The Slow Slip Into Wonderful Nothing
Another fanfic written for
good__evil's May 08 challenge.
The Slow Slip Into Wonderful Nothing
Heaven behind her, and trouble ahead. She sees no way to leave, and so she seeks sweet oblivion in your welcoming arms.
It smashed on the crypt floor, scattering fragments in every direction.
“Oops.”
“That’s the third glass you’ve broken this week, Slayer.”
“Sorry.” She grabbed another shot glass and held it out expectantly, but Spike was walking to the other side of the room. Buffy shrugged, and grabbed the bottle herself.
One shot of whiskey later, she looked around… and there he was, kneeling on the floor.
“What are you doing?”
Spike looked pointedly at the dustpan and brush he was holding, and patiently answered, “I’m writing an epic poem about Vikings.”
“You never clean.”
He grinned. “Is this a new fetish I should know about?”
“Huh?”
“Does having lacerations all over your back turn you on? Cos I can work with that.”
She was still looking at him blankly. He chuckled.
“There’s glass everywhere, pet.” Still sweeping up, he continued, “And since there’s a definite possibility this floor will be put to good use later, I thought you’d enjoy yourself more if you weren’t lying on hundreds of shards.”
The glass was dumped unceremoniously in the corner, and Spike returned to the couch.
Buffy smiled. “Your turn.”
“Okay. Terminator.”
“The Italian Job.”
“Aladdin.”
“What? There aren’t any car crashes in Aladdin! There aren’t any cars.”
“The flying carpet crashes, though. That’s sort of like a car.”
“No way.”
“Come on, it counts.”
“Nope. Drink.”
“Fine.” He took a shot. “New category?”
“Hmm…” She drank some more whiskey, and lapsed into thought.
The couch was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He really needed a new one. And actually new this time, not just someone else’s old junk. There had to be some sort of furniture store in town with dodgy security - one broken window, and he’d have himself a new lounge suite. Worth looking into.
Buffy was still thinking.
“Alright there, love?”
“I’m out of ideas.” Her forehead wrinkled. “And out of whiskey.”
Spike picked up the bottle. “Whiskey I can help with. You’re on your own for the other.” He frowned, and indicated the bandage on her arm. “That’s coming loose.”
“Nah, it’s fine.”
“It’s falling off your arm.”
“Well, I won’t need it on for much longer, anyway,” Buffy pointed out. “The wonders of Slayer healing: it can fix almost any injury.” She drained her glass, and laughed. “And resurrection spells fix the rest.”
Spike winced. “They do that.”
She turned her shot glass upside down, and calmly noted the few drops that fell to the floor. “I’m out of alcohol again.”
“That happens,” Spike observed. “Especially if you keep drinking it.”
“Well, hurry up, slow-guy. They aren’t going to magically refill themselves, you know.”
He passed her the bottle, silently.
The glasses were refilled, and Buffy proposed a toast: “Here’s to magic. Wonderful magic. It has helped us out so many times - even if it isn’t up to replenishing drinks yet. And here’s to best friends who know exactly how to fix things so that life is perfect. Perfect, perfect life, that lasts forever… no matter how hard you try.”
She had the shot right there in front of her lips, but she didn’t drink it. Just stared off into the distance.
Spike touched her cheek gently, and asked, “Slayer? Are you…”
“Me? I’m fine,” Buffy said absently. “Alive as ever, just like everyone wanted. And that’s the important thing, anyway.” She laughed, and quickly bit her lip as the laugh started turning into a sob. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered.
He just watched.
And then the moment had passed, with a quick shake of the head, another shot of whiskey, and a bright “Where was I?”
“Pretty sure you were about to let me tighten that bandage.”
“That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Give it here.”
Buffy sighed, resignedly, and scooched down the couch so that her legs were across Spike’s knees. She raised her arm, and he started fixing the material so that it once again completely covered the bite marks on her bicep. Buffy watched him, still slightly grumpy.
“You’d think, if a vamp was going to bite me, he’d at least aim for the neck,” she complained.
Spike let his eyes move slowly up her form, and licked his lips before replying. “In your case, I think a discerning vampire would try for anything he could get his teeth into.”
“Subtle.”
“I thought so.”
He finished, and she sat up and grabbed the whiskey again.
“It’s not just being bitten,” she pointed out. “Hello, Slayer here, injuries are pretty much part of the gig. But he completely ruined my top.”
“Which, in turn, completely ruined a fine night of mindless slaughter.”
“Mindless slaughter, no. Slayage of evil vampires wanting to snack on the townsfolk, yes. But it’s not like I can afford a new one.”
“Not while you’re working at the synthetic-veggie-burger emporium, no.”
“Exactly.” She waved the bottle carelessly through the air. “Exciting employment opportunities at the DMP: come for the mind-numbing boredom and ungodly smells, stay for the lack of decent pay and the stupid hats. And for the customers who eat things - things that aren’t the proper things for being eaten, that is.”
Spike smiled, softly.
Buffy blinked. “That didn’t sound right,” she confessed. “I think I’m getting drunk.”
“I think you might be right.” He took the bottle. “And I think I’d better have that before you smash it on something.”
“Okay, got one.” Buffy downed another shot, and triumphantly announced: “Female celebrities we’d like to sleep with.”
“Point of order: we’ve done that one twice already.”
She nodded, thoughtfully. “Okay. Favourite icecream flavours.”
“Never actually eaten icecream.”
“Hmm.” She thought a bit more, and then looked at him inquiringly. “Politicians we’d like to set on fire?”
He considered it. “Only if we’re allowed to include the ones we already have set on fire.”
“Fine by me.”
Spike raised his eyebrows. “In that case, I’m already ahead by nine.”
“Impressive.” She frowned. “I think we need something different.”
“New category?”
“New drink. Do you have any vodka?”
“No.”
“Yes you do!” Buffy protested.
“Really don’t,” Spike said calmly. “Not unless you’ve found a secret stash I don’t know about.”
“Hmmph.” She took the whiskey bottle back off him, and concluded, “Al Gore. He’s a politician.”
“True. Although not a very good one.”
She smiled triumphantly. “Ideal for being fire-setting-on… or something… then. If he’s not very good at stuff.”
“No arguments here, pet.”
“…George Washington?”
“Bit late, aren’t you? He’s rather dead.”
“Well, so are you. I could still set him on fire.” Buffy looked at him speculatively. “You’re not secretly a politician, are you?” She thought about it. “Anyway, you do have some vodka, because it was on top of the television on Thursday.”
“Oh, that vodka? Drank that.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“Liar.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re holding out on me, buster.”
“Probably, yes.”
“Well, hurry up.” She held out her glass and said serenely, “The lady requires more alcohol.”
Spike shook his head. “Not giving in that easily, love.”
“…why?”
“Tell you what: why don’t we put this down,” - he deposited the whiskey on the floor, and stood up, pulling her with him - “have violently exciting sex in every corner of the crypt, break a few of the less attractive items of furniture, and then we’ll find that bottle of vodka and down the lot. Sound good?”
She contemplated him fuzzily for a couple of seconds, and then nodded, decisively. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
When this empty sanctuary satisfies her no longer, she will see a light in the darkness - an escape into life - and she will leap to catch it, pulling you with her.
Bon voyage, my friend.