herself_nyc (herself_nyc) wrote in herself_nyc_fic, @ 2007-08-28 11:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | s/b fic, the proper slayer |
Fic: THE PROPER SLAYER (pt 5 of ?)
Buffy's back home in Sunnydale after her AWOL summer with Spike. But she doesn't fit in anymore.
Fic set in an AU early season 3. Sequel to Let's Get Lost.
Previous part here. Click tag for all parts.
Previously....
The air outside the stinky little motel room was cooler. Buffy took some deep breaths as she walked away. Okay, that was ... confusing. What did I just do? She couldn't even sort out who'd hit on whom, and then apart from all the brand-new sensations and the obscure sense of triumph that always suffused her when she'd come a few times in quick succession, Buffy was left feeling ... odd.
Like she'd done something sneaky. Like she'd cheated. Which made no sense, and God, the sooner she could stake Spike the better she'd feel.
Maybe she could find him now. Get it over with. Get it done.
This was SO fucked up.
Monumentally, stupidly fucked up.
After running around searching for him for three nights, she'd finally found Spike.
In some dumb deserted graveyard half-tumbling off a cliff near the beach, where nothing had been buried or risen for thirty years, easy, there he was, leaning on a tombstone smoking a cigarette and apparently gazing up at the full moon like a huge dork.
And she'd been fighting with him now for what felt like a good half hour, without being able to gain the upper hand ...
Which he didn't have either.
They were just tossing each other around like a big idiotic game of hackey-sack, running up bruises and getting off zingers and accomplishing absolutely nothing.
She couldn't understand it. The stake was in her fist. She'd had a clear shot at his heart at least four times, and each time she'd ... she'd pulled some other maneuvre instead of driving it home.
And he was all fanged out and slavering, and a couple of times he'd had a chance to sink his teeth in her, only ... he hadn't.
This was pissing her off.
Something about it was making her eyes smart, and her chest clench.
This wasn't working.
"What is the matter with you!"
She's scrambled up to the roof of a crumbling mausoleum, and knelt there, catching her breath, looking down into his charged and glowing eyes.
"Nothin's the matter with me, Slayer. Was about to ask you the same thing."
"This ... this is taking too long."
"Got another appointment, have you?"
"No! It's just ..." The stake was in her hand. She could drop down on him right now and just do it.
Only she knew, with a sick upside-down sensation like right before she was going to barf from eating some bad clams, that she wasn't. She wasn't going to stake Spike right here right now.
"You're just fooling around!" she accused.
"Me! I'm waitin' for you to come up with some fight that's worth anything! What's your problem, Miss Anne? Forgotten how to do the necessary?"
"As if."
"Well come on down here then an' gimme it. Gimme a proper fight, so's I can finish you off once an' for all."
She moved from a kneeling to a cross-legged position.
Spike took a step back, hands on his hips like her mother sometimes stood when she was bawling her out. At this angle he was severely foreshortened, white head in the moonlight, dark shoulders, boot-toes.
"What if I won't?"
"You're the slayer, course you will."
"I don't have to. I could ignore you. Maybe I could ignore you to death."
"You never could do that."
Never? Since when did he think he was so important? He used to be nothing! Just a nuisance. She launched herself onto him; they both went down, hitting the ground with a sharp crack. She delivered a couple of blows to his facehis nose made a satisfying targetbefore he threw her off.
Her throat went tight, and the next words emerged in a sudden burble she wasn't prepared for. "Why didn't you kill me in the motel, then? You had every opportunity. Or would that violate some sanctity of the bed that exists only in your stupid vampire mind?"
A slow hot smile lit his face as he regarded her with a parody of concern. "Would that have been sporting? I think not. Got my braggin' rights to consider. Makes a far better story if I can say I made you my willin' mistress, then let you go and snuffed you after a fair fight. That'll put me top of the heap all right."
My willing mistress. The words sent a sort of blind flash through her, of rage andsomething else. A different colored rage. She wasn't going to pick it apart.
"Sososo fight!"
"Been fightin'. It's you who"
She flew at him, knocking him over, going down with him as she felt the stake connect, starting to part flesh, before his fist gripping her wrist, grinding it sharply off. She cried out.
"Broke it, did I? Poor little girl."
She flailed out with her left towards the stake lying nearby, but he caught her around the waist, reversing them so he was on top of her, pinning her limbs. Her wrist felt like it was on fire.
"Boo hoo. What a pity. That your wankin' hand?"
It took a moment for her to notice that he was regarding her from eyes that were blue, not gold. The evil sneer was also in abatement, replaced by ... she wasn't sure what kind of expression. He took hold of her hand and probed gently at the bones of the wrist.
She wrenched the hand away, gave him a hard shove that tumbled him off. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Just ... makin' sure you're still in the game."
"I'm in it!" She kicked out, her heel connecting with his chin. But when she snatched up the stake again, her wrist flared into fire once more. She couldn't restrain her gasp.
"Need a time out?"
"Shut up."
He picked up the stake, held it out to her. "Go on. Use the other hand."
She stared. He'd tugged his shirt open, so she could see his chest, smooth and white in the silver light, except for the one point where she'd nicked him a minute ago. A drop of blood oozed from the place like a tear.
There wasn't a spot on him she hadn't touched. With her hands. With her lips. She'd felt herself in possession of him, and it had been ... like nothing she'd ever dared to imagine, before.
Until he betrayed her.
Like the demon he was.
That's all he was. Another demon.
"When ... when did it happen?"
Spike tilted his head, regarding her with his cool clear gaze.
"You must know. Been thinkin' of nothing else all this time, I'm sure."
"I want you to tell me."
"Remind you how fierce an' sweet an' hot you were for me, even after my soul was gone?"
Her heart was hammering, and the flush of shame ran through her hot as lava. What was this? She was supposed to be killing him. She had the stake right here, and there he was, and he so totally deserved it ....
It's not supposed to be like this.
"Why did you call my mother?"
To her surprise, it was now Spike who averted his eyes. He got up sharply from his crouch, moved away a couple of strides.
"Don't be stupid! Told you why!"
"If you wanted to fight mekill mewhy wait?" She sprang up too, cradling her wrist, and came up alongside him. His coat gave off its familiar aroma of old leather and cigarettes, that for a split second hit her like a homecoming in a dream.
"Wanted you to suffer first. Wanted you to be afraid."
"I'll never be afraid of you." It was true. But there were other fears, exquisite terrible new ones, she'd experienced since she'd seen him last. That she was ruined for her old life, her old home, that she was a freak unfit anymore to be with the people she knew and loved.
"You're not afraid of me now?" He half turned, to take her in. She caught her breath, anticipating his next move, but he was still, poised.
"You should be afraid of me, after what you did."
His stare went right through her. She wasn't sure how long they stood there, angled from each other, gazes locked. Or whether it was she who moved first, or he. But the next moment they locked together, in a clumsy harsh embrace of fists and struggle, as she pummeled and kicked at him, tight and close, words pouring out that she hadn't let herself say except at the edges of sleep when her defenses were softest. Words of accusation, of betrayal and trust and shame. They scuffled, his eyes going gold and then dimming, blood running from one nostril, from the corner of his mouth. Then they were sprawled again on the hard ground, she was shaking hard, wrung and sobbing, even as she was still trying to hit him, trying to force all her hurt onto his face and body. Her wrist throbbed, and she was blind now with tears, so that at first she didn't understand what else was happening, that he was holding her tight in his arms, pressing kisses on her drowning eyes and gasping mouth.
"Christ Christ Christ," he murmured, visiting each part of her face with his moist lips. "This is no good. This is no good. Hush now, Miss Anne. Hush."
"I hate you!"
"Hate you double. Hush. God, you're so warm."
"Whatwhatwhat are you doing?"
"Ssssh. Here's your stake." He put it back in her hand as if restoring a toy to an insecure child. She squeezed it in her fingers even as she was burying her own mouth in his neck, into that place under the sharp square box of his jaw that she liked, where her licks made him shiver.
They'd both stopped moving. Spike's arms around her were firm. He wasn't breathing, and she'd reined in her sobs, so now she could hear the sea, away below, as the tide was changing, stirring up against the rocks with hard slaps, roaring in and out, sounding closer and closer.
TBC ....