Fic Update: "After the Deluge - Chapter Seven"
Continuing the story, we are back in Rome, where we left Dawn and Andrew. Thanks to everyone still reading - comments make me very happy.
Chapter One is here.
Chapter Two is here
Chapter Three is here.
Chapter Four is here.
Chapter Five is here.
Chapter Six is here.
Chapter Seven: Warm Roman Night
Late night, late-spring Rome didn’t exactly have a lot in common with Sunnydale, apart, perhaps, from the temperature, but Dawn still had enough of her training left to be wary of responding to a doorbell which started ringing at eleven at night. Even - or especially - when it went on ringing.
Andrew, naturally, had no such qualms. He was the one with the active night life these days, regularly to be seen escorting glamorous locals of either, or indeterminate, gender. Dawn suspected some form of magical or demonic influence, but the former Arch-Villain (pat. pending) could be easily hurt and Dawn rarely had the heart to do that.
Andrew bounded to the door and Dawn could hear him dismantling the rather excessive collection of bolts, bars and chains, before flinging it open with what he undoubtedly considered to be panache. She smiled, almost tenderly. Pizza delivery at the wrong door again? No scream of terror at any rate.
There was a scream, though, delayed by perhaps thirty seconds. “Gandalf!” Why would Sir Ian McKellen call on her? Or was it a name he used for anyone with a beard?
Intrigued despite her own intentions, Dawn moved closer to the entrance, to a spot with a clear view of the late guest.
Her jaw dropped. It virtually hit the ground with a dull thud. She tottered slightly and grabbed for a chairback. She stared at the doorway, and stared again. Time moved slowly.
“Spike? Is it really? Surely it can’t be…”
A grey-faced, emaciated man leaned, impossibly, against the invisible barrier of the entrance. His skin pressed against his bones, squashed by the pressure which stopped any further movement. His expression was drawn, vacant, his eyes dull and lifeless. He was still unmistakeable.
“Spike, come in. You need to rest. Come and sit down!”
“Shouldn’t ha’ done that, pet. You don’t know what I am, not even if I’m really me. Don’t I look hungry enough to eat you up? Funny that - I don’t think I’ve been this skinny since the year Buffy … came back.”
Andrew stepped back, alarmed, and, failing in any attempt to be inconspicuous, shuffled toward the weapons cabinet on the wall. Dawn, however, reached forward and grasped his wrist, marvelling at how fragile it felt under her fingers, and drew him toward the sofa.
“You look like crap,” she pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone, “and what evil creature would impersonate you, looking like you couldn’t fight a feather to a draw, let alone two experienced Watchers?”
That produced something between a snigger and a choke. “Two what? You have to be kidding me, right? I have met the both of you before.”
“Even so,” her voice was firm, and so was her grip, “I don’t think we need worry too much about asking you in. We have a few stakes lying around if need be. Not that I think it, whatever it is, will be. Needed. That sorta made sense, right?”
Spike interrupted her musings by pitching forward onto his face. It worked, though it was a little more dramatic than he’d planned. Andrew yelped and jumped back. Dawn squeaked and jumped forward, hanging onto his arm enough to stop him from entirely hitting the floor but failing to stop his nose from making contact. Always the way, that.
Dawn hauled him over to the couch and hoisted him onto it as Andrew watched, nervously. She gave the patent Dawn eyeroll Spike hadn’t known till then that he had missed so much.
“Andrew, if you can’t help carry him, can you at least help feed him? There’s a bag of plasma in the freezer - go get it.”
“Plasma, pet? I don’t drink unleaded usually. But why have you got even that?”
“Buffy insists,” replied Dawn, barely distracted from checking him for bruises and scars. “She reckons there’s always an outside chance a vamp or demon not out to kill us will turn up, and it’s as well to be prepared. Not that she ever thought it might be you, exactly.”
“Angel’s little nummy treat is it? Mighta known. Still, my need’s greater than Captain Forehead’s right now. If he’s still around he won’t begrudge me a sip of his standby plonk.”
“Not Angel, no. We have some friendly demons working with us here. That’s all.”
Spike was no longer listening. Andrew held the bag out to him, mutely. It was barely lukewarm, but Spike clutched it between both hands, sliced an edge off with a fang and gulped. For a minute or two there was no sound other than his convulsive swallowing as his companions, frozen where they stood, watched him consume the bag’s contents.
Eventually - a very brief eventually, in fact - there was none left. He took in a great gulp of air and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Thanks, love. Needed that, I don’t mind telling you.” He handed the bag to Andrew who stood, as still as before, staring at it, clearly with no idea what to do with it.
More mild irritation from Dawn. This was obviously a pattern. “Unless you plan to slash an artery to give him a refill, there’s a trash can in the kitchen.”
Andrew scurried off to deal with the debris. Dawn risked leaving Spike propped back against the pillows for a moment, and went to a shelf in the corner of the room. “We don’t have any whisky, I’m afraid. Not our tipple. But there’s some grappa Giles left here on his last visit, or a walnut liqueur. You are going to have a big glass of one or the other, buster. And then you have one hell of a lot of explaining to do.”
Spike groaned. He hadn’t exactly forgotten the elemental force of a Summers woman on a mission, but the full effect in 3D after so long was more than a little alarming. He began to speak, “Bu…”
“Buffy’s in England, trying to find out the truth about you. If she’s not in California by now. So what I need to know is, why are you here, do we tell Buffy, and what are we supposed to do with you?”
Another chapter mid-week, I hope.
Chapter One is here.
Chapter Two is here
Chapter Three is here.
Chapter Four is here.
Chapter Five is here.
Chapter Six is here.
Chapter Seven: Warm Roman Night
Late night, late-spring Rome didn’t exactly have a lot in common with Sunnydale, apart, perhaps, from the temperature, but Dawn still had enough of her training left to be wary of responding to a doorbell which started ringing at eleven at night. Even - or especially - when it went on ringing.
Andrew, naturally, had no such qualms. He was the one with the active night life these days, regularly to be seen escorting glamorous locals of either, or indeterminate, gender. Dawn suspected some form of magical or demonic influence, but the former Arch-Villain (pat. pending) could be easily hurt and Dawn rarely had the heart to do that.
Andrew bounded to the door and Dawn could hear him dismantling the rather excessive collection of bolts, bars and chains, before flinging it open with what he undoubtedly considered to be panache. She smiled, almost tenderly. Pizza delivery at the wrong door again? No scream of terror at any rate.
There was a scream, though, delayed by perhaps thirty seconds. “Gandalf!” Why would Sir Ian McKellen call on her? Or was it a name he used for anyone with a beard?
Intrigued despite her own intentions, Dawn moved closer to the entrance, to a spot with a clear view of the late guest.
Her jaw dropped. It virtually hit the ground with a dull thud. She tottered slightly and grabbed for a chairback. She stared at the doorway, and stared again. Time moved slowly.
“Spike? Is it really? Surely it can’t be…”
A grey-faced, emaciated man leaned, impossibly, against the invisible barrier of the entrance. His skin pressed against his bones, squashed by the pressure which stopped any further movement. His expression was drawn, vacant, his eyes dull and lifeless. He was still unmistakeable.
“Spike, come in. You need to rest. Come and sit down!”
“Shouldn’t ha’ done that, pet. You don’t know what I am, not even if I’m really me. Don’t I look hungry enough to eat you up? Funny that - I don’t think I’ve been this skinny since the year Buffy … came back.”
Andrew stepped back, alarmed, and, failing in any attempt to be inconspicuous, shuffled toward the weapons cabinet on the wall. Dawn, however, reached forward and grasped his wrist, marvelling at how fragile it felt under her fingers, and drew him toward the sofa.
“You look like crap,” she pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone, “and what evil creature would impersonate you, looking like you couldn’t fight a feather to a draw, let alone two experienced Watchers?”
That produced something between a snigger and a choke. “Two what? You have to be kidding me, right? I have met the both of you before.”
“Even so,” her voice was firm, and so was her grip, “I don’t think we need worry too much about asking you in. We have a few stakes lying around if need be. Not that I think it, whatever it is, will be. Needed. That sorta made sense, right?”
Spike interrupted her musings by pitching forward onto his face. It worked, though it was a little more dramatic than he’d planned. Andrew yelped and jumped back. Dawn squeaked and jumped forward, hanging onto his arm enough to stop him from entirely hitting the floor but failing to stop his nose from making contact. Always the way, that.
Dawn hauled him over to the couch and hoisted him onto it as Andrew watched, nervously. She gave the patent Dawn eyeroll Spike hadn’t known till then that he had missed so much.
“Andrew, if you can’t help carry him, can you at least help feed him? There’s a bag of plasma in the freezer - go get it.”
“Plasma, pet? I don’t drink unleaded usually. But why have you got even that?”
“Buffy insists,” replied Dawn, barely distracted from checking him for bruises and scars. “She reckons there’s always an outside chance a vamp or demon not out to kill us will turn up, and it’s as well to be prepared. Not that she ever thought it might be you, exactly.”
“Angel’s little nummy treat is it? Mighta known. Still, my need’s greater than Captain Forehead’s right now. If he’s still around he won’t begrudge me a sip of his standby plonk.”
“Not Angel, no. We have some friendly demons working with us here. That’s all.”
Spike was no longer listening. Andrew held the bag out to him, mutely. It was barely lukewarm, but Spike clutched it between both hands, sliced an edge off with a fang and gulped. For a minute or two there was no sound other than his convulsive swallowing as his companions, frozen where they stood, watched him consume the bag’s contents.
Eventually - a very brief eventually, in fact - there was none left. He took in a great gulp of air and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Thanks, love. Needed that, I don’t mind telling you.” He handed the bag to Andrew who stood, as still as before, staring at it, clearly with no idea what to do with it.
More mild irritation from Dawn. This was obviously a pattern. “Unless you plan to slash an artery to give him a refill, there’s a trash can in the kitchen.”
Andrew scurried off to deal with the debris. Dawn risked leaving Spike propped back against the pillows for a moment, and went to a shelf in the corner of the room. “We don’t have any whisky, I’m afraid. Not our tipple. But there’s some grappa Giles left here on his last visit, or a walnut liqueur. You are going to have a big glass of one or the other, buster. And then you have one hell of a lot of explaining to do.”
Spike groaned. He hadn’t exactly forgotten the elemental force of a Summers woman on a mission, but the full effect in 3D after so long was more than a little alarming. He began to speak, “Bu…”
“Buffy’s in England, trying to find out the truth about you. If she’s not in California by now. So what I need to know is, why are you here, do we tell Buffy, and what are we supposed to do with you?”
Another chapter mid-week, I hope.