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sb_fag_ends2012-02-21 06:22 pm
brutti-ma-buoni.livejournal.com) wrote in sb_fag_ends2012-02-21 06:22 pm
Entry tags:
Breathing Space for the Undead (PG13, Team Slayer verse)
Too.... many... appropriate... prompts.... Cannot.... resist.... Must... fic....
Title Breathing Space for the Undead
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG13 (Warning: references to torture)
Words 1000
Prompt Out of the frying pan
Setting Alternate season 5, branching off from season 4
A/N Follows Devil's Bargain and the later parts of this Special Fag Ends AU, most recently Plan B
Spike isn't really in a state to follow closely what the Slayer's plan is, apart from run and fight and run again. He's suffered the electrical grid before, and he knows this will pass pretty fast, but right now every cell is screaming, letting him know that badness happened, that it'll happen again perhaps, that he should cringe and hide, or possibly fight and die. It's a mite distracting from everyday observation.
So he's startled when his focus finally returns and he realises he must be in the Slayer's bedroom. Well, room. She's only got the one space, kitchenette in the corner, bed along the wall furthest from the windows, single recliner, shelving, very little more. He's never set foot in here, but it's about what he'd guessed from her budget and lifestyle. There's nothing here that says Sunnydale, barring two photographs – Buffy and friends, and Buffy with her mother. He notes them in passing, doesn’t ask. The friends are dead. Joyce too, he assumes, though exactly how remains unexplained. Not the night for asking.
Buffy's standing by the kitchenette, twisting her hands together. She looks like a nervous hostess, perhaps appropriately. Tea, coffee, O negative? As he forms the thought, she moves suddenly, whipping open the fridge door and getting out milk and (oh joy) two packs of blood. She's avoiding his gaze. He can't muster the energy to do anything other than look.
When the blood's been warmed, she tips a full pack into a handy mug. No flinching, no choosing a manky mug from the back of an unloved cupboard. Just another guest in need of caffeine or haemoglobin. She hands it to him in the recliner, and settles down on the bed herself, her hands huddled round a mug of her own cheap instant coffee as though she needs the warmth.
Her mouth finally opens, to sip at the drink. It seems to lubricate her vocal chords. "Spike… I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
"Mmph?" He's partway through the first blood bag, vamped out and distracted. Whatever's bugging her can wait.
"I didn't mean for you to… hurt. They should have deactivated your chip earlier, and then you wouldn't have had to go through…"
He shrugs. It's about what he expected. Surprised she thinks it's worth the apology. "It'll pass. 'S long as it was worth it. You got the stuff?"
Her eyes are still downcast, and he reads the answer before she speaks. "No. Well, maybe, there're disks and maybe…"
He doesn't understand. "So why the big runaway?"
"My cover was blown. Pretty much. I couldn't be much use there." She doesn't make a big thing of it, but he guesses she could have left another way, more discreetly, with more hope of return. The big scene was needed to get him out along with her.
There's a contemplative, slurping pause. After the second blood bag, Spike starts to feel warmer, less beaten-up. He eyes his coat, slung over Buffy's bed. Doesn't hugely want to go out now, though the sun has set and he'd be safe enough. He hears her shifting on the bed, and she must have followed his gaze. "Um. Spike. I can't let you go. Your chip is off. You could kill-"
True. It actually hadn't fully registered, which is perhaps a measure of his post-torture distraction, or perhaps a measure of how an electronic leash in the brain for over a year can train even your most evil vamps to think about things other than biting. But yeah. He's evil, and he's free, so-
He's in no condition to go seven rounds with the Slayer, but his muscles do their best to tense in readiness as he stands. "So that's it, is it? Get me out and then off me?"
He gets an unflattering view of Buffy, mouth agape, coffee-stained tongue lolling. She swallows visibly. Says, "Gh- What? No! I'm not going to kill you." Pauses. "Now. Not yet. We're not finished." Getting herself together now, "I mean later, sure… It's what we do. Just… I need-" There's an interestingly long pause before she finishes, "Your help." You, he suspects, is what she almost said. A friend, an ally, someone who knows I'm alive and cares is what she meant, he doesn't flatter himself it's more. She must be able to see he's serious about ending the Initiative, chipless though he may be right now. That kind of operation needs to be stopped, for the good of all demonkind, and Spike's still pissed off enough with the Initiative to think that makes it his problem. His and hers.
So he shrugs. "Fair enough. We settling down in a cosy little flat for two, or did you have some other living arrangement in mind?"
Buffy looks superlatively peeved, in a way Spike can't help but enjoy. "Look, I really, really don't want you here. But I can't send you anywhere else. And your apartment is bigger, but it's disgusting." She gives an elaborate shudder. "Eeeaagghhh. No. We're stuck here. Also, I'm beat. Early shifts are a bitch. You want to turn in?"
Spike wriggles a little in the recliner, trying to get comfy. He's not averse to a break, what with the torture and fighting, plus the withdrawal from weeks of sedation and starvation and all that. "I could kill you in your sleep."
"Pffft. You could try." She strips out of her clothes, into a loose old t-shirt (is that a Sunnydale remnant? He thinks so, in passing), and slips into bed. As though he's a eunuch, unlikely to spot the naked girl in the room. Or, more like, as though she doesn't care. Irritating. Though, for once, she'd be right if she thinks he finds the prospect of sleep more interesting than sex.
There's a metallic clank, familiar to anyone groomed by Drusilla. "You're joking, aren't you? Can't cuff me to this and expect me to stay put." He could take the chair apart in a moment, given his strength back.
Ah. No. Buffy's got one cuff round her own arm already; the second bracelet snapping round his wrist even as he works it out.
It's a measure of how stark knackered Spike is, that he doesn't realise she's intending them to share the bed till he's already in there with her.
They sleep early, and sound. The sleep of the just warrior, perhaps.
****Leading to Doldrums and Bad Decisions***
Title Breathing Space for the Undead
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating PG13 (Warning: references to torture)
Words 1000
Prompt Out of the frying pan
Setting Alternate season 5, branching off from season 4
A/N Follows Devil's Bargain and the later parts of this Special Fag Ends AU, most recently Plan B
Spike isn't really in a state to follow closely what the Slayer's plan is, apart from run and fight and run again. He's suffered the electrical grid before, and he knows this will pass pretty fast, but right now every cell is screaming, letting him know that badness happened, that it'll happen again perhaps, that he should cringe and hide, or possibly fight and die. It's a mite distracting from everyday observation.
So he's startled when his focus finally returns and he realises he must be in the Slayer's bedroom. Well, room. She's only got the one space, kitchenette in the corner, bed along the wall furthest from the windows, single recliner, shelving, very little more. He's never set foot in here, but it's about what he'd guessed from her budget and lifestyle. There's nothing here that says Sunnydale, barring two photographs – Buffy and friends, and Buffy with her mother. He notes them in passing, doesn’t ask. The friends are dead. Joyce too, he assumes, though exactly how remains unexplained. Not the night for asking.
Buffy's standing by the kitchenette, twisting her hands together. She looks like a nervous hostess, perhaps appropriately. Tea, coffee, O negative? As he forms the thought, she moves suddenly, whipping open the fridge door and getting out milk and (oh joy) two packs of blood. She's avoiding his gaze. He can't muster the energy to do anything other than look.
When the blood's been warmed, she tips a full pack into a handy mug. No flinching, no choosing a manky mug from the back of an unloved cupboard. Just another guest in need of caffeine or haemoglobin. She hands it to him in the recliner, and settles down on the bed herself, her hands huddled round a mug of her own cheap instant coffee as though she needs the warmth.
Her mouth finally opens, to sip at the drink. It seems to lubricate her vocal chords. "Spike… I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
"Mmph?" He's partway through the first blood bag, vamped out and distracted. Whatever's bugging her can wait.
"I didn't mean for you to… hurt. They should have deactivated your chip earlier, and then you wouldn't have had to go through…"
He shrugs. It's about what he expected. Surprised she thinks it's worth the apology. "It'll pass. 'S long as it was worth it. You got the stuff?"
Her eyes are still downcast, and he reads the answer before she speaks. "No. Well, maybe, there're disks and maybe…"
He doesn't understand. "So why the big runaway?"
"My cover was blown. Pretty much. I couldn't be much use there." She doesn't make a big thing of it, but he guesses she could have left another way, more discreetly, with more hope of return. The big scene was needed to get him out along with her.
There's a contemplative, slurping pause. After the second blood bag, Spike starts to feel warmer, less beaten-up. He eyes his coat, slung over Buffy's bed. Doesn't hugely want to go out now, though the sun has set and he'd be safe enough. He hears her shifting on the bed, and she must have followed his gaze. "Um. Spike. I can't let you go. Your chip is off. You could kill-"
True. It actually hadn't fully registered, which is perhaps a measure of his post-torture distraction, or perhaps a measure of how an electronic leash in the brain for over a year can train even your most evil vamps to think about things other than biting. But yeah. He's evil, and he's free, so-
He's in no condition to go seven rounds with the Slayer, but his muscles do their best to tense in readiness as he stands. "So that's it, is it? Get me out and then off me?"
He gets an unflattering view of Buffy, mouth agape, coffee-stained tongue lolling. She swallows visibly. Says, "Gh- What? No! I'm not going to kill you." Pauses. "Now. Not yet. We're not finished." Getting herself together now, "I mean later, sure… It's what we do. Just… I need-" There's an interestingly long pause before she finishes, "Your help." You, he suspects, is what she almost said. A friend, an ally, someone who knows I'm alive and cares is what she meant, he doesn't flatter himself it's more. She must be able to see he's serious about ending the Initiative, chipless though he may be right now. That kind of operation needs to be stopped, for the good of all demonkind, and Spike's still pissed off enough with the Initiative to think that makes it his problem. His and hers.
So he shrugs. "Fair enough. We settling down in a cosy little flat for two, or did you have some other living arrangement in mind?"
Buffy looks superlatively peeved, in a way Spike can't help but enjoy. "Look, I really, really don't want you here. But I can't send you anywhere else. And your apartment is bigger, but it's disgusting." She gives an elaborate shudder. "Eeeaagghhh. No. We're stuck here. Also, I'm beat. Early shifts are a bitch. You want to turn in?"
Spike wriggles a little in the recliner, trying to get comfy. He's not averse to a break, what with the torture and fighting, plus the withdrawal from weeks of sedation and starvation and all that. "I could kill you in your sleep."
"Pffft. You could try." She strips out of her clothes, into a loose old t-shirt (is that a Sunnydale remnant? He thinks so, in passing), and slips into bed. As though he's a eunuch, unlikely to spot the naked girl in the room. Or, more like, as though she doesn't care. Irritating. Though, for once, she'd be right if she thinks he finds the prospect of sleep more interesting than sex.
There's a metallic clank, familiar to anyone groomed by Drusilla. "You're joking, aren't you? Can't cuff me to this and expect me to stay put." He could take the chair apart in a moment, given his strength back.
Ah. No. Buffy's got one cuff round her own arm already; the second bracelet snapping round his wrist even as he works it out.
It's a measure of how stark knackered Spike is, that he doesn't realise she's intending them to share the bed till he's already in there with her.
They sleep early, and sound. The sleep of the just warrior, perhaps.
****Leading to Doldrums and Bad Decisions***