La Dolce Morte (PG)
Title La Dolce Morte
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG
Pairing Spike/Buffy
Words 980
Setting: AtS season 5, post-about 10 minutes into Destiny, and therefore AU. Imagine Spike doesn't shag Harmony on a desk, but instead heads off for Europe as soon as he's de-ghosted.
Prompt What if Spike went to Buffy once he stopped being a ghost
Genre Schmoop. Sorry.
This is Spike, formerly William the Bloody, formerly henchman of the Scourge of Europe. He's died once for darkness, and once for light, and he didn't let either of them stop him for long. He's killed thousands of good men, women and children. He's saved the world on at least four separate occasions (even if he admits they were mostly a by-product of love). He's loved two women in well over a century, and doesn't regret either of them for a moment. He's lived longer than any man has a right to expect, though he was dead for all the parts that mattered.
He's standing at the door of a slightly shabby apartment block in Trastevere, at a quarter to nine in the evening. It's chilly, but the dregs of Rome's vegetation are still scenting the November air.( He fancies it's bougainvillea but suspects himself of romancing.) A bar along the street is heaving, barely a soul over twenty in sight. Scooters parked all across the narrow pavement as the kids shout and chatter and eye each other up, ignoring his skulking leather-clad self. It's a perfectly normal night, in a city he's known pretty well over the decades.
And his knees are shaking.
It's almost a relief when Spike gets jumped by a vampire as he stands there. Almost. He's rusty as all get out, and the fight takes at least a couple of minutes - quadruple his usual with a manky little fledge like this. Got to get some training in, sharpish, he notes absently, as he fumbles for his pocket stake, grumbling the while.
"Bloody hell, Slayer must be slipping, having you lot lurking on her doorstep." Bugger. A hole in his coat pocket, he can't immediately reach the stake. Roman alleys aren't bad places, but not over-furnished with wooden implements. Spike contemplates beheading the vamp, but those kids on the corner could well notice something so dramatic. So he keeps a firm knee in the small of the vamp's back, and gropes irritably down into the coat lining.
The little vamp writhes under his hands. "You're Council, then? Damn you!"
Idiot. Unprofessional idiot. What's the point in gabbing at the man who's killing you? (Not that Spike can talk, fumbling for a stake like an amateur. His duster didn't bloody well regenerate good as new. Better get the pocket fixed, soon as may be.) Spike slams Junior quietly back into the ground, still trying for discretion. But if the kid's idiot enough to talk, Spike's clever enough to listen.
"Got a mission on, have you? Ransom on the Slayer's head style of thing?" His hand, finally, closes round one end of the stake. Got it.
The vamp bucks for what is probably the last time. Or would be, if Spike could pull the sodding stake clear of the clinging folds of his coat. "No. I seek glory-" Spike's unbeating heart almost jumps a notch, but he hears the lower case just in time to stop the panic. "Killing the Slayer is-"
"Not on the agenda," says a new voice. A small, well-manicured hand passes Spike a fresh stake, sharp-pointed, nicely-whittled, and why is Spike wasting time admiring woodcraft at a moment like this?
He stakes, neatly, and scuffs the dust into what passes for a gutter hereabouts. Then looks up into Buffy's eyes.
"Hello. Turns out I'm not dead." He pauses, then clarifies. "Not deader, anyway. Still me."
"So I see." She reaches out that small hand once more, and draws him up to his feet. He doesn't need the support. Except his knees are shaking again.
"Glad to see me, then?" He doesn't want to beg, but the words won't stop. She isn't flinging herself into his arms. He'd sort of hoped she would.
What she does instead is unlock the door, and jerk her head for him to enter. Then catch herself, and add a formal, "Come in, Spike."
Her apartment is three floors up. Small, bare, but a few nice things in corners, out of training range. He's glad to see it. She's settling in, and spoiling herself a little. Things she'd lost the knack of in the wreck of her last years in Sunnydale.
She's standing in the centre of the room, and he almost catches a reassuring glint in her eye. Almost. Is he romancing that too?
Definitely not, the next moment, when she punches him pretty hard in the stomach. She telegraphs it well enough that he's neither surprised nor specially hurt, but she puts enough oomph in to let him know she at least half means it.
"Oi! Ow." He hams it up a little. If she's punching him, he kind of knows where he is with her, though it's not where he'd hoped. But he'll play it this way if that's how she wants to begin.
But she doesn't follow it up with more blows. No sparring tonight. "Just so you know. When a girl tells you she loves you, it's polite to say thanks. And not, you know, No you don't."
Ah. He takes her anger as a very good sign. "Sorry love. Seemed like the sensible thing. Didn't want to leave you tied to a dead man."
She punches him again, woolly this time, taking out frustrations instead of aiming to hurt. "Duh! Still tied to you. Angry as hell, sure, but tied to you. I really missed you."
The last words are soft-spoken, and he knows the punching is done. He puts an arm out, hand to her shoulder. Not quite an embrace, but showing tendencies that way. "Yeah. You too. Even when I was extra dead, I reckon I was missing you."
She blinks away a tear that hasn't quite formed, still half-glaring. "Don't do it again."
"No. Promise." He hangs his head a little, contrite and inviting. She brushes a finger across his lips.
They both shiver.
"Been a long time, Slayer." He barely exhales the sound.
"Yes. It has." And it's Buffy who brings their mouths together, at last.
***
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG
Pairing Spike/Buffy
Words 980
Setting: AtS season 5, post-about 10 minutes into Destiny, and therefore AU. Imagine Spike doesn't shag Harmony on a desk, but instead heads off for Europe as soon as he's de-ghosted.
Prompt What if Spike went to Buffy once he stopped being a ghost
Genre Schmoop. Sorry.
This is Spike, formerly William the Bloody, formerly henchman of the Scourge of Europe. He's died once for darkness, and once for light, and he didn't let either of them stop him for long. He's killed thousands of good men, women and children. He's saved the world on at least four separate occasions (even if he admits they were mostly a by-product of love). He's loved two women in well over a century, and doesn't regret either of them for a moment. He's lived longer than any man has a right to expect, though he was dead for all the parts that mattered.
He's standing at the door of a slightly shabby apartment block in Trastevere, at a quarter to nine in the evening. It's chilly, but the dregs of Rome's vegetation are still scenting the November air.( He fancies it's bougainvillea but suspects himself of romancing.) A bar along the street is heaving, barely a soul over twenty in sight. Scooters parked all across the narrow pavement as the kids shout and chatter and eye each other up, ignoring his skulking leather-clad self. It's a perfectly normal night, in a city he's known pretty well over the decades.
And his knees are shaking.
It's almost a relief when Spike gets jumped by a vampire as he stands there. Almost. He's rusty as all get out, and the fight takes at least a couple of minutes - quadruple his usual with a manky little fledge like this. Got to get some training in, sharpish, he notes absently, as he fumbles for his pocket stake, grumbling the while.
"Bloody hell, Slayer must be slipping, having you lot lurking on her doorstep." Bugger. A hole in his coat pocket, he can't immediately reach the stake. Roman alleys aren't bad places, but not over-furnished with wooden implements. Spike contemplates beheading the vamp, but those kids on the corner could well notice something so dramatic. So he keeps a firm knee in the small of the vamp's back, and gropes irritably down into the coat lining.
The little vamp writhes under his hands. "You're Council, then? Damn you!"
Idiot. Unprofessional idiot. What's the point in gabbing at the man who's killing you? (Not that Spike can talk, fumbling for a stake like an amateur. His duster didn't bloody well regenerate good as new. Better get the pocket fixed, soon as may be.) Spike slams Junior quietly back into the ground, still trying for discretion. But if the kid's idiot enough to talk, Spike's clever enough to listen.
"Got a mission on, have you? Ransom on the Slayer's head style of thing?" His hand, finally, closes round one end of the stake. Got it.
The vamp bucks for what is probably the last time. Or would be, if Spike could pull the sodding stake clear of the clinging folds of his coat. "No. I seek glory-" Spike's unbeating heart almost jumps a notch, but he hears the lower case just in time to stop the panic. "Killing the Slayer is-"
"Not on the agenda," says a new voice. A small, well-manicured hand passes Spike a fresh stake, sharp-pointed, nicely-whittled, and why is Spike wasting time admiring woodcraft at a moment like this?
He stakes, neatly, and scuffs the dust into what passes for a gutter hereabouts. Then looks up into Buffy's eyes.
"Hello. Turns out I'm not dead." He pauses, then clarifies. "Not deader, anyway. Still me."
"So I see." She reaches out that small hand once more, and draws him up to his feet. He doesn't need the support. Except his knees are shaking again.
"Glad to see me, then?" He doesn't want to beg, but the words won't stop. She isn't flinging herself into his arms. He'd sort of hoped she would.
What she does instead is unlock the door, and jerk her head for him to enter. Then catch herself, and add a formal, "Come in, Spike."
Her apartment is three floors up. Small, bare, but a few nice things in corners, out of training range. He's glad to see it. She's settling in, and spoiling herself a little. Things she'd lost the knack of in the wreck of her last years in Sunnydale.
She's standing in the centre of the room, and he almost catches a reassuring glint in her eye. Almost. Is he romancing that too?
Definitely not, the next moment, when she punches him pretty hard in the stomach. She telegraphs it well enough that he's neither surprised nor specially hurt, but she puts enough oomph in to let him know she at least half means it.
"Oi! Ow." He hams it up a little. If she's punching him, he kind of knows where he is with her, though it's not where he'd hoped. But he'll play it this way if that's how she wants to begin.
But she doesn't follow it up with more blows. No sparring tonight. "Just so you know. When a girl tells you she loves you, it's polite to say thanks. And not, you know, No you don't."
Ah. He takes her anger as a very good sign. "Sorry love. Seemed like the sensible thing. Didn't want to leave you tied to a dead man."
She punches him again, woolly this time, taking out frustrations instead of aiming to hurt. "Duh! Still tied to you. Angry as hell, sure, but tied to you. I really missed you."
The last words are soft-spoken, and he knows the punching is done. He puts an arm out, hand to her shoulder. Not quite an embrace, but showing tendencies that way. "Yeah. You too. Even when I was extra dead, I reckon I was missing you."
She blinks away a tear that hasn't quite formed, still half-glaring. "Don't do it again."
"No. Promise." He hangs his head a little, contrite and inviting. She brushes a finger across his lips.
They both shiver.
"Been a long time, Slayer." He barely exhales the sound.
"Yes. It has." And it's Buffy who brings their mouths together, at last.
***