Fic: A Spuffy Scene in Which Spike Misses Buffy, Rated R
It just occurred to me that the two new chapters I posted of Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth were not particularly or even strictly Spuffy, which because I had the whole, entire story in my head, was easy to overlook.
So I give you three true Spuffy scenes from upcoming chapters of the same S6 story. No knowledge of prior chapters required (though it would be awfully nice of you to read them, *wink wink*). Again, the only key divergence from canon at this point is that Buffy and Spike had a tentative, consummated relationship in S5, prior to Buffy's death.
Word count: 1204.
Scene 1: Pre-resurrection. Spike misses Buffy. Poor Spike.
“Spike!”
At Dawn’s cry, Doc spun to face him, just as Spike pulled himself up Glory’s platform. So much for a surprise attack. The antique knife in Doc’s grasp gleamed, a sharp little devil. But first things first.
He shot a quick glance at Dawn in a split-second assessment, otherwise pinning Doc with his focus. “Nibblet, it’s gonna be okay. Jus’ hang in there, alright?”
She was a tear-stained mess, the poor thing, bound at the end of platform. His presence must’ve helped, though, for she nodded in earnest, and tried for a smile. Spike inhaled deeply for the scent of blood. None. At least she was free of injuries--small favors and all. Instead, he was hit with a wall of fear, heady and streaked with despair.
It was a smell he would’ve relished not that long ago, an intoxicating combination had it been emanating from anyone else, and he still evil. On Dawn, it somehow made his stomach twist in a wave of nausea.
“This won’t take long,” he said, needing the reassurance of his own words.
Doc flashed him a smile, made creepier by its serenity. “No. I don't imagine it will.”
With a roar and a slip of his vampire visage, Spike rushed him. Doc sidestepped with surprising agility, and Spike stumbled past, unable to halt his momentum. Before he could turn around, he felt the sharp blade of the knife embed in his back, deep, his body arching on impact. He screamed. It hurt like a mother.
Clenching his teeth, he reached behind him, closing his fingers around the wet hilt. A hard yank, and the pain splintered, traveling up and down his body like jolts of electricity. For a second his brain couldn’t process the scream splitting his ears. Was that...him? Dawn? With a trembling hand he held up the newly gained weapon, and he decided it’d been worth it.
“You don’t come near the girl, Doc.”
Doc seemed to be deliberating, eyes darting between the knife and Spike’s face. “I don't smell a soul anywhere on you... Why do you even care?”
“I made a promise to a lady.”
“Oh. Well, I'll send the lady your regrets.”
Spike lunged, and Doc opened his mouth wide, his reptilian tongue shooting out to sweep Spike off his feet. Vampire speed was apparently no match for demon strength, and Spike found himself lifted up in the air, in a choke hold he couldn’t break. With his feet thrashing uselessly, he slashed at the tongue with the borrowed knife in quick succession. Then, quicker than an eye could see, the tongue unwinded itself around Spike’s neck to flick the knife into air.
That gave Spike a much needed opening.
“Not a chance, you sodding reptile!” he shouted.
He roped the clammy tongue into his hands, and pulled with all of his might. Doc shuffled forward with a gurgle, his footing unsteady.
“I’d dust first!” Another pull in their tug-of-war, and Doc came into striking range. The miscalculation hit him the same moment as Doc’s fists. The bastard threw a mean right hook. Who knew? With his hands full, Spike retaliated with kicks, until Doc caught his leg mid strike, and twisted hard. Spike spun to land on his back on a jagged edge of the platform, which did no favors to his knife wound.
Just a flesh wound, he thought, consoling himself. But he knew, from the way the wind whistled in his ears, resembling a girl’s shrill cries, to the way his body struggled to right itself, with Doc still raining fists on him, that he’d gone into the fight underestimating everything, except for himself. Just a vampire. Not a superhero. This he realized too late.
“Poor vampire,” Doc said, as if reading his mind. “Are you ready to die for your conviction?”
Instead of a sharp sting, the taunt gave him a sense of clarity, the attainment of enlightenment. Nibblet was going to live. Buffy was going to live. They had to, because he wasn’t. Saving the world demanded a price, and he, the odd one out, fully expendable, would make a great sacrifice. “Better believe it!” he shouted in between blows. “Are you?”
With that he grabbed hold of Doc and rolled off the edge of the platform. Doc’s face, twisted with shock until realization crumbled into resignation, was priceless. However briefly, Spike savored his sweet victory. Dawn would be alright.
He had one last thought in the free fall: that he was finally free, free of his sins, free of his cursed unlife, free of destiny’s cruel joke.
Then the world dropped dead.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When the world regenerated itself, one sensation at a time, Spike did not trust it to open his eyes. Or maybe it was his eyes that he didn’t trust. Why would a dusted vampire possess sight at all? Or need it? Or deserve it?
He clung to the scent of the Summers women, his personal piece of Paradise, blissfully drifting on the edge of consciousness. If there was a Heaven for reformed vampires, he was sure that’d be it. Until hunger, that wretched daily reminder of corporeal weakness, of condemned fate, alerted him of his True Nature, and his eyes shot open--
--and found Paradise to mirror the basement at the Summers house.
From his cot hugging one bare wall, he located his blanket crumpled on the floor, at the foot of the bed. Good thing he’d remembered to pull on pajama bottoms for bed, a habit quickly formed after he’d moved into the Revello house. It’d only taken one incident to convince him of its necessity, a surprise visit from Dawn that ended with ear-piercing screaming...from both of them. A bloody wake-up call that was. They’d resolved never to bring it up, thank the gods, but it was still days before Dawn could look him in the eyes again.
Dawn’s eyes, wet and swollen and trained on him as if he were her sodding salvation, greeting him atop Glory’s platform--
It was too much. Sitting up, he let his head drop, ran both hands through his hair, then interlaced them behind his neck, willing the image to fade. A hundred and forty days since Buffy jumped, and he was still assuming the brace position. Living in her house, he saw her ghost everywhere, in every cherished memory and fresh discovery, no matter how mundane: the stairs of the back porch, where they had sat, enemy to enemy, in companionable silence; a dust-bunny-infested pompom behind the spare bedding, providing a glimpse into her past life, a hint of greater sacrifices yet to come; a Christmas ornament screenprinted with an old family portrait, with Dawn bundled up into a baby burrito in the arms of a much younger, more exuberant Joyce, next to a man with a smug smile who he assumed to be Hank, and Buffy, just a wee tyke, beaming at the camera in pigtails with pink bow-shaped barrettes.
He needed a sodding exorcism to end the torment of his guilty conscience. Appealing to the ghost of the woman he failed, he said to the echo of his own voice, “Every night I save you.”
For all the bloody good that did.
~ The End ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
End Note:
If you're interested in how Spike dreams of saving the day in a different way, there's another alternate dream scene of the "Every night I save you" variety in Chapter 3. I had gotten a request for a different way by which it all goes down, and that's fulfilled here. At least a part of fanfic writing, as I've come to realize but I'm still struggling a little to come to terms with, is pandering to fans and fan requests.
Thank you for reading. Would love to hear what you think. That'd do me a world of good. :)
So I give you three true Spuffy scenes from upcoming chapters of the same S6 story. No knowledge of prior chapters required (though it would be awfully nice of you to read them, *wink wink*). Again, the only key divergence from canon at this point is that Buffy and Spike had a tentative, consummated relationship in S5, prior to Buffy's death.
Word count: 1204.
Scene 1: Pre-resurrection. Spike misses Buffy. Poor Spike.
“Spike!”
At Dawn’s cry, Doc spun to face him, just as Spike pulled himself up Glory’s platform. So much for a surprise attack. The antique knife in Doc’s grasp gleamed, a sharp little devil. But first things first.
He shot a quick glance at Dawn in a split-second assessment, otherwise pinning Doc with his focus. “Nibblet, it’s gonna be okay. Jus’ hang in there, alright?”
She was a tear-stained mess, the poor thing, bound at the end of platform. His presence must’ve helped, though, for she nodded in earnest, and tried for a smile. Spike inhaled deeply for the scent of blood. None. At least she was free of injuries--small favors and all. Instead, he was hit with a wall of fear, heady and streaked with despair.
It was a smell he would’ve relished not that long ago, an intoxicating combination had it been emanating from anyone else, and he still evil. On Dawn, it somehow made his stomach twist in a wave of nausea.
“This won’t take long,” he said, needing the reassurance of his own words.
Doc flashed him a smile, made creepier by its serenity. “No. I don't imagine it will.”
With a roar and a slip of his vampire visage, Spike rushed him. Doc sidestepped with surprising agility, and Spike stumbled past, unable to halt his momentum. Before he could turn around, he felt the sharp blade of the knife embed in his back, deep, his body arching on impact. He screamed. It hurt like a mother.
Clenching his teeth, he reached behind him, closing his fingers around the wet hilt. A hard yank, and the pain splintered, traveling up and down his body like jolts of electricity. For a second his brain couldn’t process the scream splitting his ears. Was that...him? Dawn? With a trembling hand he held up the newly gained weapon, and he decided it’d been worth it.
“You don’t come near the girl, Doc.”
Doc seemed to be deliberating, eyes darting between the knife and Spike’s face. “I don't smell a soul anywhere on you... Why do you even care?”
“I made a promise to a lady.”
“Oh. Well, I'll send the lady your regrets.”
Spike lunged, and Doc opened his mouth wide, his reptilian tongue shooting out to sweep Spike off his feet. Vampire speed was apparently no match for demon strength, and Spike found himself lifted up in the air, in a choke hold he couldn’t break. With his feet thrashing uselessly, he slashed at the tongue with the borrowed knife in quick succession. Then, quicker than an eye could see, the tongue unwinded itself around Spike’s neck to flick the knife into air.
That gave Spike a much needed opening.
“Not a chance, you sodding reptile!” he shouted.
He roped the clammy tongue into his hands, and pulled with all of his might. Doc shuffled forward with a gurgle, his footing unsteady.
“I’d dust first!” Another pull in their tug-of-war, and Doc came into striking range. The miscalculation hit him the same moment as Doc’s fists. The bastard threw a mean right hook. Who knew? With his hands full, Spike retaliated with kicks, until Doc caught his leg mid strike, and twisted hard. Spike spun to land on his back on a jagged edge of the platform, which did no favors to his knife wound.
Just a flesh wound, he thought, consoling himself. But he knew, from the way the wind whistled in his ears, resembling a girl’s shrill cries, to the way his body struggled to right itself, with Doc still raining fists on him, that he’d gone into the fight underestimating everything, except for himself. Just a vampire. Not a superhero. This he realized too late.
“Poor vampire,” Doc said, as if reading his mind. “Are you ready to die for your conviction?”
Instead of a sharp sting, the taunt gave him a sense of clarity, the attainment of enlightenment. Nibblet was going to live. Buffy was going to live. They had to, because he wasn’t. Saving the world demanded a price, and he, the odd one out, fully expendable, would make a great sacrifice. “Better believe it!” he shouted in between blows. “Are you?”
With that he grabbed hold of Doc and rolled off the edge of the platform. Doc’s face, twisted with shock until realization crumbled into resignation, was priceless. However briefly, Spike savored his sweet victory. Dawn would be alright.
He had one last thought in the free fall: that he was finally free, free of his sins, free of his cursed unlife, free of destiny’s cruel joke.
Then the world dropped dead.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When the world regenerated itself, one sensation at a time, Spike did not trust it to open his eyes. Or maybe it was his eyes that he didn’t trust. Why would a dusted vampire possess sight at all? Or need it? Or deserve it?
He clung to the scent of the Summers women, his personal piece of Paradise, blissfully drifting on the edge of consciousness. If there was a Heaven for reformed vampires, he was sure that’d be it. Until hunger, that wretched daily reminder of corporeal weakness, of condemned fate, alerted him of his True Nature, and his eyes shot open--
--and found Paradise to mirror the basement at the Summers house.
From his cot hugging one bare wall, he located his blanket crumpled on the floor, at the foot of the bed. Good thing he’d remembered to pull on pajama bottoms for bed, a habit quickly formed after he’d moved into the Revello house. It’d only taken one incident to convince him of its necessity, a surprise visit from Dawn that ended with ear-piercing screaming...from both of them. A bloody wake-up call that was. They’d resolved never to bring it up, thank the gods, but it was still days before Dawn could look him in the eyes again.
Dawn’s eyes, wet and swollen and trained on him as if he were her sodding salvation, greeting him atop Glory’s platform--
It was too much. Sitting up, he let his head drop, ran both hands through his hair, then interlaced them behind his neck, willing the image to fade. A hundred and forty days since Buffy jumped, and he was still assuming the brace position. Living in her house, he saw her ghost everywhere, in every cherished memory and fresh discovery, no matter how mundane: the stairs of the back porch, where they had sat, enemy to enemy, in companionable silence; a dust-bunny-infested pompom behind the spare bedding, providing a glimpse into her past life, a hint of greater sacrifices yet to come; a Christmas ornament screenprinted with an old family portrait, with Dawn bundled up into a baby burrito in the arms of a much younger, more exuberant Joyce, next to a man with a smug smile who he assumed to be Hank, and Buffy, just a wee tyke, beaming at the camera in pigtails with pink bow-shaped barrettes.
He needed a sodding exorcism to end the torment of his guilty conscience. Appealing to the ghost of the woman he failed, he said to the echo of his own voice, “Every night I save you.”
For all the bloody good that did.
~ The End ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
End Note:
If you're interested in how Spike dreams of saving the day in a different way, there's another alternate dream scene of the "Every night I save you" variety in Chapter 3. I had gotten a request for a different way by which it all goes down, and that's fulfilled here. At least a part of fanfic writing, as I've come to realize but I'm still struggling a little to come to terms with, is pandering to fans and fan requests.
Thank you for reading. Would love to hear what you think. That'd do me a world of good. :)