RATING: R for a bit of swearing and mention of Spike's cold seed.
FEEDBACK: Very welcome, to email@example.com
SPOILERS: This is set pre-Season 6
DISTRIBUTION: Ask me first - but I'm going to say yes.
DISCLAIMER: These characters are not mine, but I'm just poking fun.
PROPS: Valerie X for beta’ing this story, and for setting out her list of fanfic hates (which includes songfics) over at Bandofbuggered.com.
STORY NOTES: My aim is to incorporate as many of my pet fanfic hates as possible in one place, and still make a funny story. I hope you like it.
This is a songfic inspired by “Brave Gelert”. It’s lengthy, but the gist is that Prince Llewelyn returns from hunting to find his faithful hound Gelert covered in blood and his baby son missing. He leaps to conclusions and slays brave Gelert; then he finds his son unscathed and a dead wolf laid out beside him. It’s very sad...
And here he hung his horn and spear:
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.
Spike sat on Dawn’s bed, among crumbs of jammy toast and buttered popcorn, crying like a little girl.
“Oh geez, Spike,” said Dawn disgustedly. She leant over, careful not to smudge the drying black polish on her fingernails, and pressed the stop button on Spike’s clunky 1970s tape cassette recorder, which hung from his shoulder on a little strap. “Could you be more lame? It’s only a dumb song...”
“I can’t help it,” sobbed Spike, “now I’ve got a soul, every time I hear something sad, the tears just well up. I can’t even switch on Survivor without bawling my head off every time the next obnoxious loser gets kicked off the island, and as for Passions...”
“Well, why the hell are you carrying around a tape with a sappy nineteenth century ballad on it, if playing it makes you so miserable?” Dawn folded her arms and looked at him suspiciously, “I’m starting to wonder if you aren’t some kind of closet masochist or something.”
Spike bridled, “It’s beautiful, Nibblet, that’s why I play it. Poor brave Gelert! And no way am I in the closet. I mean, obviously I may have shagged a few blokes over the last hundred and something years, and I keep falling in love with women with flat chests and no hips, but that means absolutely nothing at all. I’m a cold-blooded heterosexual from Transylvania, (well, Crouch End actually). The closet poof is my Sire, Peaches. It’s embarrassing being the Childe of someone as wet as him.”
Dawn shrugged, “Whatever. Just please for the love of God, don’t play that stupid bloody song again. The first time was sad, the second time was creepy, the third time was just pathetic...”
Spike looked over at Dawn fondly, if a little blurrily: after spending so much time with him she was starting to sound like his daughter, as well as acting that way. He’d heard his little Nibblet call Captain Cardboard a wanker under her breath yesterday, after he’d rung up Red for a situation update - it had been a proud moment.
He looked around at the scatter of remnants on the bed. They’d made toast, and then popcorn, after they’d eaten all the chips and chocolate in the house, but somehow he still felt empty...
“You couldn’t make me a hot chocolate, could you love,” he wheedled, “maybe with those dinky little marshmallows? I need comfort food, see.”
Dawn stamped her foot. “I am not making you hot chocolate, you big girl’s blouse. You’re a bloody vampire and you can drink blood and like it.”
Spike sighed, and hugged his tape player. He pressed rewind...
“Oh fine, fine,” said Dawn. “I’ll put marshmallows in the blood, ok?” She brightened. “Actually, they should turn a pretty cool color.” She flounced off the bed and down the stairs to get Spike’s blood from the fridge. She poured it into his amusing Vampires Never Die, They Just Lose Their Soul mug, added marshmallows, and popped it in the microwave. As she set off up the stairs again she heard a plaintive song:
The flower of all his race!
Damn! She was too late. Spike had started the song from the beginning again. She crashed through the door and stabbed at the stop button. Spike wrenched the tape recorder away from her grasp, unfortunately banging it into the mug in Dawn’s other hand in the process. Half an armful of warm blood and four scarlet tinged marshmallows spilled over the tape recorder.
“No-o-o!” screamed Spike. He leapt to his feet and shook the tape recorder violently. Blood and marshmallows flew in every direction, making a gory splatter fest of Dawn, Spike, the bed and the wall. Luckily Dawn had missed the stop button, and the tape played on.
A lion in the chase!"
“Now look at the place!” yelled Dawn. “You were supposed to be painting my toenails black while I settled in to talk about boys and school and stuff - instead we’re going to spend the evening down in the basement praying we can get blood out of the bedspread before Buffy gets home... you are such a klutz.”
Spike burst into tears again.
“Christ!” said Dawn, “you were way more fun when you were edgy and evil. Oh, for God’s sake - we need to get this stuff in the washing machine...”
Spike cried even harder, then blew his nose with a loud honking noise on the sleeve of his shirt - it was going to have to go to the dry cleaners anyway.
“There, there,” said Dawn helplessly, “I’m sorry I shouted at you. Now look, there’s still some blood left in the mug. You drink that and I’ll start on your toes, ok? We can do the bedspread later.” She turned away and rolled her eyes at the ceiling, then reached across the bed for the Midnight Mayhem nail polish.
Spike hiccupped, then took a halfhearted swig of the remaining blood. He looked down at his bare feet. He currently had his toenails painted delicate dusty pink, because Buffy liked it; but Dawn was right - it didn’t really go with his outfit.
What words the parent's joy can tell
To hear his infant's cry!...
Buffy rested her hand on her stomach. She’d suspected for a while, but now after a visit to the clinic she was certain - Spike had made her pregnant - and it was the happiest day of her life! Visions of a mobile made up of little plastic bats and mummy hands, swinging round and round above a coffin shaped crib floated delightfully through her mind.
She was a little confused about how he’d managed it, of course. He’d certainly spilled a lot of his cold seed everywhere, and some of it in the right place, but she’d assumed...
Well, what the hell. However it had happened she was now officially expecting; and little bitty Buffy would have a loving mom and a doting dad to raise her. I can’t wait to tell him the good news, she thought, as she ran lightly towards the house, playfully rattling Mr Pointy along the white picket fence.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found!
The bloodstained cover rent,
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent!
Dawn straightened up with a sigh. She’d applied the Midnight Mayhem to all Spike‘s toes, after inserting little bits of cotton wool between them. They looked pretty cool, but surely this was meant to be her quality time, when she got pampered? Spike was still sniffing from time to time, the big baby, and she’d had to listen to Brave Gelert again, all the way through. This wasn’t turning into the fun evening she’d expected.
She tossed the nail polish lightly to Spike.. “Ok it’s my turn.” Spike, deep in contemplation of the tape recorder, looked up too late and the bottle of nail polish hit him squarely between the eyes. If Dawn had screwed the lid on properly, of course, that wouldn’t have mattered... Black polish sprayed across Spike, Dawn, the tape recorder and the bed.
“Oh. My. God.” screeched Dawn. “Look what you’ve done now!”
“What I’ve done?” said Spike indignantly, “Who’s the half pint halfwit who threw a half closed bottle of nail polish at me?”
“You’re a vampire, dickhead!” screeched Dawn, “you should have caught it! You’d have caught it when you didn’t have a soul.”
“Possibly so,” said Spike with wounded dignity, “but I have more to think about now. It’s not surprising I was a little distracted.” He looked down, and gave an exasperated sigh, “and now I’ve got black nail polish on my best red silk shirt. That’s never coming out is it?”
Dawn and Spike looked at each other. Their shirts, faces and hair were streaked with red and black. The bedspread was starting to resemble a Pollock painting.
Spike pulled his shirt off petulantly, baring his toned white flesh. There was loud rip! His shirt had caught in his belt.
Dawn sighed dramatically and flung herself backward onto the bed.
Spike swore, violently, and threw down the sticky tape recorder, together with his shirt; unfortunately directly on to the fanned out sweep of Dawn’s hair.
Dawn screamed and tried to sit up, then screamed and lay down again, as the hair stuck to the nail polish on the tape recorder was pulled by the roots.
“Don’t panic, Nibblet,” said Spike desperately. “I have my pocketknife! I can cut you free.” He pulled a six-inch switchblade from his pocket and pressed the spring.
“No-o-o!” screamed Dawn, “Not my hair!”
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smeared with drops of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Buffy heard Dawn’s piercing screams from the hall, and thundered desperately up the stairs, then threw the bedroom door open with a bang. This is what she saw:
Dawn lying on her back in a pool of red, spattered with blood, her hair sprayed around her and her bare feet dangling pathetically off the side of the bed.
Spike, shirtless, his face blackened and blood spattered, one hand on Dawn’s shoulder and the other clutching a knife; a dramatic arc of blood on the wall behind him.
Buffy clutched her chest, overwhelmed by the horror of it all.
Spike turned towards her. “Ah, Buffy love,” he said nervously, “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. We’ve had a little accident...”
“You blood sucking fiendish pervert!” yelled Buffy, as she brandished Mr Pointy.
“Sorry about the bedspread...” said Spike, just as she raised the stake and plunged it into his chest.
“Ga-ah!” said Spike, and fell backward, a surprised expression on his face. He crumbled to dust.
The room was full of the acrid smell of nail polish and blood. Buffy twirled Mr Pointy coolly in her hand. “Well, Bitty Buffy,” she said, patting her stomach, “I guess you’re gonna have to be raised by a one parent family. Too bad.”
Dawn rose from the bed still screaming. She looked down at the dusty bedspread. “Oh my God, Buffy,” she cried, “what have you done?”
“Dawn!” said Buffy, “you’re still alive!” She rushed forward to embrace her sister, then frowned. “Hey, when did I say you could paint your nails black?” she said disapprovingly. “You look like some Goth skank or something.”
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Spike’s soul rose up through the ether toward heaven - then was sucked abruptly sideways, and disgorged into a mysterious cave.
Waiting in the cave was another soul, appearing as a glowing white ball of energy.
“Hi, S-Spike, or should that be W-W-W-illiam?” said the glowing white ball shyly.
“Blimey O’Reilly!” Spike’s soul exclaimed, “if it ain’t our Glinda. So what brings you to these parts, darlin’?”
“Ah,” said Tara’s soul, “w-well it’s kinda a long story, but in s-summary I’m your s-spirit guide, here to s-show you the way to the next d-dimension. Only we have one s-stop first - you get to meet the P-Powers That Be - it’s very exciting.
“The powers that be what?” said Spike’s soul suspiciously, “The powers that be a bunch of bloody pains in the arse?”
Tara’s soul bobbed around a little agitatedly. “S-sh! she said, “you’ll only anger them - although,” Tara’s soul bobbed up against Spike’s soul confidingly, “a-actually, they are k-kinda annoying...”
“We are here, little mortal souls,” boomed a Voice, “and yet not-here. We are here and not-here in many, many places and not-places, most of them well beyond your feeble human comprehension...”
“Well, why bring it up then?” said Spike’s soul tetchily, “Bleedin’ show-offs. Look, make it snappy, eh?”
“Very well,” said the Voice disapprovingly, “but that attitude’s not going to get you far in the spirit world, I can tell you, sonny.” The Voice cleared its throat, not-throat, “Hrm, anyway, we bear you good tidings. In accordance with the Forebodings of Sarssepace, your lover the Slayer will bear you a daughter - and she will be the Chosen One.”
“I though Buffy was the Chosen One, or Faith - or possibly Angel - or con-conceivably Connor?” said Tara’s soul, confused.
“Different prophecies,” said the Voice firmly. “Trust us on this one.”
“I’m having a baby!” cried Spike’s soul. “I’m having a little girl. Oh - I’m the happiest soul in the universe right now. I need to buy cigars, and kiss everyone I know, and get disgustingly drunk...”
Spike’s soul bounced over to Tara’s soul and attempted to embrace her. Failing, he set off on a tour of the cavern, bouncing off the walls enthusiastically, and throwing out a shower of little blue sparks.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said to the Voice. “I can go to the spirit world happy now - lead me to it!”
The Voice materialised a hand, and waved it dismissively. Spike’s soul disappeared into another dimension.
“I c-can’t help feeling,” said Tara’s soul cautiously, “that there were an awful lot of questions S-Spike’s soul should probably have asked you...”
“We wouldn’t have answered them anyhow,” said the Voice dismissively, “it’s no fun that way.” He pointed his materialised hand at Tara’s soul. “Well now, how do you fancy being this kid’s fairy godmother?”
“Is that a g-gay joke?” said Tara’s soul suspiciously.
The Voice sighed, “We are the Powers That Be. We are above stupid gay jokes, believe me. Look you get to stay in this dimension, read lots of prophetic books, and show up at critical moments in the kid’s life to spout obscure advice - do you want the job or not?”
“It s-sounds cool,” said Tara’s soul. “I’ll do it on one condition - that you f-fix the s-stuttering.”
“Done,” said the Voice. Effulgence filled the cave.
“Ow!” said Tara, “did you have to make it that bright? My eyes hurt... Oh, hey, I’ve got eyes... and everything else.” She conjured a mirror into her hand and gazed admiringly at her reflection. She frowned, “but I think the tiara, and the ballet outfit, and the wings are a bit much!”
“Tough,” said the Voice, “it’s traditional.”
A large book of prophecy materialised in the cave and thudded to the ground, narrowly missing Tara’s foot, and raising a cloud of dust.
Tara picked up the volume, absently straightened her tiara, and read the title aloud, “The Forebodings of Sarssepace, described by Barone Giovanni Di Londra.” Tara looked up, “Sarssepace,” she said again. “Hee - no stutter!” She ran her finger across the gold lettering, “I wonder if that’s Sars, as in scares, or Sars as in scars? Oh well, I expect I’ll find out eventually.” She opened the book and was soon engrossed.
And now a galant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
In the backyard of the Summers house there is a weeping willow tree, whose branches rustle mournfully in the breeze. At the tree’s foot is a stake driven into the ground, its handle worn shiny with use, and nailed to it is a little plaque that reads ‘Here Lies Spike ?-2002 - A Good Companion and a Faithful Friend’.