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S p i k e / B u f f y . F a n f i c t i o n . b y .K J .D r a f t
TITLE: Still Life in Sunnydale AUTHOR: KJ (Katherine Jay) Draft SUMMARY: "Wishes may bring problems, such that you regret them. Better that, though, than to never get them." - Stephen Sondheim, "Into the Woods." S/B. Spike gets the chip out, courtesy of Warren. Vigilante justice, character death(s), and some heavy PWP ensue. 'Cause I can't resist. TIMELINE: Up to and including "Entropy." Breaks canon immediately following Dawn's visit to Spike in "Seeing Red." (Shocker, I know.) RATING: Starts out PG-13 (uh, I think?) then progresses to NC-17. That can be construed as either a threat or promise, take your pick. *As a service to the reader, here's some valuable info: the smutty chapter is Chapter 4. And I mean Smutty. Feel free to skip right to it (I know I would), but as penance, you must send me FEEDBACK: quietones33@hotmail.com DISTRIBUTION: Nauti has given it a home! No longer must it wander the streets Post FF.net Collapse. Valerie was the first to archive it in its entirety at bandofbuggered.com (Thank you, Val!) Feel free to link, just give me credit. It'd also be cool to let me know where. Thanks. DISCLAIMER: I don't own any plants, let alone characters from a television show. Ooh! But I do own a car! AWARDS WON: Honorable Mention at the Spiked Awards.
STILL LIFE IN SUNNYDALE Chapter One Spike moves through his crypt as though he's underwater, legs heavy and slow, even as his mind races to consider the best course of action. Shoving items haphazardly into a bag, he blames his sluggishness on the human blood. It had simply been too blasted long. Barely tasted them, actually. It was a hit, pure and simple. Assassination. Not that he hadn't enjoyed it; but when it came time to pick out strangers during the walk back for a true feeding, he found it oddly taxing to choose. Each female he spied on the sidewalks or alleys had a manner about her that, in certain streetlight illumination, reminded him vaguely of Dawn. Maybe I recognized them. That must be it. Can't be munching on her chums, now, can I? Once he places, say, fifty miles between himself and Sunnydale, he can unleash his own William the Bloody trademarked brand of hell on the unsuspectings. Europe all over again, but infinitely sweeter for his forced abstinence. That's right. God help them all. (If He's bored enough to try.) Spike licks his lips in anticipation and zips his bag shut. Hauling it over his shoulder, he pauses to relish the prior evening's events. Armed with Dawn's information regarding the true identity of Buffy's camera crew, he'd felt something brackish and hard inside him uncurl. Rage on Buffy's behalf, definitely; but more than that Something for himself, too. Something satisfying, like a tooth being yanked out. The realization I have nothing left to lose. Locating Warren proved relatively simple. Convincing the brat to remove his chip, even more so. And still they never saw it coming. He'd especially delighted in scattering their carefully organized action figures and cards across the floor. Wondered with amusement how much their collections would fetch in their luscious new blood smeared condition. Simple fact: Buffy wouldn't have to worry about the three idiot children again. Not that he expects any gratitude. His solution was akin to using an AK 47 on an army of ants. That's how she'll see it, leastaways. No turning back from this, no more pretending he's Safe, for either of them. Freak show's over for good. Buffy won't be with him; and now, she can't. Not now that he's returned to monster status, neatly stamped, categorized and filed away. He kicks
the crypt door shut and makes off toward the bus station, trying not
to think about the indignity of his final escape occurring under cover
of blanket. Trying harder not to think about that look on Buffy's
face outside the Magic Box. He hears her voice, low and wounded "Didn't
take long, did it?" *** Dawn, what exactly did you say to him? Think carefully. I just said there was a camera in the Magic Box, that Warren and those two other guys were the ones filming you. And what did he say? Nothing! He walked me to Janice's, told me goodbye and left. I didn't know he was gonna do anything! I didn't know! I believe you. It's okay. *** Oh, it was far from okay. By the time Buffy arrived, the blood had reached the door and seeped through part of the wood, staining it a dark brown. The stench tells her everything she needs to know. Never the less, she kicks the door open to see for herself. Surveys the carnage with equal parts detachment and nausea: Warren, Jonathan and what's his fuck all dead. Throats torn, ripped. Blood everywhere. No clean puncture wounds for the boy geniuses. Because of course, this was personal. Alan? Andrew? She wracks her brain, searching. Inadvertently taps her foot. Right. Andrew. It's weird, or obscene or whatever, but the images remind her of a photography exhibit her mother once dragged her to. The artist displayed the same image over and over, taking up an entire wall, but they each looked unique because they'd been dipped in mismatched red sepia tones. Buffy closes her eyes briefly, tries to steady her queasy stomach. That's all this is. A photograph. Still Life in Sunnydale. A postcard. Right. Wish you were here. When she opens her eyes, it's Warren who catches her now clinical gaze. One phrase takes residence in her mind, summing up the absurdity of her life and Warren's oh so special role in it: He made a robot of me. Hysteria threatens to overwhelm her, bubble to the surface, force itself out in the form of dizzy gasps and nervous, high pitched laughter. She barely suppresses the impulse. Thinks instead of After: being framed and the mental ward and the girl Warren killed and she bites her lip because nothing's funny anymore. Her gaze shifts over to Jonathan. She doesn't know how long she stares: seeing him, and not seeing him. Seeing him at 17. Maybe I shouldn't have stopped him from offing himself in high school, she ponders absently. Maybe he was supposed to die a certain way, like me, and I robbed him of that. And it probably would have hurt less. An acute sliver of guilt cuts her and she swallows sharply, pained by the dryness in her throat. A gun blast to the head is quick; getting bitten, torn and drained that can be slow. Make you feel like you're drowning. Give you time to think about your stupid life and all the things you did wrong. Probably should have let Jonathan sort out his own problems. Another theory, brilliant in intensity, grows from that kernel: Probably should let the whole freaking world sort out its own. Damn. Problems. 'Cause hey, not even supposed to be here. Like that guy kept saying in "Clerks." God, shut up, you shouldn't be quoting movies right now. Her gaze darts up and around the room, taking in the destruction: over turned tables, kicked in computers, mangled cameras. DVDs. Endless DVDs, some opened and gutted. Maybe quoting movies is the best way to honor them, she thinks, with something like bitterness and something like pity, and God, this is whole situation is just...sick. She turns and walks outside, where the sun is so bright it stings her eyes. *** Spike sits alone at the bus stop. No one else taking this particular journey. Symbolically or otherwise. The weather's turned unexpectedly overcast, but he keeps the blanket about his shoulders just in case. Suddenly a light touch: feminine hand on his back. He whips around, on the edge of game face, already prepared to toss aside his "50 miles outside Sunnydale" rule. "Oh, it's you." He sighs, feels the muscles in his face relax. Looks around at the empty gray streets. "Where'd you come from?" Anya sits
down next to him on the bench. Not too close. "I tend to appear
when people transmit strong distress, " Anya replies. "Part
and parcel of the Vengeance Demon gig." "Right." For some reason her prattle hadn't grated on his nerves the last time they'd chatted, might've had something to do with that entire bottle of liquor we slugged back, but now he was starting to feel down right irritated with her. They're linked in misery, but he doesn't necessarily enjoy the reflection of himself she provides. He looks off in the distance. "S'pose you want me to wish up some dreadful fate for the whelp." Anya shakes her head. "You called me here on your own behalf." She mimes raising a beer. "This Bud's for you." I just correctly referenced something from pop culture, she thinks with a zing of pride. Then sadness. Xander would be proud. Except that he's hideous and I don't care what he thinls anymore. "Didn't mean to call on you. You're going to have to tune me out, I expect. Doubt my so-called distress is going away anytime soon." He still has trouble meeting her eyes. "Is it because of Buffy and that look on her face the other night?" she chirps. Perceptive bint. "Might have something to do with it." "Don't you want to wish it better? Well, not better, necessarily, I can't accurately use that term in allusion to the vengeance. And I may be a bit dusty, but I can definitely alter elements on a space/time continuum." That sounds bloody dangerous. He decides to keep his wishful thoughts to himself. "Where would I start?" he responds instead. "Hmm, well, why are you leaving?" He doesn't answer. Oh what the hell, Buffy will find out soon enough. Maybe she already has. He clears his throat. "Got my chip out." Anya lets out a low whistle. "How?" "Trio o' numb nuts, Warren and whose-it, the Robot makers, the invisi-ray blokes." Can't stop the lascivious grin from sliding onto his lips, and doesn't try to. "Paid 'em back in full, I did." Anya shifts slightly away, disconcerted. This reaction is not lost on Spike. In fact, it makes him rather ill. If Anya, fully restored to bitch on wheels vengeance demon, doesn't like being near me now, what sort of revulsion would Buffy feel? He's certain he couldn't take being subjected to it. "Why didn't you have him remove it sooner?" Anya wonders. "You've known Warren for a year." "Yeah, well, thing of it is, can't be de-chipped and have any sort of chance with Buffy at the same time, can I?" "You deliberately kept the chip in" she muses, realizing. "Not at first," he corrects her. "Would have done anything to get it out, at first." Then: "So you're sneaking out of town before Buffy can try to kill you? That's not terribly respectful." "'Cause Buffy and I are practically falling all over our selves with respect for each other," he responds, nearly choking on the words. "I meant as enemies." He knows she's right. He owes Buffy the opportunity to end their feverish dance properly, culminating in one or both of their deaths. The bus arrives. Relieved, Spike stands and picks up his bag. "I'll be back. Tell her for me? At the full moon." He feels like throwing his head back and giving a howl for effect. Yeah. Poetic. Make Buffy tremble, search through a bleedin' Almanac for that one. Anya doesn't know if they should shake hands, hug awkwardly, or even smile in Goodbye. Frankly, she's still agitated that the responsibility for cleaning up the Magic Box after their brief sexual encounter fell entirely onto her shoulders. "Farewell," she tells him flatly. "'Til then," he responds, just as non-committedly. Spike boards the bus and strolls to the back. There's only one other passenger, he notes, a woman with large sunglasses. If she gets off at his stop, he'll make her his midday snack. If not, then bully for her. He closes his eyes, settles in for the ride. Considers Anya's offer of vengeance. He feels heavy when he thinks about all Buffy went through in the past year. All the things they put each other through and comes to the conclusion that he doesn't want vengeance. Far from it. "I wish," he mutters quietly to himself, "that Buffy needed me, warts and all." The female passenger smiles ominously and slides off her sunglasses, revealing herself: Halfrek. Wish granted.
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