softly. Almost under his breath. "Jesus Christ."
"Not even close, mate."
Harris pulls him into a bear hug so fierce that Spike has to bite his lip to keep from yelling out in pain. He smells faintly of sweat and wood shavings and beer. And an underlying something that must be what grief smells like.
"Spike's with me," He clears his throat, releasing Spike but keeping a protective hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, he's a vampire, but he has a soul like he said. I've known him...forever. He worked with us in Cleveland."
"With the slayers?" the boy asks, an unmistakable note of awe in his voice.
"Yeah. He's married to one." Present tense. It makes Spike's gut clench to hear the words. Harris turns to Kyle's dad. "We've got some catching up to do..."
"I'll fill everyone in when they wake up," the man says. "I'm Tom, by the way." He shakes Spike's hand. "Sorry about the misunderstanding."
"No worries, mate. And if any other vamps show up at your door, you best be quicker on the trigger."
"What if it's another vampire with a soul?" Kyle asks. "How can we tell?"
"Well, most of 'em would be biting you rather than chatting you up. Doesn't matter, though. I'm...I'm the only one."
Harris gives him a look he can't quite figure. "C'mon," he says. "There's beer."
He shows Spike into a tiny room off the kitchen that might have been an enclosed porch or sunroom, full of shoddy wicker furniture and stacks of magazines that are several years old. There's a pillow and blanket on the sofa - it must be where Harris sleeps.
"Your handiwork?" Spike asks, nodding toward the boarded up windows. He pushes the bedding out of the way and sits down.
"Ah. You recognize the work of the master," Harris says, handing him a longneck. He sits down next to Spike and they both put their feet up on a coffee table. "You got shot?" Spike pulls open his shirt and shows him the bullet hole. "Jesus. I'll get you some blood. There's a farm down the road a ways. It's deserted, but the animals are still there."
"Thanks. Lucky it's through and through. Be better in no time."
Harris nods and takes a swig. "You're a fast healer."
"Right." Spike takes a sip. "This conversation strike you as odd?" Spike asks.
"Oh yeah. Keep going, though."
"You told them about slayers," Spike says.
"Yeah. They already knew about demons. I thought I'd give them the flip side."
"You thought you'd give them some hope."
Harris lets out a snort of laughter. "I guess I did. Must have given it all away, though, cuz I don't seem to have any left."
Spike takes a long pull on his beer, puts his head back against the cushions and closes his eyes. 'Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, that sings the tune without the words and never stops at all."
"Emily Dickinson."
Spike turns his head and looks at Harris. "Yeah. One of Buffy's favorites."
Harris finishes his beer and stands up. "I'm going to get you that blood now."
Spike grabs his arm as he walks by. "We ever gonna talk about this, mate? I mean, how are you...how are you even here? What the hell happened?"
Harris stands abruptly. "Later. We'll talk. I just...I'm going to get the blood. Don't go anywhere. Okay? Stay right here." He doesn't give Spike a chance to answer, just stalks out of the room. Spike can hear the back door bang shut behind him. Outside, a Mourning Dove coos.
Chapter 8
AUTHOR: Cindy
RATING: R for now
SPOILERS: post-NFA
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: Spike, Buffy, Spike/Buffy, others
WARNINGS: Character death, violence, disturbing post-Apocalypse-type imagery
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine, but Joss said I could play with them.
SUMMARY: Spike always said it would take the end of the world to keep him away from Buffy. And he was right.
A/N: this part not yet beta'd.
Previous parts can be found here.
The farm house seems to rise out of the cornfields like an oasis from the desert. The grass surrounding it - weeds, really - are waist high, and it appears for all the world abandoned. But as he gets closer, his steps slow. Not abandoned; far from it. He can smell them. Hear them. Many people, many heartbeats. Most of them beating in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep - it's barely dawn, after all. He's heard rumors of these places, in passing. Snippets of conversation that his sensitive ears picked up along the way. Safe houses. People gathering together for protection. He guesses this must be one of them.
The last thing Spike feels like doing is socializing, given recent history, but he doesn't have much of a choice. There's a barn behind the house, but he figures that'll be filled to the brim as well. The front door seems the best option; he wants them to trust him, not think he's sneaking up on them. It's a good thing he can pass for human, as long as they don't look too hard. He's found most people don't. He can already feel the sun, which is just now peeking above the horizon, and his skin begins to prickle in warning. He quickens his pace.
Spike breaths a little easier having reached the relative safety of the porch. His arm hangs useless at his side now, bloodless and throbbing. His formerly white t-shirt has a bullet hole in it and is soaked with blood. He peels it off and tosses it over the railing, figuring the button down shirt is the lesser of two evils. That's blood stained too, from its stint as a tourniquet, but it's not that noticeable on the navy fabric. Somewhat less scary looking now, he raps on the door. A boy not more than fourteen answers, tough as nails, or trying to be, in army fatigues and a shoulder holster. He's got long red hair tied back at his neck, and his eyes are green and wary.
"Password?" he barks. The kid doesn't even shave yet, probably never drove a car. But he's handling a semi-automatic weapon like a pro. It's a different world, Spike is once again reminded.
"Been quite a while on the road, mate."
The boy raises his weapon, complete with silencer, and clicks off the safety. "Password?" the kid asks again, calmly.
Spike sighs. He's tired. He's hungry. His shoulder hurts like hell. He really doesn't want to do this. "Look, kid..." he says, taking a step forward. "Can I just talk to whoever's in charge?"
"I'm in charge of the door." He pokes Spike in the chest with the end of his gun. "See?"
"What's going on, Kyle?" asks a voice out of the darkness. A man with hair a few shades lighter than the boy's and graying at the temples, walks into view. "Everything all right here?"
"He doesn't know the password," Kyle says, without taking his eyes off Spike.
"He's a newcomer, son. He's not going to know the password, is he?"
"I... guess not," Kyle says reluctantly. "But I thought we were full anyway..."
"Can't turn people away for no good reason, Kyle. Now just do a quick check, and then let him in so I can talk to him."
Kyle reaches for an object that's hanging from a cord on the wall and holds it in front of Spike.
Bloody hell, it's a mirror. Seems he's underestimated them.
"He's a vampire, Dad!" Kyle says, dropping back a few steps and training his sites on Spike. He sounds more smug than fearful, and Spike supposes that's because he's seen a lot worse than vampires of late. His father quickly reaches for the cross-bow leaning against the wall, lifting it to his shoulder.
Spike closes his eye for a moment. Maybe it'd be better this way. The way things have been going for him, all signs seem to point to impending disaster anyway. But he can't do it. Has to finish what he started. And he'll be damned if these trigger-happy humans are going to bugger it up for him.
He lets out a low growl, and the slow crunch as his features change are enough to scare little Rambo back a step, at least. Spike disarms the kid and shoves him into his father before dear old dad is able to get a shot off. Before they know what's happened, they're both pinned against the wall, Spike's good arm pressed against their chests.
"Know you're scared. You've a right. But listen here. Today alone I was shot, nearly run over, and then left for dead by people I was tryin' to help, whose lives I bloody well saved, and I've had just about enough of this SHIT! Now all I want is a place to sleep and get out of the bloody sun, and you're gonna let me. I have a soul goddammit!"
"You know, the making with the fangs and the grr is probably not the best way to convince them of that," says a deep voice so eerily familiar that the hair stands up on the back of Spike's neck.
He's afraid to turn around, afraid that'll he'll be wrong. But he does, he has to, features sliding back to human, Kyle and his father already forgotten. The hair is longer, and maybe a bit grayer. There are a few more lines etched into his face. And if the voice didn't give him away, the eye patch definitely would. Still, Spike has to blink a few times to convince himself that this is not, in fact, a mirage. His face begins to feel funny; that's when he realizes he's smiling. It's been awhile.
"It's really you," Harris says. Softly. Almost under his breath. "Jesus Christ."
"Not even close, mate."
Harris pulls him into a bear hug so fierce that Spike has to bite his lip to keep from yelling out in pain. He smells faintly of sweat and wood shavings and beer. And an underlying something that must be what grief smells like.
"Spike's with me," He clears his throat, releasing Spike but keeping a protective hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, he's a vampire, but he has a soul like he said. I've known him...forever. He worked with us in Cleveland."
"With the slayers?" the boy asks, an unmistakable note of awe in his voice.
"Yeah. He's married to one." Present tense. It makes Spike's gut clench to hear the words. Harris turns to Kyle's dad. "We've got some catching up to do..."
"I'll fill everyone in when they wake up," the man says. "I'm Tom, by the way." He shakes Spike's hand. "Sorry about the misunderstanding."
"No worries, mate. And if any other vamps show up at your door, you best be quicker on the trigger."
"What if it's another vampire with a soul?" Kyle asks. "How can we tell?"
"Well, most of 'em would be biting you rather than chatting you up. Doesn't matter, though. I'm...I'm the only one."
Harris gives him a look he can't quite figure. "C'mon," he says. "There's beer."
He shows Spike into a tiny room off the kitchen that might have been an enclosed porch or sunroom, full of shoddy wicker furniture and stacks of magazines that are several years old. There's a pillow and blanket on the sofa - it must be where Harris sleeps.
"Your handiwork?" Spike asks, nodding toward the boarded up windows. He pushes the bedding out of the way and sits down.
"Ah. You recognize the work of the master," Harris says, handing him a longneck. He sits down next to Spike and they both put their feet up on a coffee table. "You got shot?" Spike pulls open his shirt and shows him the bullet hole. "Jesus. I'll get you some blood. There's a farm down the road a ways. It's deserted, but the animals are still there."
"Thanks. Lucky it's through and through. Be better in no time."
Harris nods and takes a swig. "You're a fast healer."
"Right." Spike takes a sip. "This conversation strike you as odd?" Spike asks.
"Oh yeah. Keep going, though."
"You told them about slayers," Spike says.
"Yeah. They already knew about demons. I thought I'd give them the flip side."
"You thought you'd give them some hope."
Harris lets out a snort of laughter. "I guess I did. Must have given it all away, though, cuz I don't seem to have any left."
Spike takes a long pull on his beer, puts his head back against the cushions and closes his eyes. 'Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, that sings the tune without the words and never stops at all."
"Emily Dickinson."
Spike turns his head and looks at Harris. "Yeah. One of Buffy's favorites."
Harris finishes his beer and stands up. "I'm going to get you that blood now."
Spike grabs his arm as he walks by. "We ever gonna talk about this, mate? I mean, how are you...how are you even here? What the hell happened?"
Harris stands abruptly. "Later. We'll talk. I just...I'm going to get the blood. Don't go anywhere. Okay? Stay right here." He doesn't give Spike a chance to answer, just stalks out of the room. Spike can hear the back door bang shut behind him. Outside, a Mourning Dove coos.
Chapter 8