Excavating the fanfic files
This is a Buffy piece I did several years ago, written between "Listening to Fear" and "Into the Woods." Hope, I always say, is that cute, cuddly big-eyed thing you take to your bosom to love and cherish--and the next thing you know, its sharp white teeth are fastened in your throat and its claws are raking your belly, and your guts are steaming in a heap on the floor...
This is the last time, he tells himself as he walks down the dim hallway. It reeks of rats and urine and dead things. The bare, splintered floorboards squeak under his shoes, and he's careful not to look too closely into the shadowy corners or through any of the open doors. "The last time," he whispers as he comes to the end of the hall, "No more after this." It's becoming a mantra.
He's in front of the door now, staring at the peeling beige paint and the rust that bubbles up underneath it like sickness, like despair. For one bright moment he can almost turn around and go, back to the daylight, back to the hospital where Buffy is sitting with Joyce and being ruthlessly cheerful, but... Just this one last time, he thinks, One more. For the road.
He lifts his hand, sets it on the doorknob. The door clatters in the doorframe; his hand is shaking. Swearing under his breath, he pushes, hard, and the cheap lock breaks. Or maybe the door was ajar--it flies open, bangs against the wall, and the woman in the room--the vampire--looks up, her face morphing into the demon's for a second before she recognizes him and shakes it off.
"Well," she says, her voice low and breathy, "I thought you'd be back."
"Shut up," he growls, and narrows his eyes. "I'm not here to talk." He pulls a roll of cash from his pocket and holds it up.
She affects a pout. "I'm hurt," she says, batting her eyes at him. "I thought you liked me."
He doesn't say anything, just holds the money out to her, mouth set in a grim line.
Hips swaying, she walks to him, strokes the backs of her fingers over his cheek, then leans in, nuzzles at his neck, her lips brushing his throat, over the marks from Sandy's bite. He shivers, and feels her smile against his skin as she takes the money. He tries not to feel relieved.
She pulls back, slides her hand around to cradle the back of his skull, tipping his head to the side to expose his throat. Her fingers feel gentle, but he knows that the touch will turn into the steel grip of her full vampire strength if he tries to escape.
He reaches for his hip pocket, pulls out the stake he's brought, sets it against her breastbone, dimpling the fabric of her blouse. "No," he says, through his teeth, "Arm."
The vampire snarls softly and her eyes glow yellow as her fingers dig into his neck. He presses the tip of the stake into her chest until it pierces the cloth, breaks the skin. A red blossom of blood opens on the dingy green jersey of her blouse and her nostrils flare. Her tongue darts out, flicks the corner of her mouth, and she whimpers, reaches up and wraps her fingers around his where he holds the stake.
"Come on, soldier boy, you're not gonna dust me before you get what you want, are you?" she says, her voice gone smoky and sweet. Her thumb strokes over the back of his hand once, twice. She pulls, and the stake goes deeper, into the bone. He jerks it back and she smiles, showing sharp teeth. "I thought not."
She steps back, tugs on his hand, leads him to an overstuffed chair, pushes him down into it. The stake, he notices, is gone from his hand, and he looks up to see her twirling it between her fingers. The demon is out, and laughing at him. The stake clatters to the floor as she kneels beside the chair. Waiting.
For a moment he does nothing, merely stares at her, studying the demon face. He can still change his mind, he thinks, there'd be enough time to get to the stake if he surprised her and threw her across the room. He imagines her shocked expression if he were to grab her, imagines her falling to dust before him as he stakes her, but he doesn't make the move. Instead, he lifts his arm onto the high side of the chair, turns his hand palm up so that the bend of his elbow is opened for her. Waiting.
Her mouth is chill, her tongue cold as she laps at the scars in the crook of his arm. He shivers at the touch, lets his head fall back against the chair, lets his eyes close. He wonders what Buffy would say if she saw the bite scars, wonders if she would be hurt to think of him being with a vampire, the way it hurts him to think of her with Angel. Or Spike. It would be a fitting revenge, but revenge isn't really what he wants, he tells himself. For a fleeting instant, he lets himself wish that it were Buffy's warm mouth there on his skin instead of the cold, undead touch of the vampire.
And then her teeth pierce him, more savagely than usual.
The pain is sharp and stinging and bittersweet, and it sweeps away all thoughts of Buffy. It sings in him, high and thin at first, deepening into a melody that melts his bones, catches his breath, makes his pulse flutter and race and stumble, starts a familiar ache in his groin. As he feels the pull of her cold mouth, hears the small moans she makes as she takes his blood, the melody deepens further to a bass throb, a slow double-thump rhythm that he knows comes from his laboring heart.
He opens his eyes to find that all the colors are going out of the dismal room--pastel to sepia to grey, and finally, finally, the black creeps in around the edges, veiling the furniture, the dusty floor, the grimy walls, until the quiet, gentle darkness holds him. Sight, sound, memory, passion, desire, hope, all are hidden inside it, and at last he can rest. It's beyond everything he'd hoped for, and he smiles as he feels the pull at his arm, as though from far away. This is why he comes here, he realizes, this is why he seeks out the vampires--this peace. He's been afraid to let it go this far before, but this...
He sighs, surrendering to it.
This is the last time.
This is the last time, he tells himself as he walks down the dim hallway. It reeks of rats and urine and dead things. The bare, splintered floorboards squeak under his shoes, and he's careful not to look too closely into the shadowy corners or through any of the open doors. "The last time," he whispers as he comes to the end of the hall, "No more after this." It's becoming a mantra.
He's in front of the door now, staring at the peeling beige paint and the rust that bubbles up underneath it like sickness, like despair. For one bright moment he can almost turn around and go, back to the daylight, back to the hospital where Buffy is sitting with Joyce and being ruthlessly cheerful, but... Just this one last time, he thinks, One more. For the road.
He lifts his hand, sets it on the doorknob. The door clatters in the doorframe; his hand is shaking. Swearing under his breath, he pushes, hard, and the cheap lock breaks. Or maybe the door was ajar--it flies open, bangs against the wall, and the woman in the room--the vampire--looks up, her face morphing into the demon's for a second before she recognizes him and shakes it off.
"Well," she says, her voice low and breathy, "I thought you'd be back."
"Shut up," he growls, and narrows his eyes. "I'm not here to talk." He pulls a roll of cash from his pocket and holds it up.
She affects a pout. "I'm hurt," she says, batting her eyes at him. "I thought you liked me."
He doesn't say anything, just holds the money out to her, mouth set in a grim line.
Hips swaying, she walks to him, strokes the backs of her fingers over his cheek, then leans in, nuzzles at his neck, her lips brushing his throat, over the marks from Sandy's bite. He shivers, and feels her smile against his skin as she takes the money. He tries not to feel relieved.
She pulls back, slides her hand around to cradle the back of his skull, tipping his head to the side to expose his throat. Her fingers feel gentle, but he knows that the touch will turn into the steel grip of her full vampire strength if he tries to escape.
He reaches for his hip pocket, pulls out the stake he's brought, sets it against her breastbone, dimpling the fabric of her blouse. "No," he says, through his teeth, "Arm."
The vampire snarls softly and her eyes glow yellow as her fingers dig into his neck. He presses the tip of the stake into her chest until it pierces the cloth, breaks the skin. A red blossom of blood opens on the dingy green jersey of her blouse and her nostrils flare. Her tongue darts out, flicks the corner of her mouth, and she whimpers, reaches up and wraps her fingers around his where he holds the stake.
"Come on, soldier boy, you're not gonna dust me before you get what you want, are you?" she says, her voice gone smoky and sweet. Her thumb strokes over the back of his hand once, twice. She pulls, and the stake goes deeper, into the bone. He jerks it back and she smiles, showing sharp teeth. "I thought not."
She steps back, tugs on his hand, leads him to an overstuffed chair, pushes him down into it. The stake, he notices, is gone from his hand, and he looks up to see her twirling it between her fingers. The demon is out, and laughing at him. The stake clatters to the floor as she kneels beside the chair. Waiting.
For a moment he does nothing, merely stares at her, studying the demon face. He can still change his mind, he thinks, there'd be enough time to get to the stake if he surprised her and threw her across the room. He imagines her shocked expression if he were to grab her, imagines her falling to dust before him as he stakes her, but he doesn't make the move. Instead, he lifts his arm onto the high side of the chair, turns his hand palm up so that the bend of his elbow is opened for her. Waiting.
Her mouth is chill, her tongue cold as she laps at the scars in the crook of his arm. He shivers at the touch, lets his head fall back against the chair, lets his eyes close. He wonders what Buffy would say if she saw the bite scars, wonders if she would be hurt to think of him being with a vampire, the way it hurts him to think of her with Angel. Or Spike. It would be a fitting revenge, but revenge isn't really what he wants, he tells himself. For a fleeting instant, he lets himself wish that it were Buffy's warm mouth there on his skin instead of the cold, undead touch of the vampire.
And then her teeth pierce him, more savagely than usual.
The pain is sharp and stinging and bittersweet, and it sweeps away all thoughts of Buffy. It sings in him, high and thin at first, deepening into a melody that melts his bones, catches his breath, makes his pulse flutter and race and stumble, starts a familiar ache in his groin. As he feels the pull of her cold mouth, hears the small moans she makes as she takes his blood, the melody deepens further to a bass throb, a slow double-thump rhythm that he knows comes from his laboring heart.
He opens his eyes to find that all the colors are going out of the dismal room--pastel to sepia to grey, and finally, finally, the black creeps in around the edges, veiling the furniture, the dusty floor, the grimy walls, until the quiet, gentle darkness holds him. Sight, sound, memory, passion, desire, hope, all are hidden inside it, and at last he can rest. It's beyond everything he'd hoped for, and he smiles as he feels the pull at his arm, as though from far away. This is why he comes here, he realizes, this is why he seeks out the vampires--this peace. He's been afraid to let it go this far before, but this...
He sighs, surrendering to it.
This is the last time.