Tell me it's not so
Well. Doesn't that suck with the gravitational pull of a thousand black holes?
I wept, I wailed, and then I thought fuck you, you won't take my love away from me. So I went into Psychotic Optimism mode (that's kind of a default for me anyway) and thought about Angel movies and spin-offs and the utterly glorious film career that JM will undoubtedly have, oh yes, and the FIC, the wonderful marvellous FIC that we're all going to be writing until we are old and grey and huddled by the fire together in our little hobbit holes.
And in that spirit I wrote this for doyle_sb4, who wanted Holden fic. It's rough and unbeta'd and very probably awful but hey - Holden lives!
Discretion Is The Better Part Of Evil
"Buffy? Hey Buffy, you still in there?"
No response. Again. Holden sighed and sat back down on the headstone, leaving Buffy staring into space like a broken doll. Looked like it had thrown her for a real loop, finding out that Spike had been the one to vamp him. Sorry, sire. Had to start getting the jargon right; a common frame of reference was essential to good communication. Not that he and poor brainfried Buffy were doing much communicating right now. Looked like all her resources were being used up just on breathing.
He reached out and shook her arm lightly, experimentally. She was unresisting, letting him lower her arm a couple of inches and then keeping it there. Hmm. The filing cabinets in his head began to open and close, helpfully offering up keywords for catatonic schizophrenia: mutism, check. Stupor, check. Statuesque posturing, check. Well, it wouldn't be surprising. The girl internalised everything, repressing and stressing her overburdened unconscious into fuck knew what kind of state.
He kind of felt sorry for her, really. He'd been a well-adjusted kid all his life, even if he did say so himself, and being a vamp seemed beautifully simple so far - a rather neat take on the predator psyche. But a slayer? And, like that wasn't enough, a slayer who'd formed some sort of monstrous codependent relationship with a vamp who obviously had some major problems of his own… well, that was just asking for trouble. Even this girl's issues had issues.
Still, a precedent of the 'sympathy for vamps' kind might well come in handy as far as he was concerned. Sure, he'd come into this with what seemed to be some sort of pre-programmed battle-to-the-death mindset, but he'd seen - and felt - her fight now, and he was pretty sure he knew in whose direction the ol' reaper's scythe would be heading. A rethink, a bit of a scaling down of the confidence level, might be appropriate. Evil was one thing, stupidity something else. This wasn't exactly a life path he'd given great consideration to, but now he was here he fully intended to make the most of it. And that really didn't include dying. Dusting. Whatever.
Of course, that all presumed Buffy wasn't broken for good, here. He moved closer, becoming aware that he could smell her; a warm, musky smell. An exciting smell. He breathed deeply, inhaling her. If she was beyond fixing - well, that might change things. Oh, he liked her well enough - always had, really. Even back in the day, it had been painfully clear that she was - well, damaged. He dug that in a girl. But, the fact remained that she was a slayer. Mortal enemy, that kind of thing. And, most importantly of all right now, she was full of lovely, hot, sweet-smelling blood.
He felt his face change, the bones rippling under the skin, and boy didn't that feel weird? He guessed you got used to it after a while. He put his thumb under one of his newly-elongated teeth, and stared, fascinated, at the thin red line it left on his skin. Damn, these things were sharp.
All the better to cut your throat with, little girl. He got up and stood in front of Buffy, who still hadn't moved a muscle. The system had crashed, there was no doubt about that, but how quickly would it reboot? That was the question.
Maybe it wouldn't happen. Maybe she'd just let him do it. Kill her. Put her out of her misery.
He moved closer still, then stopped. If he killed her, would it make her a vampire too? How did that work, anyhow? Yeesh, there was so much he had to catch up on, here.
What had been the deal with him and Spike? He couldn't entirely remember all the details of their little encounter, not least because he'd been completely trashed at the time. He'd gone out for a good time and he'd certainly had that, with a gorgeous, hot blond delivered just as ordered, sir.
Holden grinned slightly to himself. Well, they did try to drum into you that unplanned sex had consequences, although he doubted that this was exactly what they'd had in mind.
So did sex play a part in the whole vampifyng - siring, dammit! - thing? If he wanted to sire Buffy, should he have sex with her first? Or was it during? Maybe both, if his fuzzy memory served anywhere near right.
Well. That sounded like a plan, didn't it? Turn Buffy into a vampire, go find Spike and then the three of them could hit the town for some serious fun. If even half Buffy's hints about their sex life had been on the mark - boy, was he in for a treat.
There was an inch, maybe two, of space between his teeth and Buffy's neck. He was going to do this, he really was going to -
-get a small but very grippy hand clamped around his throat.
"Exactly what do you think you're doing?"
"Buffy. Hey, welcome back. I was - I was -" Holden cast around for something, then just gave up. He shrugged - as much as he could while being lifted half a foot off the ground, anyway. Good job he'd remembered he didn't need to breathe anymore. "Oh hell. I'm a vampire, what was I supposed to do?"
"I guess that's it, isn't it? That's what it all comes down to, always. You're a vampire. You do what vampires do. " She dropped him, and seemed to sag. "It's not your fault. It's me. I shouldn't expect - anything else, should I?"
She put her shoulders back, and lifted her head. "So. Back to the plot. Vampire. Slayer. Fight to the death it is, then. You ready?"
"Well actually I'd been thinking - now, this is a bit off the wall, I know, but bear with me. I thought maybe we could -"
"Hey, is this a private party or can anyone join in?"
They both spun around, to take in the vamp ambling over towards them. He looked scruffy and a little underfed; no match for a slayer. Holden backed up a step as Buffy sized the newcomer up. Being realistic, she just wasn't going to go for his menage a trois idea. And they'd probably just end up fighting over who got which end of Spike anyway.
No, it was time for him to chalk this up to experience and get the hell out of Dodge. As Buffy aimed a flying kick at the scrawny vamp, Holden quietly faded backwards among the graves. He watched her grab a stake from the ground and slam it unerringly into the vamp's chest, watched it explode into a shower of ash around her.
Well, fuck that shit. He didn't care what it might do to his creature of the night cred, he was leaving this party early. He might be a scaredy-cat but at least he'd be a live one. Dead one. Undead one. Whatever. He'd still be around, and that was what mattered.
Holden ran, and kept on running. After all - to borrow Scarlett's immortal words, tomorrow was another day.
I wept, I wailed, and then I thought fuck you, you won't take my love away from me. So I went into Psychotic Optimism mode (that's kind of a default for me anyway) and thought about Angel movies and spin-offs and the utterly glorious film career that JM will undoubtedly have, oh yes, and the FIC, the wonderful marvellous FIC that we're all going to be writing until we are old and grey and huddled by the fire together in our little hobbit holes.
And in that spirit I wrote this for doyle_sb4, who wanted Holden fic. It's rough and unbeta'd and very probably awful but hey - Holden lives!
Discretion Is The Better Part Of Evil
"Buffy? Hey Buffy, you still in there?"
No response. Again. Holden sighed and sat back down on the headstone, leaving Buffy staring into space like a broken doll. Looked like it had thrown her for a real loop, finding out that Spike had been the one to vamp him. Sorry, sire. Had to start getting the jargon right; a common frame of reference was essential to good communication. Not that he and poor brainfried Buffy were doing much communicating right now. Looked like all her resources were being used up just on breathing.
He reached out and shook her arm lightly, experimentally. She was unresisting, letting him lower her arm a couple of inches and then keeping it there. Hmm. The filing cabinets in his head began to open and close, helpfully offering up keywords for catatonic schizophrenia: mutism, check. Stupor, check. Statuesque posturing, check. Well, it wouldn't be surprising. The girl internalised everything, repressing and stressing her overburdened unconscious into fuck knew what kind of state.
He kind of felt sorry for her, really. He'd been a well-adjusted kid all his life, even if he did say so himself, and being a vamp seemed beautifully simple so far - a rather neat take on the predator psyche. But a slayer? And, like that wasn't enough, a slayer who'd formed some sort of monstrous codependent relationship with a vamp who obviously had some major problems of his own… well, that was just asking for trouble. Even this girl's issues had issues.
Still, a precedent of the 'sympathy for vamps' kind might well come in handy as far as he was concerned. Sure, he'd come into this with what seemed to be some sort of pre-programmed battle-to-the-death mindset, but he'd seen - and felt - her fight now, and he was pretty sure he knew in whose direction the ol' reaper's scythe would be heading. A rethink, a bit of a scaling down of the confidence level, might be appropriate. Evil was one thing, stupidity something else. This wasn't exactly a life path he'd given great consideration to, but now he was here he fully intended to make the most of it. And that really didn't include dying. Dusting. Whatever.
Of course, that all presumed Buffy wasn't broken for good, here. He moved closer, becoming aware that he could smell her; a warm, musky smell. An exciting smell. He breathed deeply, inhaling her. If she was beyond fixing - well, that might change things. Oh, he liked her well enough - always had, really. Even back in the day, it had been painfully clear that she was - well, damaged. He dug that in a girl. But, the fact remained that she was a slayer. Mortal enemy, that kind of thing. And, most importantly of all right now, she was full of lovely, hot, sweet-smelling blood.
He felt his face change, the bones rippling under the skin, and boy didn't that feel weird? He guessed you got used to it after a while. He put his thumb under one of his newly-elongated teeth, and stared, fascinated, at the thin red line it left on his skin. Damn, these things were sharp.
All the better to cut your throat with, little girl. He got up and stood in front of Buffy, who still hadn't moved a muscle. The system had crashed, there was no doubt about that, but how quickly would it reboot? That was the question.
Maybe it wouldn't happen. Maybe she'd just let him do it. Kill her. Put her out of her misery.
He moved closer still, then stopped. If he killed her, would it make her a vampire too? How did that work, anyhow? Yeesh, there was so much he had to catch up on, here.
What had been the deal with him and Spike? He couldn't entirely remember all the details of their little encounter, not least because he'd been completely trashed at the time. He'd gone out for a good time and he'd certainly had that, with a gorgeous, hot blond delivered just as ordered, sir.
Holden grinned slightly to himself. Well, they did try to drum into you that unplanned sex had consequences, although he doubted that this was exactly what they'd had in mind.
So did sex play a part in the whole vampifyng - siring, dammit! - thing? If he wanted to sire Buffy, should he have sex with her first? Or was it during? Maybe both, if his fuzzy memory served anywhere near right.
Well. That sounded like a plan, didn't it? Turn Buffy into a vampire, go find Spike and then the three of them could hit the town for some serious fun. If even half Buffy's hints about their sex life had been on the mark - boy, was he in for a treat.
There was an inch, maybe two, of space between his teeth and Buffy's neck. He was going to do this, he really was going to -
-get a small but very grippy hand clamped around his throat.
"Exactly what do you think you're doing?"
"Buffy. Hey, welcome back. I was - I was -" Holden cast around for something, then just gave up. He shrugged - as much as he could while being lifted half a foot off the ground, anyway. Good job he'd remembered he didn't need to breathe anymore. "Oh hell. I'm a vampire, what was I supposed to do?"
"I guess that's it, isn't it? That's what it all comes down to, always. You're a vampire. You do what vampires do. " She dropped him, and seemed to sag. "It's not your fault. It's me. I shouldn't expect - anything else, should I?"
She put her shoulders back, and lifted her head. "So. Back to the plot. Vampire. Slayer. Fight to the death it is, then. You ready?"
"Well actually I'd been thinking - now, this is a bit off the wall, I know, but bear with me. I thought maybe we could -"
"Hey, is this a private party or can anyone join in?"
They both spun around, to take in the vamp ambling over towards them. He looked scruffy and a little underfed; no match for a slayer. Holden backed up a step as Buffy sized the newcomer up. Being realistic, she just wasn't going to go for his menage a trois idea. And they'd probably just end up fighting over who got which end of Spike anyway.
No, it was time for him to chalk this up to experience and get the hell out of Dodge. As Buffy aimed a flying kick at the scrawny vamp, Holden quietly faded backwards among the graves. He watched her grab a stake from the ground and slam it unerringly into the vamp's chest, watched it explode into a shower of ash around her.
Well, fuck that shit. He didn't care what it might do to his creature of the night cred, he was leaving this party early. He might be a scaredy-cat but at least he'd be a live one. Dead one. Undead one. Whatever. He'd still be around, and that was what mattered.
Holden ran, and kept on running. After all - to borrow Scarlett's immortal words, tomorrow was another day.