Fic: Wish You Were Here: Chapter 3
The third chapter of my entry for kellyhk and cindermom's Welcome Back to the Hellmouth Ficathon. Written for elsaf. Story requests will be given at the end of the last chapter.
Hugs and smooches to flurblewig and yourlibrarian for betaing.
Previous chapters here.
Title: Wish You Were Here
Setting: Post-Not Fade Away
Rating: PG
Word count: 2368 (this part)
Disclaimer: Joss likes fanfic. He said so.
Chapter 3 of 6
Spike wasn’t really in any condition to resist her suggestion that he come with. Of course, this being the Spike of yesteryear, that didn’t stop him from trying. Buffy crouched in front of him with her elbows resting on her knees, leaned her forehead against her steepled fingers, and summoned up her remaining reserves of patience.
“Spike,” she said, measuring out each word calmly and reasonably, “I can’t just leave you here. I know where here is now, but technically it shouldn’t really even be at all. We may need each other to find out what’s going on and our way back to the wheres we were, and we’re not going to get anywhere sitting here in this alley.” She peered over her hands to gauge his reaction; somehow, he was managing to look obstinate and semi-comatose at the same time.
“Besides,” she added, “the sun will eventually come up-it pretty much always does in Sunnydale-and you’re not going anywhere on your own for a while. So, unless you want to spend your day under a cardboard box or in the nearest dumpster, your best bet is to come with me.” She reached her hand out to him in what she hoped was an inviting gesture, but he batted it away with his stake.
“You keep your distance, hear?” Spike’s admonition was made somewhat less intimidating given that he was starting to slur his words and was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. “Don’ know what you’re up to an’ don’ really care to find out... You g’your way an’ I’ll-”
“Be a big pile of dust by morning. For heaven’s sake, Spike!” Buffy leapt to her feet, darted towards him, wrenched the stake out of his hand, and threw it down the alley. “Look Ma, no weapons!” She held her empty palms up for him to see. “Coming in peace here. Can you get that through your thick head, please?”
Spike blinked slowly at his empty hand, then let it drop by his side and closed his eyes. Buffy interpreted this as a sign of acceptance-or more likely resignation, but that would do, too-moved beside him, and slung his arm over her shoulder. Bracing herself against the alley wall, she wrapped her free arm around his waist and hauled him to his feet. Spike grimaced and stifled a groan, clutched at the wound in his chest, and wobbled unsteadily beside her.
“Okay, lean on me and take it slowly. We’ve only got a few blocks to go. And don’t think for a minute about getting bitey with me, mister. I know you need blood, but you’re not getting any of mine.”
They shuffled towards Main Street at the pace of an arthritic tortoise and turned right towards Revello Drive. The loss of blood had made Spike weak enough that he was barely able to stay on his feet, even with her assistance. If he passed out completely-and Buffy suspected this still might be a possibility-she’d have to sling him over her shoulder and haul him along that way. At least there weren’t any people on the streets to ask awkward questions about the pale man with the gaping chest wound and blood-drenched clothing. In fact, the downtown core was unusually quiet. There was no way to tell what time it was, other than night, and a few businesses still had their post-closing-time lights on, but there were no stragglers from bars, no teenagers out for a good time, no bums sleeping it off in quiet corners… no anybody at all, really. The silence was kind of giving her the wiggins.
Two blocks away from the turn towards home, Buffy leaned Spike against a wall so that they could both take a breather. He wasn’t particularly big as vampires went, but she’d been supporting most of his weight, and she wasn’t in the same fighting shape that she’d once been. Her hands on her hips, she stretched her shoulder and neck muscles, watched the puffs of her breaths condensing into fog in the cool night air, and vowed to start working out more once she got home.
Spike coughed and spat another blood-coloured gob of phlegm to the pavement. The movement cost him more energy than he had to spare, and he began to slide down the wall. Moisture beaded on his forehead; it might have been from the rain, which had tapered off to little more than a drizzle, but his grey pallor and the pain he was trying and failing to conceal suggested that at least some of it was sweat. She’d seen him like this before-after Glory had beaten him nearly senseless, after the First had kidnapped him-and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to take him into her arms and comfort him. But then a sudden vision of another occasion when he’d been battered and bloody and left in an alley flashed into her mind. Her cheeks burned with the memory, and she settled for catching him as he slipped and lowering him gently to the ground.
“Rest for a minute, then we’ll go on.” She turned away from him, avoiding eye contact. How many times had she wished that night had never happened? How many times had she tried to forget? Tried to explain it away? She’d been different then. The circumstances had definitely been of the extenuating kind. She’d been ill-depressed, newly torn out of heaven, not herself. She closed her eyes and tried to push the scene out of her mind. Again.
Buffy could feel Spike’s gaze on her back and gave herself a mental shake. This Spike wasn’t her Spike. This Spike had no memory of that incident. He didn’t know, couldn’t know. And anyway, this wasn’t the time for self-recriminations. Doubting herself made her weak, regrets made her weak, and they couldn’t afford that right now. She had to be-
“Strong, aren’t you?”
Buffy froze, then turned slowly. “What?”
“Strong. For such a bitty thing as yourself. Sank that stake clean into me, you did. Supported me all this way, and you’re scarcely winded. You weigh, what? Seven stone, soaking wet? How’s that possible?”
Of course. He also didn’t know, couldn’t know, that she was a slayer. Somehow, this didn’t seem like the best time to tell him. Even in his current state, he might want to try to up his count to three. She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance.
“I stay in shape. That’s all.”
Spike looked at her appraisingly, one eyebrow cocked slightly. Not wanting to answer more questions, Buffy bent towards him to help him up. “C’mon-let’s get going.”
They resumed their shuffling gait and turned onto Revello Drive. Buffy squinted down the street and, yes, there it was: home. The home she’d thought she’d never see again. Though the neighbouring houses were dark, the porch light at 1630 was on, shining as if waiting in welcome. She couldn’t suppress a grin and tried to move Spike along a little faster. She wasn’t intending to stay in this version of Sunnydale any longer than necessary, but it would be good to see the old place one more time.
As they neared the driveway, Spike stiffened, suddenly alert.
“Spike? Are you all right? What’s the matt-”
Then she heard it too: a throaty growl coming from just up ahead. A moment later, a creature with mottled skin, sunken, blackened eyes, and rows of pointed yellow fangs emerged with a snarl from behind Mrs. Fitzgibbon's overgrown peony bush. It was clothed-if you could call it that-in strips of rotting leather, and its unnaturally long fingers ended in curved, pointed claws. Buffy felt her face go pale; she still saw Turok Han in nightmares, but she’d really, really hoped never to see one in real life again.
Spike stumbled wide-eyed and backwards out of her grip. Right, the Turok Han were the vampires that even vampires feared. Buffy pushed him into Mrs. Fitzgibbon's geranium bed and assumed a fighting stance, wishing that she was in better shape, wishing she had more than a gravely wounded vampire for backup, and wishing that she hadn’t thrown that stake away.
She aimed a kick at the übervamp’s chest. It caught her leg, twisted it, and she crashed down onto the sidewalk. The jarring impact made her bite her tongue; she tasted blood and spat on the pavement.
Why was there never a damn vengeance demon around to grant wishes when you really needed one?
Buffy pushed herself up, but not fast enough; the übervamp caught her in the stomach with its foot and sent her flying halfway across the lawn and into the broad trunk of the tree under which, in a different Sunnydale, Spike used to lurk. The double blow knocked the wind out of her, and she fell into a crumpled heap, gasping for air.
Catching her breath, she rose to her feet, ran towards the Turok Han, and unleashed a flurry of punches to its face and shoulders. It was like hitting concrete, and she had a feeling that that funny snapping noise was one of her fingers breaking. Unfazed, the übervamp knocked her back twenty feet with a single swipe of its arm and advanced on her again.
Buffy looked around for something she could use as a weapon. The pickings were way too slim for comfort: a wicker chair on the porch and a couple of potted begonias by the railings. The Turok Han continued its lurching gait towards her. Buffy ran up the steps of the porch, grabbed the post to her right, swung around it, and planted both feet into its chest. It stumbled backwards, and she used the opportunity to pick up a few of the flowerpots and hurl them at its head.
She was getting desperate. Spike was still ensconced in the geraniums; evading the Turok Han and carrying him to the door was Mission Totally Impossible. The wicker chair was too light to provide much in the way of staking material, and Turok Han needed more than that to dust them anyway. They’d been tough enough to fight when she was trained and ready, and a year’s sabbatical in sunny Rome had made her soft.
The übervamp brushed the dirt out of his eyes and lumbered towards her again. Buffy jumped off the porch and circled around it, ducking blows and avoiding kicks while trying to come up with a plan. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a light flick on in the living room. Someone must have heard the noise of the fight. Maybe reinforcements were on the way, although she really had no idea who was in the house. It was probably too much to hope that Faith had dropped by for a visit.
The übervamp’s fist connected solidly with her temple, and she fell to the ground, seeing spots and hearing a ringing in her ears. She found her limbs suddenly uncooperative and could do little more than scrabble backwards like an uncoordinated crab. The Turok Han gave her a kick to her side that knocked the wind out of her again. Buffy wheezed, tried to coax her aching ribs to pull air into her oxygen-starved lungs, shook her head in an unsuccessful attempt to get rid of the spots and the ringing, and willed her unresponsive arms and legs to do something, anything.
Another kick to the head and the world began to go grey. Was this it? Was this how she was going to go out, in a shouldn’t-even-exist Sunnydale at the feet of a Turok Han? She didn’t even have a Watcher to record her death. Seven years of defeating the forces of evil, and her final battle was going to wind up as a question-mark footnote in the annals of the Council-how unfair was that?
Another kick, and there were no more questions to be asked.
~*~
“Buffy.” Consciousness trickled back, and she became aware of someone shaking her gently. “Buffy. Can you hear me?”
So, she wasn’t dead after all. She knew this because dead didn’t hurt this much. Pain meant she was alive, and eventually she’d see the good in that. Right now, though, her entire world was composed of ow. She tried to tell her rescuer that she was still among the living, but all that came out was a groan.
“Get Mr. Giles,” ordered the voice of her new hero; footsteps thudded up the wooden porch stairs in response. Buffy made a Herculean effort to open her eyes-who put the twenty-pound weights on them, anyway?-and found herself looking straight into the porch light. Its brightness stabbed right through to her throbbing temple and caused even more ow. She turned her head and raised a shaking and swollen hand to block the glare, then looked for the identity of her benefactor.
The face above her was framed in dark brown ringlets, and even darker brown eyes gazed down at her in warm concern. Her expression was softer than any Buffy remembered seeing her wear before, and she exuded a feeling of compassion in addition to her customary tempered-steel strength.
“Ken-?”
Buffy choked, though she wasn’t sure if it was from surprise or the shower of dust falling from Kendra’s shoulders. Kendra lifted her upright and thumped her gently on the back until she’d finished coughing.
“Kendra, you’re… you’re alive,” Buffy said, astonished, when she was able to breathe again.
“Of course I am alive,” Kendra responded matter-of-factly. “I don’t go out alone at night wit’out appropriate weapons.” She squeezed Buffy’s arm and gave her a small smile. “I t’ink you will be all right as well.”
Kendra reached behind her. “In the future, however, you would be wise not to forget to take this-” she pushed a red and silver scythe onto Buffy’s lap “-wit’ you if you want to stay that way. Now, let me help you inside before any more of the Turok Han come. You have done all that you can tonight. Also, the others will want to know that you are okay.”
~*~
A/N: Not knowing the name of Buffy's next-door neighbour, I borrowed Mrs. Fitzgibbons from rahirah's Barbverse fic. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. :-)
~*~
The next chapter will be a lot of fun to write, but may appear at its own arthritic tortoise pace because: Harry Potter in FIVE DAYS!!! ::rubs hands in anticipatory glee::
Hugs and smooches to flurblewig and yourlibrarian for betaing.
Previous chapters here.
Title: Wish You Were Here
Setting: Post-Not Fade Away
Rating: PG
Word count: 2368 (this part)
Disclaimer: Joss likes fanfic. He said so.
Chapter 3 of 6
Spike wasn’t really in any condition to resist her suggestion that he come with. Of course, this being the Spike of yesteryear, that didn’t stop him from trying. Buffy crouched in front of him with her elbows resting on her knees, leaned her forehead against her steepled fingers, and summoned up her remaining reserves of patience.
“Spike,” she said, measuring out each word calmly and reasonably, “I can’t just leave you here. I know where here is now, but technically it shouldn’t really even be at all. We may need each other to find out what’s going on and our way back to the wheres we were, and we’re not going to get anywhere sitting here in this alley.” She peered over her hands to gauge his reaction; somehow, he was managing to look obstinate and semi-comatose at the same time.
“Besides,” she added, “the sun will eventually come up-it pretty much always does in Sunnydale-and you’re not going anywhere on your own for a while. So, unless you want to spend your day under a cardboard box or in the nearest dumpster, your best bet is to come with me.” She reached her hand out to him in what she hoped was an inviting gesture, but he batted it away with his stake.
“You keep your distance, hear?” Spike’s admonition was made somewhat less intimidating given that he was starting to slur his words and was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. “Don’ know what you’re up to an’ don’ really care to find out... You g’your way an’ I’ll-”
“Be a big pile of dust by morning. For heaven’s sake, Spike!” Buffy leapt to her feet, darted towards him, wrenched the stake out of his hand, and threw it down the alley. “Look Ma, no weapons!” She held her empty palms up for him to see. “Coming in peace here. Can you get that through your thick head, please?”
Spike blinked slowly at his empty hand, then let it drop by his side and closed his eyes. Buffy interpreted this as a sign of acceptance-or more likely resignation, but that would do, too-moved beside him, and slung his arm over her shoulder. Bracing herself against the alley wall, she wrapped her free arm around his waist and hauled him to his feet. Spike grimaced and stifled a groan, clutched at the wound in his chest, and wobbled unsteadily beside her.
“Okay, lean on me and take it slowly. We’ve only got a few blocks to go. And don’t think for a minute about getting bitey with me, mister. I know you need blood, but you’re not getting any of mine.”
They shuffled towards Main Street at the pace of an arthritic tortoise and turned right towards Revello Drive. The loss of blood had made Spike weak enough that he was barely able to stay on his feet, even with her assistance. If he passed out completely-and Buffy suspected this still might be a possibility-she’d have to sling him over her shoulder and haul him along that way. At least there weren’t any people on the streets to ask awkward questions about the pale man with the gaping chest wound and blood-drenched clothing. In fact, the downtown core was unusually quiet. There was no way to tell what time it was, other than night, and a few businesses still had their post-closing-time lights on, but there were no stragglers from bars, no teenagers out for a good time, no bums sleeping it off in quiet corners… no anybody at all, really. The silence was kind of giving her the wiggins.
Two blocks away from the turn towards home, Buffy leaned Spike against a wall so that they could both take a breather. He wasn’t particularly big as vampires went, but she’d been supporting most of his weight, and she wasn’t in the same fighting shape that she’d once been. Her hands on her hips, she stretched her shoulder and neck muscles, watched the puffs of her breaths condensing into fog in the cool night air, and vowed to start working out more once she got home.
Spike coughed and spat another blood-coloured gob of phlegm to the pavement. The movement cost him more energy than he had to spare, and he began to slide down the wall. Moisture beaded on his forehead; it might have been from the rain, which had tapered off to little more than a drizzle, but his grey pallor and the pain he was trying and failing to conceal suggested that at least some of it was sweat. She’d seen him like this before-after Glory had beaten him nearly senseless, after the First had kidnapped him-and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to take him into her arms and comfort him. But then a sudden vision of another occasion when he’d been battered and bloody and left in an alley flashed into her mind. Her cheeks burned with the memory, and she settled for catching him as he slipped and lowering him gently to the ground.
“Rest for a minute, then we’ll go on.” She turned away from him, avoiding eye contact. How many times had she wished that night had never happened? How many times had she tried to forget? Tried to explain it away? She’d been different then. The circumstances had definitely been of the extenuating kind. She’d been ill-depressed, newly torn out of heaven, not herself. She closed her eyes and tried to push the scene out of her mind. Again.
Buffy could feel Spike’s gaze on her back and gave herself a mental shake. This Spike wasn’t her Spike. This Spike had no memory of that incident. He didn’t know, couldn’t know. And anyway, this wasn’t the time for self-recriminations. Doubting herself made her weak, regrets made her weak, and they couldn’t afford that right now. She had to be-
“Strong, aren’t you?”
Buffy froze, then turned slowly. “What?”
“Strong. For such a bitty thing as yourself. Sank that stake clean into me, you did. Supported me all this way, and you’re scarcely winded. You weigh, what? Seven stone, soaking wet? How’s that possible?”
Of course. He also didn’t know, couldn’t know, that she was a slayer. Somehow, this didn’t seem like the best time to tell him. Even in his current state, he might want to try to up his count to three. She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance.
“I stay in shape. That’s all.”
Spike looked at her appraisingly, one eyebrow cocked slightly. Not wanting to answer more questions, Buffy bent towards him to help him up. “C’mon-let’s get going.”
They resumed their shuffling gait and turned onto Revello Drive. Buffy squinted down the street and, yes, there it was: home. The home she’d thought she’d never see again. Though the neighbouring houses were dark, the porch light at 1630 was on, shining as if waiting in welcome. She couldn’t suppress a grin and tried to move Spike along a little faster. She wasn’t intending to stay in this version of Sunnydale any longer than necessary, but it would be good to see the old place one more time.
As they neared the driveway, Spike stiffened, suddenly alert.
“Spike? Are you all right? What’s the matt-”
Then she heard it too: a throaty growl coming from just up ahead. A moment later, a creature with mottled skin, sunken, blackened eyes, and rows of pointed yellow fangs emerged with a snarl from behind Mrs. Fitzgibbon's overgrown peony bush. It was clothed-if you could call it that-in strips of rotting leather, and its unnaturally long fingers ended in curved, pointed claws. Buffy felt her face go pale; she still saw Turok Han in nightmares, but she’d really, really hoped never to see one in real life again.
Spike stumbled wide-eyed and backwards out of her grip. Right, the Turok Han were the vampires that even vampires feared. Buffy pushed him into Mrs. Fitzgibbon's geranium bed and assumed a fighting stance, wishing that she was in better shape, wishing she had more than a gravely wounded vampire for backup, and wishing that she hadn’t thrown that stake away.
She aimed a kick at the übervamp’s chest. It caught her leg, twisted it, and she crashed down onto the sidewalk. The jarring impact made her bite her tongue; she tasted blood and spat on the pavement.
Why was there never a damn vengeance demon around to grant wishes when you really needed one?
Buffy pushed herself up, but not fast enough; the übervamp caught her in the stomach with its foot and sent her flying halfway across the lawn and into the broad trunk of the tree under which, in a different Sunnydale, Spike used to lurk. The double blow knocked the wind out of her, and she fell into a crumpled heap, gasping for air.
Catching her breath, she rose to her feet, ran towards the Turok Han, and unleashed a flurry of punches to its face and shoulders. It was like hitting concrete, and she had a feeling that that funny snapping noise was one of her fingers breaking. Unfazed, the übervamp knocked her back twenty feet with a single swipe of its arm and advanced on her again.
Buffy looked around for something she could use as a weapon. The pickings were way too slim for comfort: a wicker chair on the porch and a couple of potted begonias by the railings. The Turok Han continued its lurching gait towards her. Buffy ran up the steps of the porch, grabbed the post to her right, swung around it, and planted both feet into its chest. It stumbled backwards, and she used the opportunity to pick up a few of the flowerpots and hurl them at its head.
She was getting desperate. Spike was still ensconced in the geraniums; evading the Turok Han and carrying him to the door was Mission Totally Impossible. The wicker chair was too light to provide much in the way of staking material, and Turok Han needed more than that to dust them anyway. They’d been tough enough to fight when she was trained and ready, and a year’s sabbatical in sunny Rome had made her soft.
The übervamp brushed the dirt out of his eyes and lumbered towards her again. Buffy jumped off the porch and circled around it, ducking blows and avoiding kicks while trying to come up with a plan. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a light flick on in the living room. Someone must have heard the noise of the fight. Maybe reinforcements were on the way, although she really had no idea who was in the house. It was probably too much to hope that Faith had dropped by for a visit.
The übervamp’s fist connected solidly with her temple, and she fell to the ground, seeing spots and hearing a ringing in her ears. She found her limbs suddenly uncooperative and could do little more than scrabble backwards like an uncoordinated crab. The Turok Han gave her a kick to her side that knocked the wind out of her again. Buffy wheezed, tried to coax her aching ribs to pull air into her oxygen-starved lungs, shook her head in an unsuccessful attempt to get rid of the spots and the ringing, and willed her unresponsive arms and legs to do something, anything.
Another kick to the head and the world began to go grey. Was this it? Was this how she was going to go out, in a shouldn’t-even-exist Sunnydale at the feet of a Turok Han? She didn’t even have a Watcher to record her death. Seven years of defeating the forces of evil, and her final battle was going to wind up as a question-mark footnote in the annals of the Council-how unfair was that?
Another kick, and there were no more questions to be asked.
~*~
“Buffy.” Consciousness trickled back, and she became aware of someone shaking her gently. “Buffy. Can you hear me?”
So, she wasn’t dead after all. She knew this because dead didn’t hurt this much. Pain meant she was alive, and eventually she’d see the good in that. Right now, though, her entire world was composed of ow. She tried to tell her rescuer that she was still among the living, but all that came out was a groan.
“Get Mr. Giles,” ordered the voice of her new hero; footsteps thudded up the wooden porch stairs in response. Buffy made a Herculean effort to open her eyes-who put the twenty-pound weights on them, anyway?-and found herself looking straight into the porch light. Its brightness stabbed right through to her throbbing temple and caused even more ow. She turned her head and raised a shaking and swollen hand to block the glare, then looked for the identity of her benefactor.
The face above her was framed in dark brown ringlets, and even darker brown eyes gazed down at her in warm concern. Her expression was softer than any Buffy remembered seeing her wear before, and she exuded a feeling of compassion in addition to her customary tempered-steel strength.
“Ken-?”
Buffy choked, though she wasn’t sure if it was from surprise or the shower of dust falling from Kendra’s shoulders. Kendra lifted her upright and thumped her gently on the back until she’d finished coughing.
“Kendra, you’re… you’re alive,” Buffy said, astonished, when she was able to breathe again.
“Of course I am alive,” Kendra responded matter-of-factly. “I don’t go out alone at night wit’out appropriate weapons.” She squeezed Buffy’s arm and gave her a small smile. “I t’ink you will be all right as well.”
Kendra reached behind her. “In the future, however, you would be wise not to forget to take this-” she pushed a red and silver scythe onto Buffy’s lap “-wit’ you if you want to stay that way. Now, let me help you inside before any more of the Turok Han come. You have done all that you can tonight. Also, the others will want to know that you are okay.”
~*~
A/N: Not knowing the name of Buffy's next-door neighbour, I borrowed Mrs. Fitzgibbons from rahirah's Barbverse fic. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. :-)
~*~
The next chapter will be a lot of fun to write, but may appear at its own arthritic tortoise pace because: Harry Potter in FIVE DAYS!!! ::rubs hands in anticipatory glee::