capeandcowllogs | in which ca spams the log page 4ever

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in which ca spams the log page 4ever

WHO: Spike & Buffy Summers
WHERE: the cemetery duh
WHEN: Thurs Jun 9 after sunset.
WARNINGS: violence and potential sadfaces forever....
SUMMARY: Buffy finds out Spike no longer has his chip and is majorly not okay with it.
FORMAT: prose okay

She's on a mission and its first name is revenge. Not her revenge. Her days of Spike revenge are long over. She could care less about him, really. Even to herself it sounds weak. And yet here she is, hovering in front of his crypt like a total creep. Buffy knows it's the right thing to do. That vampires who kill people are definitely of the bad and deserve the staking. Why should this be any different?

Because it's Spike, echoes through her head, but she can't pay any attention. He's the only vampire on this world that's hers. That she has slaying rights to. And if she's not a slayer then what the heck is she? The city is full of confusing thoughts and things she never wanted to decide. What she had naively thought would be a vacation from worldly responsibilities turned out to be exactly the opposite. She's responsibility girl and this stony determination face is her mask.

That's enough stalling, and she takes a deep breath. She doesn't have Will or Xand or even Dawn to stop her, or to help her, or to tell her she's doing the right thing. She would kill to have Giles for just one minute. He hates Spike more than anyone, but even he had Spike memories that weren't all of the terrible and kill. She's not the slayer, she's just a little girl who needs a direction.

The longer she stands out here, the colder she gets, wrapping her arms around herself and staring up at his door. It's not so much taller than her, and she tries to remember if Spike has to duck to go in and out. --Bad thoughts, Buffy. Bad. That won't help. Suddenly, possessed, she raises her hand and knocks once, twice; three times, hiding a stake so cleverly behind her back.

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Spike knew he'd made enemies in the city, but they weren't the sort he had ever worried about back home. A couple of angry family members - even the kinds with powers - weren't much compared to demons and witches. But the actual killing part was different and even after, when he'd had no soul and no chip, just the demon in his head, there had been a sick, nauseous feeling that he hadn't done the right thing.

And now?

He was flesh and bone and soul and there was nothing, just the ache of guilt and when his mind had cleared and the scars on his chest had healed, there was just the realization that this place had done more than return his soul. It had given him back his mortality.

Tempered, he had just stayed quiet. Until Buffy.

The Slayer had a habit of being in places at the worst and best times and in this case, she was a beacon of normalcy. Or whatever a hundred and fifty years of violence and blood lust might consider normal, anyway. But he knows her and knows that she's as drawn to him and he is still is to her. Even if he doesn't know her purpose, he isn't surprised to hear her knocking.

Whether or not tonight will give him the courage to tell her anything of real importance is another thing. Either way, the door opens and he steps back to let her in.

"Buffy?"

It's as much a greeting as a question.

She doesn't move, rooted to the spot and not just because it will give away her purpose. "Spike," she greets, her voice tinny and weak even to her ears. Her gaze is stony as it meets his, and the question in his eyes only echoes along the empty corridors of her head, no answer there for him to see. But she's here for a singular purpose, and she can worry about the consequences with herself later. She knows this is the right thing, even if all it does is make her sick.

Not having much time to ponder before she's made, she looks past him, then back up at his face. Buffy's not home, only Slayer. She's here to do a job and nothing else. Steeling herself, she propels herself forward, landing a kick to his chest meant to knock him back into the far wall.

She's breathing harder than she should be as she walks past the threshold, leaving the door open as she raises the stake from behind her back. This is it. Years of buildup and it ends like this? It almost seems sad, but maybe Spike can appreciate the poetry better than she can.

"A little birdy tells me you can kill again," she grits out, not daring to breathe and yet out of breath all at once. "Have any last words?"

He notices it immediately, gaze going from curious to suspicious in an instant. There was something very wrong about the way she was acting and it isn't going to be anything fun. It takes him a moment before he recognizes the look in her eyes. She's not so much Buffy as she is the Slayer now.

But by then, it's was a little too late, reflexes far too slow to avoid the kick that does exactly what she intended it to do. Unfortunately, there's no extra strength to prevent his bones from breaking and he hits the wall with groan, eyes squeezed shut in pain, trying to suck in a breath.

Gritting his teeth, he cracked open one eye to see how far into the crypt she had gotten.

"Waste of effort trying to do that, love. Someone's already done the work for you," he winced, trying to push himself into a more comfortable position and failing rather well at it.

Inches away from him in less than a second, she's grabbing the front of his shirt, letting anger guide her. But his words don't make sense, and truthfully, she doesn't want to process them. Curling her fist around the stake, she slams it into his nose, tilting her head to the side like the Buffybot; illustrating how far gone she is. "I didn't quite get that. Speak up, will you?"

Her nostrils flare as her eyes rake over him. A man she had trusted, who had begrudgingly become something like a friend to her, albeit reluctantly. And now they stood here, the way she'd always known they would stand some day. All that really mattered was causing him pain, and doing her Slayer duty.

Blood trickles down his face from where the stake hits and he spits it out as it reaches his lips, the taste actually making his stomach twist up.

"Couple of Jedi," he answered quickly, grabbing the wrist holding the stake as tightly as he can manage, knowing he might not even leave bruises, let alone stand any sort of chance to break it. "Not a vampire."

This wasn't how he wanted to tell her, whatever attitude and defense he had been keeping up until then fading into the desperate hope that something he's saying has gotten through. Because he couldn't stand her living with the guilt if she killed him.

"You're not a murderer, Buffy."

Even if his superstrength is gone, the touch paralyzes her, and she feels lost. Her heart is aching and the loud beating she hears...isn't hers. Her wrist slips from his hold, shaking fingers seeking out the sound, but she stops just short of touching his chest, stake clattering, forgotten, on the crypt floor. "How..."

Guilt and horror and confusion are all clawing at her insides, struggling for dominance. For all the curve balls this place could've thrown her, this was the last thing she could've expected.

She might have stopped short, but at the show of weakness, he takes her other hand and pulls it to his chest, staring hard at her as the word falls from her lips. It does less to calm him than he'd like, but there's comfort to be taken in her touch, even when he's forcing it.

"Came back from the dead like this. Still me. Memories and all. Just defanged and more harmless than before. Make Angel look like a bloody Doberman," he almost sounds bitter about it, but the venom fails to really stick when he winces slightly.

Buffy doesn't pull away, staring at their hands for a long time, no emotion shown on her face. She's having difficulty remembering to breathe and it's almost like the walls are closing in.

"You do realize Dobermans are attack dogs, right?" But she's not paying attention to the words, eyes slowly making the trek back up to Spike's face. Human Spike, Spike's human face. An eerie calm seems to wash over her and she'd rather have the panic. She'd rather have this all be as simple as vampire, meet stake.

But nothing is simple anymore.

"Yes and I'm a sodding golden retriever," he muttered, releasing her wrist to wipe his face with the back of his shirt sleeve, wondering when she'll move. When it doesn't happen, he squeezes her hand.

"Or maybe one of the little ones. All bark. Maybe you should stake me. See if I come back as a vampire."

Edited 2011-06-23 20:16 (UTC)

"Like a chihuahua?" she asks like it really matters, chest tightening all the more at his suggestion. Her hand drops, finally, balling at her own side. She knows she can't kill him. As far gone as she is, it would've been hard enough to kill vampire-him. Human-him is out of the question.

Trying to act like it doesn't matter, she hooks her toe around the stake, kicking it towards him. "Stake yourself. I won't stop you."

The thought makes him laugh a little and he sags back a little more into the wall when she pulls away. And he doesn't quite manage to stop that stake from knocking into his shoulder. Or at all, since he's nursing tender ribs instead.

"Help me up?"

He knows how pathetic he's being, but can't quite manage the give a damn to sto himself.

She wants to scream and yell and tell him that he's a big stupid bumface, but instead she just silently holds out her hand. He's too pathetic to waste her time on even and yet here she is, trying to talk herself into leaving. Why did the only familiar face have to be this one? The one she had confided in, and so naively trusted. She would help him up and then she would leave.

Easier said than done.

He pulls himself up, knowing she can take his weight, and there's a half thought to take her into his arms and hold her, regardless of pain or the fact that she'd just tried to kill him. He doesn't and whatever remaining traces of emotion dissolve into his usual distant look, as if he were sizing her up for a meal and not stifling the deeply rooted love that had no demon filter to work through now, leaving him at a loss.

What chance did he have to win her back in this state? Or any considering what he'd done. Here and in their own little dimension.

There's about a million conversations they should have, but he isn't going to start them and he digs into his pocket gingerly to find a pack of cigarettes.

"Should work on that kick. Didn't quite manage to puncture my lung," he says, putting as little of himself into it as he can. It almost works.

"I would say I'm sorry," she says, her tone petulant as she moves back into the crypt to sit on Spike's "bed." "But I'm not."

So then what is all this guilt bubbling up the back of her throat. She feels sick and dizzy, and had she even eaten today? So many thoughts and Spike's not volunteering to answer any of her unasked questions.

"Do you have to do that?" She doesn't even look up, staring at her shoes as if they'll tell her all of Spike's secrets. At least they were nice shoes. She could've been ported in wearing flip-flops or something.

"Course," he shrugs heartlessly.

He doesn't bother to answer her questions, but after looking at the carton for a moment, flicks it down onto the table on his way to sit down on the bed beside her. It's as much of a meaningful gesture as he'll give and he looks at her as she contemplates her shoes.

"Are you okay?" he asks, giving up on trying to play the jerk card.

"Peachy with a side of keen," comes automatically, but she doesn't even look up. She's exhausted and done with the City and her new life here. She hadn't even wanted her old one. It's with a deep breath that she allows it to finally show, the toll this place has taken on her already freshly-resurrected self. Suddenly she doesn't want answers or anything else. Buffy just wants to not be here; to not be anywhere at all.

It strikes him suddenly just what has been echoing so familiar about her and an honest empathetic look crosses his features at her response. He doesn't reach out to touch her shoulder like he wants to, but the words come out with much less hesitation than the first time he'd tried to offer his assistance when she seemed to need it most.

"Got it. If there's anything I can do to help, just say the word."

Edited 2011-06-29 22:28 (UTC)

His offer shouldn't touch her; it shouldn't make her feel anything, but she'd be lying if she said it didn't mean something to her, his support.

"Why'd you do it?" she asks, glancing over at him hesitantly. There's no judgment or accusation in her voice, only that same tiredness echoing over her face and every limb.

"To see if I could," he answers automatically, taking the comfort of her presence for what it was as he twisted his fingers together for lack of anything better to do.

"Didn't put much thought into it at the time."

She laughs, a harsh, dry laugh but a laugh all the same. "You're really not helping your case here." But then she goes quiet, turning away from him to stare meaningfully at the wall. She didn't feel capable of judgment, and even less so in this seemingly lawless place. She just wanted to go back to sleep; she always wanted to go back to sleep.

He shrugs weakly.

"Should I be begging for forgiveness? Pretty sure there's no pearly gates waiting for me, Buff, not matter how sorry I am. Just gonna do what I can."

It's just a matter of working past the crippling depression and guilt to do it. But Buffy's lack of sympathy was having more an effect than she might think, already annoying him enough to do something to help his case.

At least in her eyes.

"Do you even feel bad?" She looks scared maybe, but she feels tiny, and there's nothing he can say to make this any better; any easier. She knows that, but still, she needs answers and she won't leave until she gets them.

"Do what you can." Buffy shakes her head at the wording, holding back another bitter laugh. "You call killing someone doing what you can?"

"Yeah," he bit out, pushing up from the bed with a growl and grabbing onto the edge of a nearby chair to keep standing.

"I don't have to explain myself to you. Don't even know why I'm trying. Sick of beating myself up about this."

Looking up at him, she doesn't even have the energy to be properly disgusted. All she's pulling off is a quiet unimpressed. Did human life really matter, in a place where no one could die? Buffy didn't want to answer that, and she was already sick of asking.

"Even with a soul you're an ass," Buffy manages, finally, dredging up some lost emotion. It still doesn't have quite the bite she was looking for, but it would have to do.

"And you're a bitch," he snaps back, "but I didn't let you in so we could throw insults back and forth."

He hadn't invited her in at all, but like he'll admit it now, when his only advantage is mortality. It seems a bit unfair.

"Any more questions?"

Edited 2011-07-11 13:23 (UTC)

"Yeah," she says immediately, eyes clearly calling him out. "Why did you let me in?" Using his words against him, her tone mocked him. She didn't want to play games and yet here she was, playing right back into one of Spike's grand schemes. She really had to get a better writer.

He doesn't answer at first, the immediate and snarky response about her breaking his face coming to mind, but quickly being ignored in favor of something a little more honest.

Buffy deserved it.

"Because I wanted to see you."

And that pretty much makes her deflate, face going a little hot. She didn't know how to ask for his support, she never had, and yet here he was offering it like it was just a given. And to Spike, it was. She can't hold eye contact, not when Spike's expression is so earnest; not when she'll only let him down again. Not that she cared about letting Spike down, but she was letting everyone down, and she couldn't stand it.

"How am I supposed to...do this? Be here." She's back to asking her shoes the hard stuff. "If I'm not the Slayer, am I even me? Am I even Buffy?"

When she won't look at him, he does the next best thing, stepping back over to her and kneeling down on the floor in front of her.

"Look at me," he starts, waiting until she had before continuing. "You're not a quitter, Buffy.

"You've been through Hell, Heaven, and back again and not once has it beaten you. You got close, I think, but there was always something keeping you around. You've got Dawn here. Hell, you've got me.

"You're still the Slayer. All this place did was change up the rules a bit. Couple more people to carry the load. And you look like you could use the help right now."

She tries to flinch away but it comes out more like a shiver, staying right where she is. Blinking eyes big with uncertainty, she looks at him, heart beating loudly. She wonders if he can hear it, even with his dulled senses.

"I can't bring Dawn into this. I can't let her-- She needs to be a kid. Here she can be just that." She frowns, deep in thought, glancing away just a second before her eyes are back on his. Taking a deep breath, her nostrils flare, and she doesn't like that it brings her comfort -- Spike's familiar smell, his familiar presence. She wishes he weren't here so she didn't have to feel it.

"This will be good for her." It's too much to talk about coming back right now, not when everything's so fresh. Especially not with Spike saying she's strong, that she has him. She can't depend on anyone else, but the least dependable person here is her. "I should just go."

She doesn't move, watching Spike instead.

He's in her space, but not quite touching her, studying her face, as if trying to memorize every expression. This is really the first time he's seen her with human eyes instead of the sharp and too detailed vision he had as a vampire. He can't decide which he preferred.

"Yeah, but she's not the type to just sit back and go to the mall either. Bit hard to play normal," he shoots back, "when the world here can't seem to sit still long enough for it."

The last part almost makes him move back, but he stops when she doesn't seem willing to move either. "You sure about that?"

"Not sure about anything." She sighs, trying not to let her face get too hot from his staring, but it's no easy task. "Even with all that, it's still friendlier than home."

She was coming to like it better, too. As lost as she felt.

Figuring she'll stay a bit longer than, he uses the bed to push up from the floor and make his slow way over to where he had stashed some towels.

"Like it a bit better," he remarks, echoing her unintentionally. "No Hellmouth. Even had a fresh slate. Messed that up, but no saying I can't try again. Most people here just forget things if you give 'em long enough and I can deal with the rest."

Glancing over at her, he drops the towel - now stained with what blood he hadn't gotten earlier - he settles carefully onto the edge of the bed, close, but still within distance.

"Still staying?"

She looks away, shrugging; hands coming up to wrap around herself. "No reason why I should." Her heart is beating far too loud, and she's no sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that he can't hear it. Then strikes the thought--why would she be disappointed?

There are so many questions that spring to mind and yet none do her any good. She can't push them from her lips, and she doesn't know how to leave. So she just settles, edging her foot against the cement floor as she resigns herself to staying.

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