Five Things That Never Happened To Spike
By Kita (Donna M.)
Title: Five Things That Never Happened To Spike
(A part of the 'Five Things That Never Happened' challenge)
Author: Kita (Donna M.)
Email addy: Kita0610@aol.com
Rating: R-ish for some language, violence, disturbing imagery including
nearly-fluffy Spuffy, and smut of various varities. Nothing too graphic.
Summary: Er...five things that never- yea. That. Set in seasons 4,
5, summer following S5, & two post-S7s, respectively.
Thanks: Surfal, Daki, Jess, Te & Wolfing.
Archiving: Lists. Others ask me please.
Disclaimers: Not mine. Joss'. No profit. No sue.
Five Things That Never Happened (To Spike)
i. Mirror (s4)
He dreams in color. Predator vision behind his eyes, streaks of yellows
and browns, endless landscape for the hunt. Blur of beige and gray falling
beneath him, then glorious splatters of red. He dreams of killing. He dreams
When he is awake, the colors fade. They feed him when they remember,
the blood is cold and finite. He thinks of dead flesh and caged animals;
it's the boredom that does them in. The bathroom is his cage, endless white
tile, a morgue, and he is just another corpse beneath fluorescent lights.
He closes his eyes and thinks of other things.
Sometimes Giles' house smells like despair. Sometimes Spike can breathe
the scent of it in on his tongue. Sometimes it tastes a bit like home.
And he imagines burying himself so far inside the man that he wouldn't
even need his fangs to taste the Earl Gray and misery, riding just underneath
the aging skin. There are silver strands in the Watchers' hair, and Spike
would taste the color. Salt and pepper, simple things. Things that end.
He wonders what it would take. He could do it. He was made to do it,
after all. Because he died pretty, he died *because* he was pretty, and
he's gonna be fucking pretty 'til he's a pile of dust and ash. Pretty golden
boy, they called him. When they were in a good mood. When they loved him.
When things shined.
It may have been over a century, but it's not as if Spike hasn't played
at being someone's boy before. Hasn't spent nights chained to things, awakened
to find a figure looming over him (red eyes and red waist coats, a blur
of blood and bruise). Breath reeking of expensive bourbon and misplaced
He's not certain the Watcher smells like lust, exactly, so much as loneliness,
and a touch of insanity. It's been a long time since Spike has been able
to tell the difference anyway. It's all still red to him, it all still
And pride has gone calling on stature these days, someplace far away
from here where Spike can not follow. Someplace where Slayers' necks twist
and bleed, where their eyes hold anything but pity. He can't remember the
last time he was touched with care, and beggars cannot be, and all that
A sweat slicked fist around his cock- even if it's his own, and then
hands wrapped cruelly around his throat, his back arched toward heaven-Spike
long ago learned to trade sex for death and religion. For sanity.
What is the Watcher's religion these days, now that the girl prays to
army boys instead of him? What's the religion of men who bide their time
waiting to die?
Spike finds the careful, cruel words. Is only half surprised by the
Bones remember how to break, and skin remembers how to cry, and Spike
remembers that Giles once had another name. He claims that he gave it up,
for duty and Slayers and the Good of mankind. Spike knows him for a liar.
His teeth are sharp, his fists are cruel and these things never do sleep.
Hand on the back of Spike's neck where skull meets spine, face pressed
so hard into the pillow that he can scarce make out the whispered expletives
falling with sweat and spit onto the small of his back. Painting stained
glass visions behind his eyes, and on his flesh.
Someone calling on god in a voice that sounds much more leather than
Someone making him alive.
When he closes his eyes he is no longer reminded that he is dead. The
Watcher has fine lines around his eyes from too many tears, not so fine
lines around his mouth from too many smiles. But Spike doesn't have those,
and he never will. And when Angelus broke Spike's knuckles, they didn't
heal bent and misshapen, so that the pinkies each curve in a small bow.
Giles had not screamed, but his face flushed, pink and red, swirling shadows
of life and pain. Spike cannot blush. He bears none of the imperfections,
and wears none of the colors of man.
But he can pant and he can holler and he can come. And he can close
his eyes. Just like the Watcher.
What does Giles see while he and Spike rut like dogs on a bed stinking
of whiskey and unwashed bodies? Does he recall that time in the mansion?
Think of Spike sitting passively in his wheelchair, while Drusilla stroked
his erection and Angelus counted to ten, slowly, using the fingers currently
bruising Spike's upper arms? The fingerprints Giles leaves there will be
uneven. And they will not last.
Maybe that's why he fucks Spike from behind, so he can close his eyes
and not see anything at all. Pale hair and paler skin beneath him, squint
and watch it blend into the white sheets, just a form, just an outline
of a man. Conjure instead the mystery fellow Spike supposes came with that
tattoo which Giles is always so careful to hide around the children. Spike
may know nothing of majiks except to stay the hell away, but the green
and blue brand on the Watcher's bicep crackles with... something. Powerful
enough to give any demon passing by a hit. Powerful enough to be the image
Spike sees when he jacks off in an old man's bathtub.
That energy, black and malicious and ancient, creeping through the Watcher's
pores with alcohol sweat, hiding beneath the stubble of his five day old
beard, because he only bothers to shave if he thinks his Slayer is coming
over, and she doesn't make much of a habit of that anymore. That seductive
sucking whirlwind of pain and pain, reminiscent of times, worlds and (clan)
which Spike tells himself that he is long over.
Or maybe Spike's on his godamn knees again because he is lonely, bored,
and not just a bit desperate himself, an expatriate in a town full of children
who look older than he does, and maybe he would give anything for one night
in a bed not made of porcelain and steel. Maybe he's afraid he is fading,
swirling watercolors down this godamn drain, until one day he will be gone.
Maybe the Watcher can relate.
And maybe, just maybe, they have both lived too long to live in hope.
The Watcher's sheets are plaid and dark, and they hide the blood stains.
Tomorrow, the Slayer will come. She will bring her witch and her boy,
and Giles will make mint tea and wear a crisp, clean shirt. He will speak
the way Spike's headmasters once did, and not at all like Spike himself.
Spike will spend the day tied to a chair, a monster without insight into
the desperations of men who too quickly grow old.
The world will be just a sketch, simple black and white. A safer place
But tonight, Spike will be bruised purple, blue and yellow. Tonight,
he will scream in color.
ii. Crush (s5)
He doesn't remember them doing it. Doesn't remember the hands
(strong hands, how could they have been strong enough, no one's felt
that strong since fatherAngelusDrusilla, been so long since anyone else
holding him down.
Doesn't remember needles.
Drusilla. Speaking. Inside his head. Outside his head. "Eyes like needles,
and he told me you were far away. I wouldn't believe him, no, Daddy, how
do you know my Spike is gone how do you ..."
"...know this stuff even works on them?" a man's voice finishes. No,
*finished*. That was before, that was when fingers poked his side and contempt
on the last word, and he wanted to spit wanted to hit wanted to.
(scent of of sick rooms and child death. Isabelle was four when it took
her, and the house never smelled right after. Stunk like smothering, tasted
like laudanum. They had given her more and more at the end, said it would
ease her passing, but William wanted to ask, how do you know?)
"We don't," and another poke in his side but that one was needles. Needles
under his skin. In his dead veins where blood doesn't flow so they needed
another dose. Shouted because (fuck) fire burning burning
"burning baby fishes I told him. He still has them, Daddy. Under his
skin and deep inside and we just have to get them out," Dru says. Now.
"Damn no, we're gonna have to use more, this one is -"
"strong, my Spike is. He won't let this stop him from being my big,
Bloody right I am, strong, I am. Big and when I get out of here I'll
kill you all I'll kill you I'll
"-kill them all instead of fucking around with them like this?"
"Would you rather we experimented on you, soldier?"
But that was then, so he doesn't remember.
Spike doesn't remember being unable to move (oh fuck oh fuck oh) when
he heard the drill, felt the --crack-- without really feeling it because,
yes, the local anesthetic worked on vampires (thank you god oh thank) but
the general anesthetic did not. So he was awake for the screaming in his
head and the bite block in his mouth, for being turned face down and then
the blood and vomit, chunks of flesh on the floor. (Is that mine?)
"yes, dearie, bits of you, teeny, tiny bits of family and promises and
lies, but we're going to put it all back together, aren't we, my Spike?"
Unable to move because there are straps -leather straps, Drusilla always
loved leather, and there are chains. Chains rattling, rattling, rattling,
and that's wrong. There weren't chains. Not then. Not for him.
Twilight sleep. That's what it was. Like the doctors used to do for
women-folk when they had babies so the stupid bints would forget all about
the pain involved and just keep breeding. But they were awake during, just
awake enough during, so that they could-
"-cooperate and this would go so much easier."
"Sod off, motherfuck-" chokewhitecoldelectric jolt brain to balls and
the wood in his mouth the only thing that kept him from biting his tongue
in half. Long, quivering line of drool from his lip to the floor. Scent
of burned flesh.
"He set us on fire. I really didn't like that part."
There's fire. And singing. He really doesn't remember singing. A lot
of cursing and pens scratching, the smell of medicine and hard, painful
death, but no singing and no fire and no- Slayer.
"She's here, Spike, here to watch. You always loved it when they watched
our little games, didn't you? Now say hello, Slayer, say hello you wicked
"Go to Hell."
Sizzle and bacon flesh and the Slayer doesn't scream. Which is impressive,
truly. Spike screamed, often. But of course, he doesn't remember.
Small hands on the bow of his back, whispers and nonsense.
"I tried, my lovely, I did try, but it's in so deep and these silly
tools.." Clatter of metal on concrete. Tried, she tried (oh god oh fuck).
Bits of brain and blood on the floor.
"Drusilla," voice. He has a voice. Yes, of course he does, Drusilla
wouldn't gag him, no she would never- she would just strap him to a table
and stick her hands inside of his (oh god oh fuck).
"You're awake, love!" Cooing and the hands on his back. "Good! This
will be so much more fun if you can play with me. Nasty Slayer's gone all
"Cattle prods will do that to a girl," he says, calmly. That's always
the way with Drusilla. Calmly, slowly and she will untie him and he can
assess his injuries and later, much later, he can figure out how the fuck
she got the cattle prod from him in the first place. 'Cause last he remembers-
(Angelus had tortured this minion for days. Fingers came off first,
to the tune of Mozart, he thinks, and screaming. Toes. Feet. Hands. "God,
they last so long," Angelus said, smiling. "And they always," he paused
to look at the mangled flesh that no longer resembled a living creature
at all, barely a hunk of meat on a butcher's hook. Kicked it. And it *groaned*.
"They always stay conscious. That, my boy, is immortality for you. Sentience,
even like this. And if I let it live? He may even remember all of it. Forever."
Angelus didn't let it live. It was the only time Spike can remember his
sire being merciful.)
"I tried, Spike, I did. But it's no good. No. No good." Dru is crying
and he wants to turn to her, to see her, but he can't move his head and
he can't figure out why she would tie his head down. He can see the Slayer's
stomach rise and fall.
"Dru, untie me, love. Come on, now. Let's get Spike up and we can take-"
"No, no. It's no good. I'm sorry. But I won't leave you this way, I
won't do that to my shining boy, I won't-"
She's stepped away and now he smells the smoke.
"Dru! Dru for fuck's sake untie me!"
Wet cough, blood spatters on the Slayer's legs. "You're not tied down,
"I'll tell everyone you killed her, my precious." More blood on the
floor at her feet, and the Slayer's stomach isn't moving anymore.
The flames smell like sickness. They creep closer, dancing in rhythm;
Drusilla is still singing.
He wonders if this means he is forgiven.
iii. Bequeath (post s5)
She sleeps on the floor of his crypt, her head pillowed on Buffy's old,
fuzzy blue sweater. She's wrapped in a leather coat (not his). She wears
it every night, even though it's stained with Willow's blood. In sleep
she is silent. In sleep she does not dream. In sleep, she is innocent.
At least that's what Spike tells himself.
(("Spike?" and he was awake, her scent among his death and dust- but
it was wrong.
"Bit? Jesus- what the fuck - Bit!" she collapsed and he caught her.
Brushed matted hair from her face, clumps of flesh and bone, smell of sage
and superhero. Covered in it, a second skin of murder and rage.
"Who did this? Dawn! Who did this?"
Opened yellow eyes and smiled at him. "Me."))
She's dyed her hair. Jet black, terribly passé really, but she's
fourteen and therefore finds it the height of gothic irony. Not as if she
can see herself in the mirrors anyway. Her fingers curl and uncurl around
the sweater she uses for a pillow. Tonight, she has painted her nails bubble
gum pink. She is very small. She has no one else. He tells himself that
a lot too.
She killed every one of them as soon as she rose, covered in dirt and
her own blood. They were still grieving Buffy, still frantic over Dawn's
disappearance, so of course she was ushered into the house without second
thoughts. Willow didn't make it to the bathroom to clean her up. Had to
use surprise against the witch, after all.
She let Xander linger a while longer. "I always thought he was kinda
hot," she'd said.
Anya was almost an after thought, but Giles- he proved somewhat harder
to kill. "But this skin," she told Spike, twirling slowly in front of him
in her strawberry shortcake baby tee and low slung jeans, "man, it makes
everything so much easier."
He disposed of Willow and Xander while she ransacked the house. When
she met him at the foot of the stairs, she was wearing Buffy's leathers.
And he must have froze for a second. Because she snorted, fondled the lapel
on his long, black coat and said, "like you have room to talk?"
Later, he threw the Watcher's body into the river. There were deep gouge
marks on his face, down both cheeks and across his forehead. "He never
really loved me," she said.
She still smells a bit (little bit) like Buffy and he can't quite figure
that one out. There's not a drop of Summers blood lingering in her dead
veins now, and her skin is pale, and cold. But sometimes, when she sits
on his lap, if he closes his eyes....and in a town that eats its own dead,
he can't help but be grateful that it decided to give this one back.
The second night she came to him dressed in red. "I want to go dancing,
Spike. Take me dancing?" She started swaying back and forth, and her hair
was black and her nails were red and she reached out to run a finger down
one of his cheeks and- he grabbed her wrist.
"What's wrong, Spike?" Her eyes were darker now, her smile old and feral.
She bared her shoulders. "You used to call me Niblet. Don'cha want a nibble?"
But he didn't and they haven't and he won't. Won't. She's not Dru, she's
not Buffy, she's (not) Dawn. Dawn. And there has to be something of that
girl left inside her. Has to be. Because god knows there's too much William
left in him. Still.
The third night she arrived carrying plastic bags filled with junk food.
"Killed the guy at the 7-11," she explained, popping a pink coconut covered
confection in her mouth.
"Dawn, love, you have to be- more careful," he said slowly.
She rolled her eyes, then jumped into his lap. "Why don't you teach
me? We could kill stuff together. It'd be fun." She leaned in close enough
for him to taste the decay on her tongue. Death and marshmallows. His mouth
"Can't," he said, disentangling himself from her long, no longer awkward
limbs and standing up. "Chip."
"Right!" she said, smiling, and wrapped her hands around his waist from
the back. "Looks like you need me as much as I need you then, huh?"
Such small hands. She snaps necks with them like she was born to. And
who the fuck knows, maybe she was. Slayer's blood, ancient green energy.
Whatever. His belly is full of warm, human blood every night for the
first time in two years. He covers her kills with the efficiency born of
his age and necessity. He tells himself that this is keeping the promise.
He is taking care of her after all.
She gave up all pretense finally, after about a week. Stood before him
naked, covered in someone's blood- probably a blond girl's, she's always
killing blond girls- and reached out with those small hands to undo his
trousers. But he stopped her and her human face melted into fury.
"What? Buffy was good enough, but I'm *not*? That it?"
"No," he said, keeping his eyes on her face, the ridges and slopes of
a demon older than them both.
"Well, what then? You think I'm some kind of virgin? *Please*. Those
boys who turned me had other things on their minds besides biting."
He said nothing.
Two days later he found a nest of teenage vamps. They all died very
She was fourteen when she died, and she's going to be fourteen forever.
She whimpers in her sleep, the way he must have when he first came back.
Today, she snapped a girl's neck in the middle of the street. She wasn't
hungry, she just wanted the girl's shoes. The vein in her neck is robin's
egg blue. She would taste like buttermilk.
"We should leave here, Dawn." He told her earlier tonight. He calls
her Dawn now, and she likes it. Makes her feel all grown up, she says.
"Why? There's no Slayer, and this is the *Hellmouth*. Pretty much the
only place to be." The lollipop she was eating made her lips sparkle.
"Because there *will* be a Slayer. And questions. Eventually. We don't
wanna be here when someone comes callin'. Ponce in LA, for instance."
Dawn smiled around her red lollipop. "Grampa? Pft. I'll send him an
email, tell him we're all fine- Oh! Better idea! We can pay him a visit!
He'd love to see me. Probly make me cookies. Cordy said so, at the funeral."
Spike frowned. "What the hell would I wanna see him for?"
"Cause he's all souled, and lonely."
Spike frowned some more.
"And missing poor, dead Buffy. And probably? Really, really easy to
And it wasn't that he couldn't relate to anyone's hatred of the old
man. He just couldn't quite figure *Dawn's*. In reality she met him only
once, at her sister's funeral. Any imaginary memories she had of him must
be pretty damn vague. How old could she have been when he was around, anyway?
Angel probably scarcely noticed her.
"Yea," she said," *he* always loved her best too."
It's a lovely daydream, but he isn't planning any trips to LA. He isn't
planning much actually, beyond getting in someone's car and driving until
Sunnydale is just another nightmare, like Prague, and bad poetry.
She'd surprised him by agreeing quickly to leave, kissing him on the
nose like a pet and saying, "I have something I have to do first."
"Be back before dawn," he told her.
Then it was a half hour before sunrise, and she wasn't back. He
tracked the scent of her to the still-standing tower in the middle of the
town. She stood at the very edge, arms outstretched, blood dripping from
both her wrists and belly. He looked up, the drops fell on damp earth,
his hair, and his coat. Her eyes were closed.
He'd climbed to the top, listening to the creaks and groans of metal
pipes as he walked carefully across them. "Dawn?"
She didn't open her eyes. She was wearing that dress, that damned princess
velvet dress that had once heralded the end of their world. It was tattered
and stained in blood.
"I'm real," she said.
"Yes," he answered, advancing slowly toward her.
"Nothing is happening. No portals," she said.
"And if I fall now? I don't die."
"But she would. She *did.*"
Spike stepped close enough to touch her. Her eyes opened.
"Yes," he'd said.
"Would you still save me? Still die trying?"
He did not hesitate. "Yes."
"But I'm not Dawn. Not anymore." She held out her bloody arms, thin
rivulets ran down her wrists and fell to the concrete below.
"Probably not," he'd said.
She stirs and mumbles something in her sleep and he notices the blood
still under her fingernails. Wonders whose it is. Without opening her eyes
she reaches for him, and he lets himself be pulled down. Her confidence
belies her body- small, waif like, with barely budding breasts and young
boy hips. But she moves like a woman, and purrs like a demon. Her tongue
is certain, electricities and dark majic.
He will save her.
iv. Shine (post s7)
The day after the world ends, Spike goes out for a drink.
Willy's place is right where he left it, buried a bit under the rubble,
but otherwise relatively unscathed. Some tall, green fellow behind the
bar takes his drink order and calls him 'petunia.' So long as the Jack
Daniels keeps coming, Spike couldn't give a fuck.
There's not a human in the place tonight, but someone's installed a
karaoke machine, and a huge, revolving disco ball center stage. A Krevlak
demon is standing beneath the artificial silver lights, mouthing the words
to a song Spike can't quite make out. When he's finished, a Moresh demon
takes his place, and Spike figures the mike must be broken, because he
can't hear a damn thing this guy is singing either. By the looks of the
crowd, he also figures this is for the best.
"Depends how you're lookin' at it, tulip," the red eyed bartender says,
and Spike wordlessly holds his glass out for another refill.
The demon pours. "I mean, it's kind of hard to read someone's future
when there isn't any, you get my meaning?"
"Not at all," Spike says, dropping his glass and reaching for the bottle.
"Well, you'll find out soon enough I'm afraid, buttercup."
Spike growls. "First off, if you don't stop calling me flowers, I'm
gonna rip off those horns and stuff them where your green sun don't shine,
"Woah, woah, sweet pea. Let's not mutilate the messenger."
Spike sets the bottle down on the countertop with a dull thud, and stands.
"Yea? Well what's the message?"
The bartender points to the corner, where a short, balding fellow is
busily arranging what appear to be slices of Swiss. He looks up at Spike.
"The cheese always stands alone, you know."
Shakes his head, and walks toward the door.
"Hey!" the bartender calls, "you sure you wanna go out there?"
"Why the hell not?" Spike asks, already opening the door. The demons
cower in the corners of the bar.
And the light is so bright Spike can *hear* it, a wet, slow thumping
sound that makes him cover his ears and close his eyes and want to fucking
Over the din he can hear the barkeep shouting at him.
"I don't think you're ready...."
The desert. In his Desoto. Angel is at the wheel, driving with one hand
and attempting to fold a map with the other.
"Why are you driving my car?" Spike asks, and Angel looks up, as if
seeing Spike for the first time.
"Why are you letting me?"
"I'm not let-" and as soon as the words are spoken he is in the driver's
seat. Angel doesn't appear to notice.
"What *is* that?" Spike asks.
"It's a map," Angel says slowly, in his Patient voice. Spike hates patient
voice. "It's actually for you."
Spike takes it and looks it over. "I can't read this, it's not even
in fucking English."
"I thought you spoke Fyaral."
"This isn't in Fyaral!"
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
"Look, what- why the hell are you here?"
"I have a message for you," Angel says, his voice dropping half an octave.
The car pulls toward the side of the road without Spike's assistance, and
finally crawls to a stop.
Angel slips closer to him, cups the back of Spike's head in one large
hand, and Spike flinches in spite of himself.
"Shhhh," Angel whispers sweetly against his mouth, "Congratulations,
my boy, you're finally one of us...." His tongue glides across Spike's
lips and presses its way inside, and oh- oh god, no one has touched him
since he got his soul, and he wants to cry because he didn't know, he didn't
grabs Angel's biceps and moans into his open mouth, but those lips slide
away across his cheek, kisses wet and heavy with breath and need. Tilts
his head back to expose the vein, still and false and blue, begins chewing
on the rope of skin there.
"Are you ready?" he whispers, and his grip tightens on Spike's shoulders
even as Spike tries in vain to pull away.
Then there are fangs.
Then there is just pain.
He wakes with dust in his eyes, on the dance floor of the Bronze.
"Hello, Spike," she says, reaching a hand down to pull him to his feet.
"Slayer..." he says, softly, voice almost breaking because he thought
she- he thought they all-
"I was gonna be a fireman," she says. " Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't." He stands toe to toe with her, but he doesn't dare reach
out. Her hair is long, straight and the color of wheat in sunlight. He
would give anything to see her in sunlight. He doesn't think he has anything
left to give anyway.
"What happened, then?" he asks finally, fingers twitching at his sides,
a gunslinger waiting for draw.
"Kept saving the world," she says, saving him again by grabbing one
of his hands in her little fingers. She rubs her thumb across his knuckles
and looks at him. He can't help it. He brings her hand to his mouth, and
kisses her palm. She doesn't move.
"Right," he says, then, "y'know, I was gonna be a poet once."
She doesn't laugh. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing as grand as all that. Died, is all."
"I'm sorry," she says, looking small and for a moment he sees her on
her bathroom floor, bruised and afraid and looking like- a girl. Just a
"So'm I, luv. So am I."
And in the silence between them, he can hear the world again. Sirens
and screams. Whispers and wind songs. He used to bite the pale white flesh
inside her elbow. She used to sigh.
He pulls her close before he can stop himself. Feels arms slip around
his waist, hair spill across his shoulder. Closes his eyes and sees shimmers
of pink and red, bougainvillea clinging to the rocks. He sways her slowly
back and forth.
"Spike?" she whispers, looking up.
"Yea?" and to hell with his broken voice, to hell with the end of the
world, to hell with-
"Are you ready?" she whispers, and the wood spears his back before the
words are out. Her face is empty and he tastes his own ashes.
Summer in Brazil; the night smells like jasmine and blood.
"Hullo, pet," he says wearily, and she grins. There are bodies under
her feet. He tries not to look too closely at them.
"My Spike, I was just thinking about you."
"Were you now? What were you thinking?"
She takes his hand and begins to swing on his arm. "I was remembering,"
she says, "the night I killed you. Do you remember?"
He nods. Hay and tears and the small wounds of a small man. It hurt.
He remembers that it hurt.
"You tasted sweet. Like bumblebees."
Waking up in a box with a pain in his chest and mud in his eyes and
mouth. He choked because he didn't know he didn't have to breathe. Alone
and afraid, he'd screamed for his mum, but no one came. He didn't know
they were there, waiting. He didn't know they'd heard him screaming. All
night. It took him all night to claw his way out because he was young and
he was weak and he just didn't know.
"You were so pretty, Spike."
He threw up on his own grave, after. Dirt and sawdust and tears. Angelus
looked disgusted, but Dru kissed him anyway, and he had never known the
moon had so many colors.
William died. But he survived it. And he's kind of always figured that
if a man can survive his own death, there's not much else that can take
him. The moon is huge over the jungle, tonight. And either it all makes
sense, or he's finally gone completely insane. Dru would know. But she
would never tell. He smiles.
"Sometimes I miss you, Dru," he says.
She smiles back, leans in to whisper in his ear. "Are you ready this
And he nods.
Opens his eyes to dirt and fire. The stench of a battlefield, death
and black majiks, fear and rot. No one left to bury the bodies. And maybe
after all he's done he deserves to have it end this way, broken and unmourned,
hallucinating random images of people he is never going to see again. But
she deserves better, he thinks.
He can't remember what happened now, probably because his head is split
and it's only that pesky immortality thing keeping him alive while his
brains leak out his ears. It's all right though. He doesn't really want
to remember how she died, how Dawn died, how Angel died. Whose name she
called, in the end. If anyone else is left. If they failed to save the
The sun will be up soon.
He closes his eyes.
There's a bench a few feet away, he walks towards it and sits down.
Undoes his coat and waits. It's already becoming warm. A prickle behind
his eyelids. He curses, he will not cry now, not- but it is just the light.
It's been over a century for him, and the coming of the sun is unfamiliar,
Another breath, and he can smell her.
And on her, all those women who have made him what he is, what he never
was. He thinks maybe spring is coming.
He turns his head.
"I didn't think it would be you," he says, as Joyce smoothes her skirt
and sits beside him.
"I know," she says, reaching out her hand. He takes it, and she wraps
her fingers around his.
It's been years since he's thought of his mum, decades since he has
wanted to, but now she is here, with the promise of warmmothercocoacomfort.
And the tingling behind his eyes isn't from the sunrise anymore; he is
weeping, tired and hungry and weeping and just so. fucking. tired.
She pulls his head toward her shoulder, and he lays it down against
the rays of the first sun. His feet are warm.
"I'm ready," he whispers.
"It's ok, Spike," she says. "You can rest now. You can rest."
v. Dance (post s7)
He doesn't wear glasses in the sun. He squints instead; tiny, invisible
teardrops leak from the corners of both eyes. The road sometimes blurs,
and even with the visor down he nearly hits things. He still refuses to
wear the glasses. He spent one-hundred-and-fifty years without sunshine,
and he’s not going to hide from it now behind some ugly pair of Raybans.
He raises a hand to the level of his eyebrows and squints some more,
nearly missing the turn-off. The tires squeal in protest as he throws the
turn and Buffy rolls her eyes at him. But she's smiling. Sometimes when
he takes a reckless corner she'll tell him he’s being an idiot, and she'll
He's always thought she needed to laugh more, hell, wasn't that their
point of contention even before the soul? “Lighten up, Buffy,” “Live a
little, Slayer.” Far be it from him to begrudge whatever it is makes her
Phone calls to Xander in Bumblefuck, Colorado. And yea, Spike still
hates the overbearing lout, but Buffy comes out of those phone calls looking-
pink. Young. Sometimes she sleeps through the night afterward.
Visits to the cemetery- and who'd have thought that would make anyone
but a vampire happy, but he's so damned far removed from irony at this
point, Spike isn't sure heed know it if it bit him on the neck. They're
all there, laid out like some macabre row of sandwich cookies, two by two
by two. Willow and Tara. Anya and Giles. Dawn and her mum. A gray marker
for Angel, right next to Cordelia, and beside them, the graves of Wesley,
and some fellow named Gunn, whom Spike met only once. If one could call
tossing an ax at a bloke and shouting “behind you” a proper introduction.
Buffy likes to bring white flowers, and arrange them neatly by each
headstone. Spike likes to stay the hell out of her way. She never cries,
not there, not while she's awake. And he supposes that she of all people
would know that they really are in some kind of better place. That she'll
see them all again some day.
He harbors none of these illusions for himself. Has no idea why he's
still here, but is well aware that when he's not here any longer, he sure
as – he sure isn't going wherever Buffy goes.
And maybe he should begrudge his old Sire that much, finally. The eternity
of harps and puffy white clouds Angel will get to share with his Slayer.
But Spike gets warm kisses in the morning's light and silent, sleeping
tears on the pillow they share. He gets long drives like this, with the
top down, and sometimes, if he drives fast enough, she grips his hand hard-
so hard- as if seeking some kind of protection. And Spike figures that
he got the better end of the deal. All that white just makes him think
of hospitals anyway.
(“God, it hurts it -hurts,” crying and scared, and ashamed. She'd never
had to deal with this kind of physical pain before, all those Slayer cells
carefully designed to promote quick healing so the next battle could be
fought. But now there was no next battle. And Slayer strength and healing
had gone the way of demons and vampires, apocalypses, and old friends.
“Course it hurts, pet, you broke it.” She cradled her sore arm and the
heavy cast against her chest while he fed her pain killers and ice water.
“Why does it have to hurt so much?” she asked, and he knew damn well
she wasn't talking about her arm.
“’Cause you're only human, luv.”
“Well, I don't like it,” she said seriously.
He sat back on his heels and looked at her. “Yea,” he said. “I know
exactly how you feel.”)
Oh, but it's not so bad, is it? This being human, this being a kind
“Don't smoke anymore,” she pleaded with him, one night. Two AM and he
had been sleeping. She woke him with the table lamp shining in his eyes
and her hair stroking his face as she straddled him.
“Just quit,” she said.
He blinked up at her.
“I can't- you can't die too.” Her belly was kitten soft against his
and her toes were cold on his calves; she was here, and she was his, and
he'd said, “Sure, luv. Promise.”
But he sneaks a smoke sometimes, and he can really taste them. And he
can eat and be full, and drink and be drunk, he can walk and squint and
drive in the light of day, and she will hold his hand.
When they make love he counts the meter of her breaths. He finds the
beginnings of haikus in her sharp gasps
/oh oh oh oh oh/
iambic pentameter in the groans of his name
/please, Spike more/
and he finds himself wanting to make rhymes for them. Some testament
to the transient, something immortal from the finite. He never does. He
hasn't put pen to paper in decades, and he isn't about to start now. But
he counts. He arches his body just so, to force the sigh he needs from
her when her rhythm won't quite match the one in his head.
Then she opens her eyes and looks at him. And worlds without end slip
through his grasp again, suddenly all he can remember is that he was once
an evil poet and a bloody awful man- or . No matter. The last line is ever
/But we are still here/.
It won't last forever. He knows this. Just a grand, cosmic accident,
some prophecy hiccupped and he is living -*living* on borrowed time. On
divine benevolence. On god damned luck. They've made love every day for
the past five years, never once bothered with any sort of protection, and
she still bleeds by the dark of each moon . Fool for love, but never a
fool. He has the moment, but an ex vampire and an ex Slayer will not be
allowed to breed.
Because warriors are never allowed to build temples. Because there are
days when she just sleeps, and days when she won't eat, and some days she
won't move from the seat by the bay window. She stares out at the street,
and she doesn't cry and she barely breathes, and he wonders. What she sees.
He hopes it's Heaven. He knows better. There are no more monsters, and
the earth is rid of all her ghosts. But his Buffy is still haunted.
He holds her together with lullabies and fairy tales, trips to the zoo
and picnics at the cemetery. He brushes her hair until it falls like water
between his fingers and she lets him plait it into knots and elaborate
buns. “Where'd you learn to do that?” she asked him once.
“Had horses when I was a boy,” he lied. He spent over a hundred years
braiding Dru's hair, but there are things he will never speak of here,
in their house. There are some shadows that if seen would bode weeks of
winter, and Spike has found he prefers the respite of warmth.
“Oh,” she'd said, accepting, trusting, and leaned back against his bare
chest. She might have smiled. And for a while, it was living rather than
He turns to her now, letting his eyes leave the road for a second, and
she is smiling. Looking at him, right at him; he wonders again what she
She pulls the scarf from her hair, and sends it flying behind her as
he floors the gas pedal. Feels her light pink fingernails dig into his
palm. And it doesn't matter what she sees now, when she looks at him. (All
that's left of her past, her innocence, those she once loved. A living
embodiment of some fable, the monster who became a man. Her consolation
Because when he looks at her, all he sees is grace.