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oroburos69Title: Slayer
Beta: None
Rating PG-13
Warnings/Features: Angst, edited repost
Disclaimer: Characters and setting are not my property, and I make no profit writing about them.
Summary: Buffy is as constrained by her instincts as Spike is by his.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Word Count: ~1300
Buffy finds Spike curled up in a shadowed corner of his crypt, withered, weak, and exhausted. He shies away from her touch, dry skin rasping over the stone floor. His bones stand out in parchment thin skin, and his brittle blond hair has dark roots of an inch or more. He has been here a long time.
Buffy can’t leave him to die, even if she wants to.
It’s easy to lift him, easy to carry him. He’s light and thin and helpless. She takes him home for her mother to fix. He isn’t a wet kitten, but he’s vulnerable just the same.
The basement has windows, but there are blinds that block out the sun. He will be safe.
Buffy drags the guest bed down the stairs, grunting when the mattress catches on the door. The mattress goes into the darkest corner, half hidden by the washer and dryer. Spike watches dully, propped up against a cement wall, not breathing, not moving and something in her screams kill it. Buffy ignores her instincts, because she’s more than just a slayer.
Joyce hurries down, bunches of pillows under her arms, pillowcases and sheets clutched in her hands. She shoos Buffy upstairs, telling her to get the comforter—the nice one—and makes the bed with the efficiency of mothers everywhere. She glances at Spike from time to time, as she shakes pillows into pillowcases.
Buffy eases down the stairs, the comforter in held in front of her.
The sun is rising behind the blinds, and Spike winces at the dim light, his skin beginning to smoke. Buffy pushes him toward a corner, farther away from the sunlight. Joyce shakes out the comforter and spreads it over the bed, then graces Spike with a critical eye.
It’s too bright in the house to take him up to the bathroom, but Spike is filthy. The black rags he’s wearing are hanging off his bones, and he smells (reeks) of stale, old blood and the scent of stone dust, sharp and cold.
Joyce opens the dryer and pulls out a pair of old sweatpants and a tee-shirt Buffy sleeps in. The basket of clean towels gives her a wash cloth, and she offers all three to Spike, nodding toward the laundry sink that she never uses.
Buffy opens her mouth to protest, but stops when her mother looks at her. Spike stumbles when he tries to walk, and Buffy wraps her arm around his waist and supports him, ignoring the instincts that tell her to kill him. He sets the clothes on the ground and fumbles with his shirt. Buffy helps him pull it off, barely noticing her mother leaving over the pounding need to throw him away from her, slam him to the ground and feel him turn to dust beneath her.
Spike is skeletal, too thin to be alive (it’s lucky that he’s dead) and weak. He can’t turn the faucets; they’re stiff from lack of use. Buffy twists them open for him, and a clean stream of water pours out into the basin. She grabs him a towel to dry off with, and then escapes up the stairs to the kitchen, her heart pounding and her hands shaking.
They don’t have blood, but there’s orange juice. Buffy worries for a moment—rather, more than a moment—giving Spike time to wash, to get clean, giving herself time to push down the seething mass of instinct and training that begs her to go back down the stairs and kill him.
Buffy holds her breath until she can remember that Spike is more than just a vampire, just like she is more than just a slayer. Eventually, she grabs the carton and a cheerful yellow mug and stomps down the stairs, letting him know that she is coming.
Spike is dressed in her clothes, the sweats barely covering his knees, but loose enough despite that (he’s less than a size zero, and Buffy feels a tiny stir of jealousy that she dismisses immediately). The tee-shirt is large on him (it’s large on her too), and Buffy has to smile at seeing him in pink. He hasn’t moved from the sink, holding onto the rim with white fingers.
Spike looks up at her entrance and smiles awkwardly, his thin lips stretched across a gaunt face. His cheek bones jut aggressively through skin, the lines of his skull obvious.
A voice inside her snarls, vampire, Buffy shrugs, her shoulders twitching from the tension she can’t get rid of, and lifts the juice and mug, showing them to him. “We don’t have blood,” she tells him, struck by the irony, because of course she has blood. It’s in her veins. “Do you like orange juice?”
He nods, and stumbles away from the sink. Buffy catches him, and leans him against the wall as she pulls back the sheets. Spike collapses onto the mattress, and Buffy puts the juice down to tuck him in. His eyes are half-open (and even they look dry) and he watches her like she’s giving him something precious.
Buffy pulls back and pours a mug of orange juice, not quite meeting that adoring gaze. She leaves it half full, and stares into the dim orange depth, then sets it on the concrete for a moment, going to the chest of broken weapons. She grabs a shard of a silver knife, broken in practice, and returns to Spike’s side.
He sighs softly, hand half stretched out to the mug. Buffy meets his eyes and cuts open her palm, slicing through the centre and the base of her thumb. It hurts more than her wrist would, but she doesn’t need people thinking she’s suicidal.
“With the orange juice?” she asks, cupping the welling blood in palm of her hand as his eyes flash yellow. Kill it. She ignores her instincts, focusing on how thin he is, how close to broken. The Slayer inside her shivers, pleased. Buffy aches.
Spike reaches for her hand, trembling. Not a threat. Buffy settles on the side of the bed, her hip settling into the sharp hollow of his waist. Cold fingers grip her wrist, and a dozen ways to break his hold, to break his hand, flit through her mind.
Spike pulls her hand towards his mouth, fangs descending, his face warping..Buffy helps him, lifting him onto her legs, his cold body (corpse) curling into her warmth. The Slayer inside is so close to her surface that Buffy can hear the rattle of bones and her hissing song of warning.
Spike laps the stray trickles of blood from her hand before they could drip onto the green sheets, soft eager noises coming from his mouth. It’s the first noise he’s made since she found him, and Buffy is pleased.
She presses her palm against his mouth. Spike’s tongue slides along the edges of the cut, forcing blood from tissue. It hurts, but Buffy doesn’t mind, eager for a distraction from the urge to twist his head until his neck snaps and his body crumbles into dirt. She pets his hair with her free hand, damp curls clinging to her fingers, and brushes her lips across his temple in a soft kiss.
Spike’s hand grabs hold of Buffy’s ankle carefully, inoffensively. She smiles and picks up the orange juice, drinking from the carton.
Beta: None
Rating PG-13
Warnings/Features: Angst, edited repost
Disclaimer: Characters and setting are not my property, and I make no profit writing about them.
Summary: Buffy is as constrained by her instincts as Spike is by his.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Word Count: ~1300
Buffy finds Spike curled up in a shadowed corner of his crypt, withered, weak, and exhausted. He shies away from her touch, dry skin rasping over the stone floor. His bones stand out in parchment thin skin, and his brittle blond hair has dark roots of an inch or more. He has been here a long time.
Buffy can’t leave him to die, even if she wants to.
It’s easy to lift him, easy to carry him. He’s light and thin and helpless. She takes him home for her mother to fix. He isn’t a wet kitten, but he’s vulnerable just the same.
The basement has windows, but there are blinds that block out the sun. He will be safe.
Buffy drags the guest bed down the stairs, grunting when the mattress catches on the door. The mattress goes into the darkest corner, half hidden by the washer and dryer. Spike watches dully, propped up against a cement wall, not breathing, not moving and something in her screams kill it. Buffy ignores her instincts, because she’s more than just a slayer.
Joyce hurries down, bunches of pillows under her arms, pillowcases and sheets clutched in her hands. She shoos Buffy upstairs, telling her to get the comforter—the nice one—and makes the bed with the efficiency of mothers everywhere. She glances at Spike from time to time, as she shakes pillows into pillowcases.
Buffy eases down the stairs, the comforter in held in front of her.
The sun is rising behind the blinds, and Spike winces at the dim light, his skin beginning to smoke. Buffy pushes him toward a corner, farther away from the sunlight. Joyce shakes out the comforter and spreads it over the bed, then graces Spike with a critical eye.
It’s too bright in the house to take him up to the bathroom, but Spike is filthy. The black rags he’s wearing are hanging off his bones, and he smells (reeks) of stale, old blood and the scent of stone dust, sharp and cold.
Joyce opens the dryer and pulls out a pair of old sweatpants and a tee-shirt Buffy sleeps in. The basket of clean towels gives her a wash cloth, and she offers all three to Spike, nodding toward the laundry sink that she never uses.
Buffy opens her mouth to protest, but stops when her mother looks at her. Spike stumbles when he tries to walk, and Buffy wraps her arm around his waist and supports him, ignoring the instincts that tell her to kill him. He sets the clothes on the ground and fumbles with his shirt. Buffy helps him pull it off, barely noticing her mother leaving over the pounding need to throw him away from her, slam him to the ground and feel him turn to dust beneath her.
Spike is skeletal, too thin to be alive (it’s lucky that he’s dead) and weak. He can’t turn the faucets; they’re stiff from lack of use. Buffy twists them open for him, and a clean stream of water pours out into the basin. She grabs him a towel to dry off with, and then escapes up the stairs to the kitchen, her heart pounding and her hands shaking.
They don’t have blood, but there’s orange juice. Buffy worries for a moment—rather, more than a moment—giving Spike time to wash, to get clean, giving herself time to push down the seething mass of instinct and training that begs her to go back down the stairs and kill him.
Buffy holds her breath until she can remember that Spike is more than just a vampire, just like she is more than just a slayer. Eventually, she grabs the carton and a cheerful yellow mug and stomps down the stairs, letting him know that she is coming.
Spike is dressed in her clothes, the sweats barely covering his knees, but loose enough despite that (he’s less than a size zero, and Buffy feels a tiny stir of jealousy that she dismisses immediately). The tee-shirt is large on him (it’s large on her too), and Buffy has to smile at seeing him in pink. He hasn’t moved from the sink, holding onto the rim with white fingers.
Spike looks up at her entrance and smiles awkwardly, his thin lips stretched across a gaunt face. His cheek bones jut aggressively through skin, the lines of his skull obvious.
A voice inside her snarls, vampire, Buffy shrugs, her shoulders twitching from the tension she can’t get rid of, and lifts the juice and mug, showing them to him. “We don’t have blood,” she tells him, struck by the irony, because of course she has blood. It’s in her veins. “Do you like orange juice?”
He nods, and stumbles away from the sink. Buffy catches him, and leans him against the wall as she pulls back the sheets. Spike collapses onto the mattress, and Buffy puts the juice down to tuck him in. His eyes are half-open (and even they look dry) and he watches her like she’s giving him something precious.
Buffy pulls back and pours a mug of orange juice, not quite meeting that adoring gaze. She leaves it half full, and stares into the dim orange depth, then sets it on the concrete for a moment, going to the chest of broken weapons. She grabs a shard of a silver knife, broken in practice, and returns to Spike’s side.
He sighs softly, hand half stretched out to the mug. Buffy meets his eyes and cuts open her palm, slicing through the centre and the base of her thumb. It hurts more than her wrist would, but she doesn’t need people thinking she’s suicidal.
“With the orange juice?” she asks, cupping the welling blood in palm of her hand as his eyes flash yellow. Kill it. She ignores her instincts, focusing on how thin he is, how close to broken. The Slayer inside her shivers, pleased. Buffy aches.
Spike reaches for her hand, trembling. Not a threat. Buffy settles on the side of the bed, her hip settling into the sharp hollow of his waist. Cold fingers grip her wrist, and a dozen ways to break his hold, to break his hand, flit through her mind.
Spike pulls her hand towards his mouth, fangs descending, his face warping..Buffy helps him, lifting him onto her legs, his cold body (corpse) curling into her warmth. The Slayer inside is so close to her surface that Buffy can hear the rattle of bones and her hissing song of warning.
Spike laps the stray trickles of blood from her hand before they could drip onto the green sheets, soft eager noises coming from his mouth. It’s the first noise he’s made since she found him, and Buffy is pleased.
She presses her palm against his mouth. Spike’s tongue slides along the edges of the cut, forcing blood from tissue. It hurts, but Buffy doesn’t mind, eager for a distraction from the urge to twist his head until his neck snaps and his body crumbles into dirt. She pets his hair with her free hand, damp curls clinging to her fingers, and brushes her lips across his temple in a soft kiss.
Spike’s hand grabs hold of Buffy’s ankle carefully, inoffensively. She smiles and picks up the orange juice, drinking from the carton.
