Season 5 Drabbles
A/N: Well, drabble like. Went a bit over, but who's counting?
Summary: During FFL, while Spike walks to Buffy's house with the shotgun.
Spike gripped the barrels of the shot gun in his right hand, and the left gripped the handle, finger resting behind the trigger as he marched. He refused to be made a fool of. He grit his teeth as the word "again" followed the end of that sentence. He was sodding tired of it--being love's bitch. The heartache. The humiliation…
He wasn't going to let her just knock him on his ass and get away with it. He refused to let her have control over him. And the most efficient way to do that?
Make her a rotting corpse.
I'd like to see her insult me with a big, gaping wound in her chest.
He’d prove Dru wrong. He’d prove Harmony wrong.
He’d prove himself wrong.
His nostrils flared as he approached her. Only six feet separated them.
Spike cocked the gun...
Summary: Post FFL/pre "Shadow."
He hadn’t planned on it exactly. Not that it mattered cause his plans usually failed horrendously, but she’d been so soft last night. She’d confided in him-expressed her fears…
She’d let him in.
It was…it was like a drug.
They’d talked, and he even managed to get in a nice cuppa with her and Joyce. He went back to his crypt later, and…
Felt empty somehow, without her presence there. He started to sketch, but was less than satisfied with the results. He needed to look at her to get it right…
And that’s when it occurred to him.
Knowing the house would be empty for the next several hours, he headed back. Stopped in the basement first. He found a box of photos, pocketed a few candid shots, then went up to her room.
He was like an addict, now. And her warmth, her scent, were the drug.
Summary: During FFL, while Spike walks to Buffy's house with the shotgun.
Spike gripped the barrels of the shot gun in his right hand, and the left gripped the handle, finger resting behind the trigger as he marched. He refused to be made a fool of. He grit his teeth as the word "again" followed the end of that sentence. He was sodding tired of it--being love's bitch. The heartache. The humiliation…
He wasn't going to let her just knock him on his ass and get away with it. He refused to let her have control over him. And the most efficient way to do that?
Make her a rotting corpse.
I'd like to see her insult me with a big, gaping wound in her chest.
He’d prove Dru wrong. He’d prove Harmony wrong.
He’d prove himself wrong.
His nostrils flared as he approached her. Only six feet separated them.
Spike cocked the gun...
Summary: Post FFL/pre "Shadow."
He hadn’t planned on it exactly. Not that it mattered cause his plans usually failed horrendously, but she’d been so soft last night. She’d confided in him-expressed her fears…
She’d let him in.
It was…it was like a drug.
They’d talked, and he even managed to get in a nice cuppa with her and Joyce. He went back to his crypt later, and…
Felt empty somehow, without her presence there. He started to sketch, but was less than satisfied with the results. He needed to look at her to get it right…
And that’s when it occurred to him.
Knowing the house would be empty for the next several hours, he headed back. Stopped in the basement first. He found a box of photos, pocketed a few candid shots, then went up to her room.
He was like an addict, now. And her warmth, her scent, were the drug.