Fables of LillianMorgan

Rapture in Loss (Darla/Angel) PG-13

2006-06-01T01:48:46Z

Title: Rapture in Loss
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: Pre-Welcome to the Hellmouth, Season 1 BtVS
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Darla/Angel
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ or ME’s toys.
A/N: Written for the 2nd Challenge, the Mystery Challenge, at good__evil.
Thanks go very much to yourlibrarian for the ever-helpful beta.

Rapture in Loss

The summons, when it arrived, was not entirely unexpected. Nor was the means of delivery. A poor, malnourished vampire tramping across sea and land to find her and to impart to her what was expected of her, her duty. She had to put the thing out of its misery, snapping its neck as easily and as cleanly as one might a winter branch from a tree. But at the time she told herself this act of revenge meant that she wouldn’t submit to him easily, even if he was her Sire.

The journey back to the country of her birth was shorter than expected, but perhaps that was the dread settling over her, the weariness of Fate descending and expectation that now followed her. No longer a free agent, but instead allowing herself to be governed by the rules of obligation. The town that held the Master in chains, surrounding the mouth of Hell, was titled with the most absurd name of Sunnydale, as if the town’s founders wished to wipe all knowledge of the things that really dwelled there. As if to suggest that all was beating hearts and roses and sun, sweetest sunshine, that she had not felt upon her fingers for more than three centuries. Nor would she ever need to.

Luke was already sitting at the right hand of the Master, in metaphorical terms of course. It would be rather a distressing thing to be submerged under the earth in such a bleak, cavernous hole in the ground, though, it was the kind of thing that the Master did seem to prefer. Losing all the trappings of human regalia seemed to eschew him of human desire as well.

As it was, Luke was already in place directing the minions when Darla entered the tomb. He barely seemed to notice her, even if she were dressed in one of the finest Gucci suits. In the natural order of things and the world of hierarchy in which they all moved and maintained their position, she should not let this pass given that Luke was a good deal younger than her. But nature had never played an easy hand in her line, and wasn’t she so often reminded of it.

The less than rapturous welcome left her with not much to do but to investigate the state of play for herself and bide her time until the Master’s return. When that day came, in all its magnificent glory, then she would be able to fight back again. As it stood now, she would let Luke think he was the vampire in control of everything. Honeyed smiles and well-placed caresses had been the stable diet upon which she firmed her power, and she was well-versed in how to please. It was easy to take his mind off what he should be thinking, in stolen moments between preparations for the Master’s rebirth, in fact rather too easy and she wondered at that. If she had been a lesser vampire, she might have feared but, instead, she chose to disappear for a few hours. Wipe all memory of her ministrations, leave him wondering how and when and why.

The trip to the surface was uneventful to begin with. The mouth of Hell opened at the entrance to the High School library and she realised that potential victims and supplicants would come from the student population. Young, tender and willing to please. It made her smile. How bothersome it might be if the Hellmouth began at the door to an Old Folks home.

However, it also made her thankful for her youthful looks. And it made her realise she would have to blend in, as she so often had before. Just like in China when she revelled in the beautiful silks of the cheong sams and had worn them with such delight.

Even if events there had ended in tragedy.

It is strange the way the brain works, for as she wandered slowly down tree-lined avenues, one late night in a Californian Fall she happened upon the chief instigator of that tragedy.

He was standing outside a house, and he was much less dishevelled than when their paths had last crossed. He was dressed all in black, including an overcoat which seemed to encase him like a shroud, and his hair was neat and slicked back. He looked like any other youth she might encounter, walking the streets late at night, wending his way home after a college party. Only, in this town, he never would be that.

She slowed down to a creeping walk to try and mask her advance. The smell of her would not be carried so intensely to him if it meandered there. She watched him as he hid behind a hedge, peering inside a nondescript house.

She was almost upon him when he jerked upwards and turned around. She quickened her pace and leapt at him.

“Darla!” He lunged away from her but she held fast, held tight, held on so that she never let him go even though he left her in waking dream and reality.

“What are you doing?” She waved her free hand toward the house. “Is this your next victim? Or possible paramour? It’s hard for me to keep up with the ways of ensouled vampires when I so rarely come upon them.”

His eyes slit to thin lines of black and she could taste his energy and his hate. But that was good, and it made her brighten within, for the feelings of love bordered so closely to hate that there might always be …

“What’s this?” In their grappling, her fingers had run across something sharp and wooden in one of the pockets of his coat. She grasped onto it and yanked out a stake.

“Angelus!” she cried. “Now you carry the means to kill your own kind?”

“It’s not like we’ve never killed vampires before.” His voice was petulant and sulky, like a boy caught with his hand in the toffee jar. It would be so easy to believe that that was all he ever was.

“But now you seek it out? You are ready and armed?” She threw the stake to the ground and whirled upon him. “Why? Why do you do this? Why do you haunt me so?” She slammed fist after fist into his chest, rained down blows that he could so easily bat away. Instead, he absorbed and accepted them, like a penitence.

She felt him wrap his arms around her and gather her in, the blows ebbing from her hands until her head rested at the base of his neck and her fingers grasped onto locks of his hair. His voice was soft and plaintive, and it lulled her. “I … it’s not easy. I’m an aberration. Unnatural. Unwanted.”

“No,” she whispered back. “I imagine it’s not.” She felt his lips ghost softly, softly across the top of her hair, and slowly but surely find her temples then her cheeks then plunge down to her lips and then, quite simply, she was being devoured. Kisses jabbed and prodded and smoothed over each other until she felt him reach for the zipper to her dress. He heaved her against a tree and pressed hard upon her.

“You’re not ready yet, Angelus,” she whispered, amidst the rain of kisses. He recoiled back from her and looked at her. “You should not presume ….” He pulled away and she felt the tear inside, the loss begin once again to eat at her. She scrambled for the only words she could access that might soothe, that might draw her back to the way things should be. “That’s why, if you come back with me, you can rejoin the Master. To stand at his right hand, as things were always meant to be. As they were fated, my darling boy, that night in Galway when I first saw you and gave you your salvation.”

He moved so swiftly through her speech, through the words she sought with such diligence to find and persuade him, that she could barely countenance it. He was there once more upon her, this time with the stake encased in his hand and arcing down upon her chest.

She burst into a gale of shrieking laughter. “Yes! Go on, Angelus. Stake me through the heart and all your problems will be solved with that foul blow.” His arm faltered then, and slowed until the movement of the stake petered out to lightly skim her dress. “You don’t have the balls to do it, Angelus. You never had and you never will. That’s why you’re such a coward.”

“Don’t tempt me into doing it right here, Darla,” he forced out, his eyes locked into the place where her heart would beat if she were human. “I’ll do it, so help me …”

“But God won’t help you, dear boy. You’re forsaken. Didn’t you get the memo?”

He jumped away from her and turned his back. “I don’t go by that name anymore, Darla.” He dropped the stake and it clattered to the ground.

“What do I call you then, if I can’t call you the name you gave yourself?”

She watched as he ran away from her, so swift and sudden, that soon she was left standing bereft on the street. The lights in the house into which he had been peering flicked off and she was suddenly cast in darkness.

Alone once more with only her wits to guide her. She turned, glanced briefly at the house on Revello Drive, then made her way back to the High School. To wait upon the Master.

Finis

Many thanks to selene2 for the banner.

Fic: The Heart Afraid (Spike/Buffy/Faith) PG-13

2006-04-13T00:26:49Z

Title: The Heart Afraid
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: mid-Dirty Girls, BtVS Season 7, as in the moment when Faith and Spike are in discussion in the basement and Buffy joins in (with a slight alteration to the timeline)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Spike/Buffy/Faith
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ or ME’s toys.
A/N: Many thanks to yourlibrarian for the beta read. Written in celebration of femmenerd’s birthday.
Originally posted 26th February 2006.

The Heart Afraid

What is the heart, that it ever was afraid?
Seamus Heaney

So she’d gotten fired from work. Her first grown-up job, which if she stopped to think about it for way too long, she’d actually been offered in a suspiciously easy kind of way, but still … focus on the important details … first grown-up job. But now that was history and she was joining the many unemployed that were already living at her house.

Still, it was the mission that mattered and that was important. Despite the fact that another death toll in the path of Buffy Summers, Normal Girl, resounded loud and clear in her ears. She hoped Robin would stick around long enough to give her a good reference so she wouldn’t have to do the long, complicated explanation about why she’d been fired.

Which also kinda sucked.

Her first thoughts when coming through the door shouldn’t have been (but inevitably were) Spike. More specifically, her thoughts weren’t just about Spike but instead his arms which, given the way she was feeling, might be nice to crawl into and escape from the world for just a little bit of time. As she turned from the kitchen, making the decision not to engage with the screamy teens, and put her hand on the basement door, she shouldn’t have been thinking about how he used to caress her hair and whisper words she didn’t understand in an effort to calm her. At the time it hadn’t really worked, but she felt pretty sure that if the whole experience were to be re-enacted then yes those arms would give a stellar performance.

Only, and that was the confusing thing, the chance of re-enactment was as remote as … a remote thing. Like a polar bear on a desert island. Or a Prada bag in Tibet. Or two Slayers in a Pea Pod.

And why was that exactly? The lack of the re-enactment. It wasn’t as if she had refused it absolutely. She felt sure that there hadn’t been a conversation where he’d offered and she’d said “No way, José” or “A world of No” or “Not if you were the last vampire on Earth and I was the last Slayer with killer boots and cute hair.” She certainly didn’t remember that. And not with his Evil Twin either.

Maybe he’d had the conversation with her Evil Twin.

She shuddered. Life was complicated enough as it was without her heart giving her Spike-sized palpitations every five seconds. Yes, that’s why there was a no-go barrier between them.

It was the mission.

Alarmingly, her hand pushed harder on the basement door and she moved through it to stand at the top of the stairs.

*

Faith had to admit that he was definitely a risk she’d be willing to take. First thing that hit her radar was the hotness of the guy. But wasn’t it always the way with the vampires – they woo a girl with their false beauty and then go in for the kill.

Yeah, sure, Angel revved her engine, but God he never flirted. Besides, she never thought about Angel in that way anymore, or at least she never could. Not since that night when the rain battered down around them and everything changed. Or at least Angel couldn’t flirt, not like Spike did. Propping his legs up to suggest that maybe there was a package underneath that she might like to sample, wiggling an eyebrow or two, asking just the right questions in all the wrong places.

And it was nice … to flirt with a guy. Hell, she didn’t care if his heart beat or not. He didn’t know about her, not the way the others did. He judged her on the things she said in the here and now, so she made damn sure that the show was up to scratch. Gave him her own sampler of what lay beneath.

It was funny how he never knew it was her riding B’s body that night. Guess it goes to show that you never know someone ‘til you walk around in their boots and give a guy what for. If B couldn’t see what was right in front of her…

Only it seemed that B had moved in first and staked her claim, from the way he muttered that way about her. Like there was some damage between them and it was irreconcilable.

The old Faith might have leapt on the chance to take something of Buffy’s. And the way he was flirting he was making it mighty hard to be good. She could feel the quiet thrum of his vampire self as she rubbed shoulders against him every so often. He was cold, but she could tell that that was only his outer layer. Inside, was gonna be different.

Except she no longer was that girl. She knew about redemption and could spell it too. And the one thing she’d figured out in this whole brave new world was that stealing B’s man would not make her top drawer in the Slayer Household.

Still, didn’t mean she couldn’t play. And so she reached out, fingers itching to run along his muscles and connect with the power she wanted to control.

*

Girl was showy, Spike’d seen her type before. But what made her different was that she was a Slayer. And somehow, inconceivably, against the better auspices the thinking part of his brain was directing him to, he was bleedin’ drawn like a moth to a flame. A very, very, very bright flame that warned him ‘Hands off, you’ll get burnt’ but still beckoned him inward.

She was everything his Slayer was not. She was dark and dangerous and used her sexuality extremely well. She didn’t tie herself up in twentieth century corsets hoping to contain the demons within. She’d even prodded him with her generous bosom once or twice, insisting with the movement on their luscious validity, which his eyes had been drawn to the minute she’d divested herself of that too-tight jacket.

And she wasn’t shy in coming forward, that was for sure. It was a spot of light relief, though, this game that they played. Nice to have someone try so hard with him, to win him over. Only trouble was, despite his conscience or his soul or whatever it was that was nagging away at him, he’d got a taste for the retiring kind, the ones who kept their pretties well hidden so that when they showed them he was overcome with emotion. And he wondered if he could ever go back.

Still, the talking thing was good. Getting in some vocal practice and the mental workout, something that was sparse around these parts. Only words spoken in his direction were a command or reprimand so it was game on, and enjoy the ride.

Only thing that soured it was that he figured she’d always lose. If the stakes got too high. He could just make out the heart she wore on her sleeve, shimmering slightly as if afraid to come out, but there nonetheless. Maybe he could tell because he knew exactly where his own was, or maybe because they were two outcasts together sitting and sharing a cigarette, sampling life on the shadier side of the street.

Didn’t make him forget the light. Or her. And that was always the same bloody problem, wasn’t it?

*

Buffy halted at the bottom of the steps. So this was what they all got up to during the day, sitting around in their … was Spike wearing no clothes at all? And Faith being waaaay too chummy. And was some of this coming out of her mouth?

“Relax, B,” Faith taunted, “haven’t laid a finger on your man yet.”

“He’s not my …” Buffy countered, then hesitated, looked as far away from Spike as possible and whispered, “man.”

“Not sure if that’s the right word for it, anyway,” Spike observed. He shifted his weight and the blue sheet covering him waved elegantly across his body, concealing what lay underneath but bringing attention to it too, because of its absence. Because Buffy knew exactly what it was protecting, and Faith could only guess. The blue of the sheet cut against the white of his skin …

And Buffy rolled her eyes and thought, ‘Super, it’s the let’s team up against Buffy combo’.

“Besides,” Faith continued, “us reformed evil doers gotta look out for each other, right Spike?” She ran her fingers up his arm and all the way up to his shoulder, which she smoothed affectionately.

Spike merely raised an eyebrow in Buffy’s direction and took a long, elusive puff on his lit cigarette. Buffy screwed up her nose in disdain.

“You gonna go upstairs, B?” Faith asked, mirroring Spike’s action and sucking on her cigarette.

Buffy folded her arms across her chest and ignored the fact that a herd of heffalumps were running across the ceiling above them.

“Or maybe you wanna discuss,” Faith paused and looked up at her through lowered, lascivious eyelashes, and stubbing out her cigarette on her boot, “strategy.” The word dripped with the kind of innuendo that had no place in a Scooby meeting. At all.

“Nah,” said Buffy, maintaining the stand-off with her body pose, “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we chat about what you and Angel got up to, Faith? That sounds like a much more interesting discussion.”

Spike snorted loudly and stood up, wrapping the sheet around his hips.

“Aww, Buffy,” Faith teased, leaning forward on her elbows, “one guy at a time, ok? Let’s get our priorities straight.”

“You both need to leave the room, is what you two need to do, yeah? So’s a bloke can get dressed. Besides, from the way you girls go at it, seems as if I’m surplus to requirements.”

“What’s up with him?” Faith directed toward Buffy.

“Dunno,” she replied, shrugging her shoulder to cover over her confusion, and happy, for the moment, to be out of Faith’s radar. “Although, maybe he’s jealous of Angel?”

Spike, who had been walking toward his pile of clothes in the washing machine, spun around in earnest fury, the sheet slipping degree by degree from his fingers. “I am not bleedin’ jealous of that poofter,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

Buffy rolled her eyes but Faith licked her lips, adding lightly, “Guess we can see that to believe it.”

“Too bloody right,” Spike retorted, then a perfunctory leer crossed his face, as he readjusted his sheet and Buffy could smell a rat. “Besides, Blondie here should know. What with her previous experience ‘n all.”

“With Angel?” Faith asked. “Old news. But the you bit,” she pointed at Spike, “now that’s my kind of information-gathering.”

“Could tell you a thing or two about Angel myself, if I’m of an inclination,” Spike rebutted, warding off Faith’s innuendo with mystery. “But you two girls probably can only see him when you’re wearing your rosy spectacles. You’d never believe me. Although if it took a story or two to shift you from my changing-room, I might be more disposed to begin narratin’.”

“We could get you some spicy buffalo wings,” Buffy said softly. And the mask of bravado slid from Spike’s face to be replaced with a sweet, though extremely fleeting, smile. He turned around on his feet and picked up his clothes, hiding his emotion in action.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Faith exclaimed, sliding off the bed and standing in front of Buffy, “how about you dare us to something Spike, and then we’ll leave.”

“Oh come on Faith, we should probably go upstairs and sort out Potential Disaster Site -”

“Girlies can wait,” Faith admonished, a grin creeping into her voice, “they’re gonna always be there, right. But William the Bloody at our mercy, B, now that’s some fun.”

“Hardly. Your mercy?” Spike hmmm-ed into his chest. Still clutching his clothes, he said, “But I’m always up for a challenge? How ‘bout you, Slayer?” He tilted his head on one angle, and caught her wandering eyes with his.

Buffy blushed, knew there was no backing out, but she could still wrest the power back from the slipping situation and keep them waiting. She stood there tapping her fingers over her crossed arms then finally acquiesced, “You know me. I love a challenge.”

“Ok,” said Spike, and leaning back against the washing machine, “a challenge. A dare to get you two away from my cosy abode. Hmm…” He tapped a finger against his cheek and looked from girl to girl, favouring them with a lengthy gaze up and down their bodies, taking in their curves and bouncy hair, their clothes and their expressions of boredom, wilting slightly under his delay.

“Got it,” he said, finally, the words slumbering from his lips in mock disaffection. “How about you two girls kiss, with tongue?”

Buffy reacted immediately. “And all we have to do is leave? You pig, Spike.”

“All right, all right, keep your knickers on petal,” he said, “I’ll do something big in return, like go patrolling for the week or take Potential Training Duty for the next three nights or -”

“Dishes,” Buffy barked.

“Eh?”

“A week of dishes, every night for the next seven days, in exchange for a quick kiss between me and Faith.” Buffy nodded strongly. “That’s the deal.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Faith asked.

“You offering to do the next week?” Buffy retorted, swinging her gaze back on Faith.

Faith held her hands up and Spike grumbled, softly, softly, “Think before you even form the words on your lips, William.”

“What?” Buffy enquired, raising an eyebrow and doing a poor job of hiding the smile from her eyes, “was that a yes, Spike?” She figured she could have twirled a piece of her hair around her fingers for good measure, but that might have been pushing it.

“It’s a yes in the way you’ve got one of your pointy boots digging into my backside, Slayer.”

Faith grabbed Buffy’s hand and pulled her toward the bed. “Wait … wait … wait … let me …”

“Aw, B. You backing out? Think of all those steamy nights filled with … dish-washing.”

“Not backing out,” Buffy retaliated, “just …” She took a step away from Faith and then another and then another until she was halfway between Spike and Faith.

Unexpectedly, Spike closed the gap between them and gently touched her on the shoulder. “Buffy, luv,” he murmured, stroking a path from her hair, to the middle of her back, “know what you want, luv, know what you need. Right now, seems you need a bit of relief.”

Faith walked back toward Buffy and took her by the hand, this time gently pulling her toward the bed and letting her sit down first. Faith looked down at her and smirked, then sat down herself.

Buffy shifted slightly, looked toward Spike then at Faith. “You ready now, B?”

The slight movement of Buffy’s head up and down was trapped as Faith’s lips descended on Buffy’s. It was unusual, but Buffy stopped her thoughts as soon as she felt the soft prodding of Faith’s tongue against hers, as soon as she realised that Faith could do this and do it well. Faith’s hand began to trace down Buffy’s body as the kiss deepened, until it stopped on one of Buffy’s breasts, cupped it and stroked a path across her nipple.

From across the room, a muffled, “Oh yeah,” made its way from Spike’s mouth.

Faith broke off the embrace with her lips, but not with her hands, leaving Buffy a little pouty. She looked at Spike. “Wanna join in?”

Spike stared at them for a long time, then smiled. “I wanna watch,” he replied, his voice husky, and Buffy knew in that moment that he wanted to watch her.

“You sure?” Faith reiterated. “How long’s it been since you did it with anyone?”

“Too long,” he smirked, but once his eyes found Buffy’s they locked onto hers. And suddenly, he was across the room and sitting down next to her, brushing his finger down a few strands of hair against her face and whispering, “Too long,” once again, before his lips found hers and they were falling again.

Buffy still felt Faith’s fingers tweaking and twisting at her sensitive points but she couldn’t think or feel or find any other reason but that it was all about Spike’s lips, lips of Spike, soft, sweet, satisfying and simple.

Only not.

Buffy broke off the kiss, and felt herself returning to her body. She took in the way her chest was heaving and her nerves were snapping, her pupils dilating and her heart pumping and pumping and she stared at Spike. Then twisted round and stared at Faith.

She placed a finger at Faith’s lips, “We have issues,” and she turned back to Spike, “that won’t be solved by this. But … it was nice.” She lowered her head, but couldn’t hide her smile.

The basement door opened and they all jumped. “Buffy?” came Dawn’s querulous voice, “you down here?”

“Coming!” Buffy cried, leaping off the bed and putting distance between the two of them and the moment.

“It’s the potential from the hospital. She’s awake.”

Dawn’s words halted her vertigo, and Buffy felt the mission slide back on track.

Finis

Many thanks to bloodytearslife for the banner.

Ficlet: Raging Against the Dying Light (Spike/Darla) R

2006-03-19T03:38:37Z

Title: Raging Against the Dying Light
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: 1900. China. BtVS 5.7 Fool for Love and AtS 2.7 Darla
Pairing: Spike/Darla
Rating: R (for language and darkish themes)
Disclaimer: I don't own Joss' or ME's toys

Raging Against the Dying Light

Stumbling into her boudoir, euphoria still fizzing through his brain – blood – balls – bones. Because, realistically, when exactly was he ever going to forget this night and the glory, the absolute fucking kiss the sky, intoxicating, vicious glory of being William the Bloody, the way the blood had sluiced through his veins faster than he was able to comprehend, sparking sensations, tinglings, explosions, petit morts across all regions of his body. Better than anything Angelus had instructed. Better, even, than that first time with Dru. And there she was, the zenith of the evening’s revels, his iniquitous destructrix; all luscious red curves, hair piled up waiting to be torn down. By him.

No sign of Angelus, probably vanished to rectify the balance of who owned this massacre, but to leave his beloved alone? Angelus’ loss meant Spike could acquaint himself with other enthralling priorities. And, if he stopped to reflect, as the screams of each victim resounded in his memory, events had taken on a magnum clarity, an air, of what one might even consider, destiny – it had been a night for defining who he was, cementing his place in the family, turning those hateful words into his own actions, assuaging all and any fears that he was a demon, evil incarnate right down to his very bootstraps. He’d killed. A girl. One death that actually meant something. Drank from her blood and made himself.

Every second of his fists-and-fangs disposition, devised in murmurs as a means to impress Angelus, rendering him unique to expectation, brewed down to this inequitable moment of bliss. Of belonging.

Got his induction into the eye of the whirlwind, he was theirs, and they could be his. Just as he’d left Drusilla in the parlour, blissed out, learned, sated. On him.

“Fancy a go with a Slayer-killer then, mistress? With me at the helm. I’ve already sampled the hors d’oeuvres but wanna move on to my mains and dessert. Reckon I’ve deserved it now, eh? Reckon I’ve sealed my place in the Order. Can fuck you now, luv, I’m a real Aurelian. Maybe when Angelus deigns to show up, he can watch the frivolities?” He advanced towards her, hips thrusting forward with every step. But as his boots encountered glass, his pace slowed.

Even so, she kept her back to him, but he knew, just knew, he’d break her, that she couldn’t sustain these games. He was going to get the prize.

“I said, where’s Angelus? Wanna plan our next Slayer together. But before that, wanna fuck.” Jabbing his finger at her hair. “You.” Jab. “In your bed.”

A swish of silk as she faced him. But wouldn’t look at him. Instead, her raging hand found countenance with his cheek and he was flung back into the antechamber before he could recover from the sting. Short, sharp steps, she was across the room, the door slammed in his face. “Oh well,” he shrugged, acting as nonchalantly as he could to a barred door, “maybe later then.”

Many thanks to earth_vexer for the banner.

Drabble: The Blues (Spike & Dawn) G

2006-03-14T03:53:20Z

Title: The Blues
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: somewhere between the end of Season 5 and the beginning of Season 6, BtVS
Rating: G
Pairing: Spike & Dawn
Disclaimer: I do not own Joss' or ME's toys.
A/N: Written for the open_on_sunday challenge 'Fall'.
Originally posted 25th September, 2005.

The Blues

“I hate Fall.”

“You Americans with your fangled ways of saying words. It’s Autumn, Nibblet. Say it with me now. Autumn.”

“Fall just means I gotta go back to the monotony of my life that everybody else refers to as school.”

“There is that.”

“School sucks the big one.”

“You don’t know how good you’ve got it, baby.”

“Don’t baby me. I’m fifteen!”

“They’ll still love you Dawn.”

“Yeah, like there’s a lot of that going around.”

“Hush now. Concentrate on your cards.”

“If Buffy were here, she’d understand.”

Silence. A hit. The worst kind.

“Sorry. Really. I just ... hate Fall.”

Finis

Many thanks to lmbossy for the banner.

Fic: Triangles Are Falling (Spike/Darla) NC-17

2006-03-06T10:42:50Z

Title: Triangles Are Falling
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: 1977, prior to events in Fool for Love, BtVS Season 5 and Lies My Parents Told Me, BtVS Season 7
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Darla
Disclaimer: I do not own Joss' or ME's toys.
A/N: Written for the spike_fics Decades Challenge 1960-1997.
Many thanks go to yourlibrarian for the helpful beta job.
Originally posted 13th July, 2005.

Triangles Are Falling

New York, 1977

He wobbled down the street, merging with the mass of adolescents as they streamed out from CBGBs, weaving his way between paralytic punk and Bowery bum alike. He convinced himself it was the music that was giving him this high, and he waved a bottle of bourbon and shouted:

"I was saying let me out of here, before I was even born it's such a mgrpfm mpfrm mrpf." He never could get that part of the line right.

A couple of kids around him cheered and a girl, hair the colour of cotton candy, glided up to him and whispered, "I know where there's this great party." Her skirt line kissing her panties, her shredded black stockings complete with impenetrable black boots and her innocent eyes surrounded by blackest, deepest kohl that peered up at him intimately, persuaded him to play a bit with this one.

"Sure, luv," he said, purring the words into her ear, "where's it at then?"

She giggled overcome (why were they always this easy?) and called to her mate. Apparently they were all middle class kids slumming it downtown, so this party was going to cost them a meander uptown. Spike could hear his stomach already grumbling. Should have eaten before he left, but Drusilla’s habits, endlessly demanding that Spike recite to her William Blake’s “The Chimney Sweeper”, were putting him off his food.

"Loads of alcohol," one of the kids was saying.

"Yeah!"

Spike sighed. Well, he might be able to bring a few scraps home for Dru, make up for the row, though from the looks of them they were just that; the parasitic drug had eaten away at most of what made them succulent.

***

Richard Hell and the Voidoids were the shit. Or at least that's what Rachel said, only she didn't call herself Rachel anymore, she was Rat now. And I should be Polly Parrot. But I'm not sure if those names really worked.

We were walking out from CBGBs and Rat attached herself to the guy she'd met in the pit; they were sucking on each other like it was the end of the world. Or maybe they were just trying to keep upright. There was Jim, too, to my left but he was looking at something beyond me, so I followed his gaze, curious to see what excited him. Because it didn't seem to be me that did that; he only got excited by boys.

A real heavy punk was waving his arms around, singing and staggering about. He was just trying to draw attention to himself and I wondered why he did that. I'd never do that. I just wanted to meld in, not stand out. Hey! He crashed into us! And boy, now that I see him, boy was he hot! Black sleeveless tee with safety pins sewn in at haphazard angles and peroxide blonde hair sticking straight up to the sky. He must really know what it means to be a punk. He really knows.

I thought he winked at me, or maybe he winked at Jim I wasn't sure, but I felt Jim about to say something so instead I kinda grabbed him, to steady him, and told him, really unexpectedly, about the party we were headed to. Maybe it was because he had such nice arms; they were bigger than you’d expect, like he worked out or something because most of the boys around here were wafer thin and I started to imagine trying to get my fingers around them.

He answered me and I immediately forgot what he said but it made me giggle because his voice went all low and mellow, like chocolate, and he wasn't from New York, and it really hit me in the belly, well, below the belly, and made me go really tingly. Really tingly.

I didn't know what to do other than call to Rat and ask about the party. And as I did that, he wrapped his arm around me, like I was his possession, or his conquest, and that made Rat stop kissing and look at us. And I felt amazing. And the only thing I could think of was “wow.”

It was only til we came out of Hunter College station that I thought, "Why did he pick me?"

***

This party was, she decided, monumentally dull. She wandered away from the mix of humans and vampires that comprised the glitterati, and savoured the view of the Empire State Building before her. Eye-catching from both land and sea, a testament to human enterprise and progress – a feat of modern engineering that made things easier the longer one lived in this world. Something perhaps the Master understood but did not relish as much as she.

But he had given her a leave of absence on good behaviour and she had found the ways and means necessary to cross to New York, a city she might come to adore. It’s funny what time does to a place; when she was breathing and alive, this city wasn’t even a speck on someone’s imagination. And now, look at it. The lights buzzed and burned with power 24 hours a day and vampires could exist quite happily, never needing to hide – plenty of tasty treats happy to share indulgence, sympathy and some rich merlot. The city simply hummed with decadence and delights.

She would have loved to share it with Angelus.

But those thoughts led inevitably to despair so she busied herself with other arrangements. The first thing she had done was acclimatize herself; buying just the right clothes and having her hair cut to a style that spoke of money and reputation. Having spent far too long underneath the earth with the Master and his other lackeys always gave her an overwhelming need to taste the divine, the sumptuous. It was the one-thing humans did very well; apart from bleeding prettily.

She had found herself a very rich but easily seduced man, who, more to the point, had a very nice apartment. So she began her new life; informing his neighbours that he was away on business, when instead she’d hired some lowly minion down on his luck to get rid of the body. He had tasted of wealth and power, like caviar, but was not as plump and juicy as those White Russians she’d had 70 years earlier.

Living with the Master, although the right and proper thing to do, made her realize how little she enjoyed life. Everything was browns and greys until the colour of the Mardi gras whisked her away for just a short time. Angelus had been an unpredictable festival – riotous, colourful, sensational, beastly, destructive – but in the span of her lifetime, he was simply another evanescent departure from her tenure to the Master.

And in those years she had had family. And now she simply had herself. And duty.

***

Bernard Crowley sipped at his champagne and stopped beside the hors d’oeuvres. He didn’t dare move, even if it meant mingling, because this was an opportune place to stand and just observe. He had done a lot of observing ever since his Slayer had given birth to her baby, so he was accustomed to it; the need to protect her had been inflamed by the mewling infant’s entrance into this world, and had remained strong as Crowley had watched him grow into a six year old boy already weary with life.

He had met, quite by chance, the apothecary owner who garnered him with invitations to these soirees; where all the new and improved demons came to see and be seen. Where he could observe from a safe distance all the new arrivals, the new harbingers of potential apocalypse, bent on destroying his Slayer, paradoxically challenging her to defend her life but also enable her destiny to protect the world.

He watched a blonde woman, wander away from the crowd, fingers pressed to the window, her beauty crystallized in her serene countenance, her intelligent eyes sweeping the party, summarizing its intent in one gaze.

He was so taken with her, he nearly missed the exuberant young man, whose leering and disdainful features, tugged the strings of his memories.

***

Spike licked the blood from his fangs and lips, realizing that all three of those kids hardly made one decent meal, but the supersonic enhancements in their blood - now coursing though his veins - gave him one incredible, indelible buzz. So much so that when he spotted the delectable blonde by the window, her reflectionless gaze pondering the skyline, he cozied right up behind her, bending and pressing his abdomen to her petite but perfectly rounded derriere and said, “Well, aren’t you a very tasty treat?”

Her hair flicked toward him, so much like a whip on skin, permanently marking memories of eighty years ago, and he came as close as a master vampire could to gasping.

“You don’t need to breathe, William. I don’t know why you persist with such a human endeavour. And, please, remove your hands from my waist. Now.”

Spike’s hands flew from her waist to his cigarettes, snuggled tightly into his jean pockets. “Nice ‘do,” he said nodding toward her hair and ignoring the party-goers flaps of frustration as smoke poured from his mouth.

“I believe it’s very de rigueur.”

“Sure, ‘tis if you’re one of those birds off the tele. The ones that ponce about in their shorts and high heels.”

Her hand slapped across his face, followed by a low giggle, a gesture so known, so ingrained in his memory that instead of wincing his head moved with her hand in a balletic arc. “Christ,” he whispered, feeling his crotch squeezed to the point of no return, and wishing these tight leather pants weren’t all the rage either.

“And what’s with this…mockery? This neon sign on top of your head, come to me my beauties, I wish to eat you,” she said, sweeping her hand over his face, wiping at his eyeshadow, “what are you attempting to be exactly, silly William?” To underline her disdain, she began to pat him on the head, only to remove her hand and screw up her nose at the amount of hair product her fingers encountered. As if they’d never been sullied with anything else before.

“Whatcha doing here in New York?”

“Trying out new things, dear boy.”

“Away from prying sires then?”

“And yours would be where exactly?”

“Drusilla doesn’t care for punk music. Besides, none of that’s as exciting as the prospects in front of me now, my darling, darling mistress.” He rocked back on the heels of his boots and smiled seductively, curling his tongue around his lips; a gesture he knew that she liked even if no excitement flashed in her eyes. Twenty years of living in that family taught him self-preservation, being quick witted at all times, how to guard a perimeter and which of his strengths he should play to and when. With Darla, it was always about the pretty.

“I believe you’re choosing your words to flatter me, but really, William, they hold no meaning. And I tire of this party. This isn’t what I want to do. I feel some other games need to be played, don’t you? Where are you staying?”

“The Chelsea Hotel-”

Darla sniggered. “Oh how the mighty have fallen!”

“Oi! I’ll have you know that many a distinguished guest graced the doors of that hotel. Janis Joplin, Tennessee Williams, Bob Dylan, famous, famous artists who’ve made an impact on-”

“Will you fetch my coat then? Perhaps we can catch a late film and then go hunting.”

Spike scampered away, like the good little puppy he knew he was, preparing himself for some hi-jinks only Darla was able to indulge him in.

***

Crowley watched the interchange; most unhappy that the miscreant, the young man who looked like a piece of forgotten rubbish on the floor, had waylaid the beautiful woman, who illuminated the room with her Botticellian features.

Even as they departed the room, Crowley began compiling a mental list of all the salient details about his appearance. It paid to be vigilant, even to the point of neurosis. Bright, spiky white hair; ripped black T-shirt, sawn-off at the shoulders to reveal skin so pale and crystalline he must have been undead; eyes covered with black Cleopatra-like paint, accenting eyes so blue and intense within. He might have been cold, though, without a jacket, were his body not warmed by the demon which it housed.

He would have to look up this fellow, search for descriptions in the Watchers’ records, and, if it came to it, alert Nikki. You couldn’t, after all, just let vampires get away with waltzing into parties and chatting up the most beautiful woman in the room.

***

As Darla watched from within the enormous, limousine-like passenger compartment of the Checker cab, Spike toyed with his food. He had grown tired of the cab driver’s sedate pace and hauled him outside for a bite to eat. The squirming, frightened, pleading, dying man had made an unsuccessful escape attempt into a side alley and Spike was now taking intermittent slurps from his neck.

“Are you bored, my sweet? The way you play says something’s amiss?”

Throwing the now drained body to the pavement, Spike turned to Darla. “Well, not amiss. But maybe…possibly…up…”

“If you come here then, darling boy, pay your dutiful respects and maybe I will feel inclined to help you fix that.” She dangled one leg exquisitely out of the cab, ankle swivelling her dainty shoe.

Spike moved toward her, taking her hand in his and licking each finger delicately and precisely. Her eyes flamed with need. She reached down and smiled her knowing, powerful smile.

“Poor boy.”

He lifted her up from her waist and spun her around, once, twice, three times before pinning her body between him and the brick wall which enclosed the alley.

“You want it, don’t you mistress? Down and dirty?” He slid his hands up her legs, meandering smoothly from her thighs to her hips and leaning in to lick the side of her neck.

“Good boy, keep talking and then you can remove my stockings and take me in your mouth.” Spike knelt before her, eagerly ripping clothes from her skin before sliding his hands up her legs to where he most wanted to be.

“You beautiful, powerful, wondrous mistress with a hidden treasure thirsty for my lips, demanding my attention, the ministrations of my tongue against the walls of your delectable, cherry-ripened-”

Darla stilled in her gasping. “Wait,” she instructed. “Wait. There’s something…”

“Will you be needing this body?”

It took Spike a muzzled few minutes to pry his mouth away from her delectable quim, hosted up as she was above him, cradled against the wall, before he realised a wary onlooker was addressing him, deep from within the bowels of the alley. His glowing eyes were the only thing that distinguished him, until he skirted the light of a street lamp and revealed a dishevelled walking carpet bag of a being, soiled and covered in sores, a dark legionnaires cap covered his hair, matted over a protuberous skull. A few further moments before Spike realised it was another vampire. Blood older, darker. But the state of him! What did these New York vamps feed on? Pitiful, was what it was. Pitiful.

The figure gestured to the cabbie’s discarded body. “Will you be needing this kill? Only, I see you’ve not finished it and if it’s all the same to you….”

Beneath his hands, Spike felt Darla begin to squirm at the disruption and, swearing coarsely under his breath, he roughly shoved her back against the wall, knowing he’d have to assert himself over her and whatever she was up to.

Forcing his arm over her chest in a position that provided the least amount of comfort, he continued to glare at Darla but called over his shoulder, “Alright, champ, if you don’t mind I’m about to get a bit wound up here. I’m here with my ladyfriend and we were right in the middle of-”

But Darla, oblivious to Spike and his intentions, even her need for a quick tongue fucking in a back alley, something she might have admitted at the point of a stake that Spike was very adept at (good teachers did abound), pushed off her dim-witted disciple. He skittered to the pavement, falling amidst the refuse of the city, in astonishment so complete that his customary mask of indifference barely held.

Darla took a step forward into the alley, then held herself back, unsure, waiting, sniffing and sensing the night around her.

"Angelus?" her impassioned, reverential whisper stilled all motion.

The figure, having loomed over the body, straightened himself from the waist, but remained in the shadows. The pregnant moment paused and stretched into more as the three vampires, as if caught in stasis, contemplated each other.

And then he began laughing. Long, loud, booming chortles racking his body, shaking and quavering their way from his chest and stomach into the midnight atmosphere.

"Oh Darla," began Angel, "with the boy. As if..." But the coughing and spluttering from his continued mirth attack swallowed any further words into his body. He stumbled further into the alley, almost drunk on the comedy. "Now don’t either of you come looking to me for completion when the other isn’t enough. The two of you, together, just sickens me. Disgusting."

Darla drew herself up, then as if unable to contemplate anything else but the anger, the indignity of Angelus’ rebuke swarming around her, she slapped Spike. “Stay away now, boy.” If she had been wearing the same outfit when William had first been brought home to her, then she would have gathered up her skirts and given the exit of a lifetime. As it was, these modern fashions clung and slithered down her frame, exposing something she knew would draw Angelus in. The power of her body. All thoughts of Spike disintegrated into the night air, but of course the boy would never be sufficiently chastised.

“But mistress,” said Spike, running, panting, after her. “I want to finish you. Please. Let me do that.” Then petulantly, pouting, “Besides, he left you. But I never did that.”

And then as if wishing to be free of all distractions, she turned on Spike, “Run along Spike, run home to Drusilla. You know your place. That’s where you deserve to be. Completing her. Not me. You’re not good enough. You should know only Angelus and the Master have that privilege. I don’t know what possessed you to even try. Go on, get on home.”

And for good measure she tweaked one of his safety pins between her thumb and forefinger and pitched him a few feet away from her.

His back against the wall, Spike watched as Darla walked away, listening for the telltale sound of screeching rats, and repeated her prayer of worship. “Angelus, Angelus are you still there?” She continued deeper into the alley, never pausing, never casting a final look over her shoulder at him.

Spike kicked at a beer can on the pavement, livid at his sire’s command to stay. Then he drew his hands into fists as he heard her seducing whimper roll out from the alley. “I never left you!” he screamed to the air above him, “I never bloody left you. Not like you bleeding lot did. Just for sport, just for fun. Let’s kick good old William when he’s down, have some fun with the little puppy, see what next trick he can do.”

He turned, furious with himself, furious with them, their silence and indifference extending into a chasm around him. “Well, maybe I don’t want you then. Maybe you’re not good enough for me. I killed myself a bloody Slayer, what have you lot done other than desert your family, leave them to fend for themselves? You bloody created me, then left me to finish myself.”

Picking up a burst of speed, he ran away from the alley, out into the city, out into where the light buzzed a thousand nights long. He kicked at a rubbish bin along the way, then picked it up and threw it through the nearest available window, revelling in the sound the window made as it shattered into pieces. As he stood contemplating whether to set the place into a bonfire of explosion, he vented, “Bloody Angelus always turning up when you least expect him! Bloody Dru, giving me grief over my hair! Bloody heat of this bloody summer!”

Turning away from the shop, he observed the expanse of park before him. It really had to rain.

And there must be some way for a young, daring vampire to be a part of it, make a mark, dance the dance of the wicked and sexy, gamble the boundary between glory and death. Darla and her bloody power games, controlling everyone around her like she was the invulnerable Queen of Spades, the death card, remiss in everything, feelings, emotions. Drusilla had always called him her knave, and maybe that’s what he was. A dark entity, brave, inspired, creative and destructive. New York held something for him; a tale yet to be written, an adventure yet to enjoy then flee from in exponential glee, some right royal fucking and quite a bit of bloodsport. Going to see a few punk bands was all well and good, but that was for the here and now, Spike decided that the bigger picture needed a bit of attention. All was left open to him; Darla and Angelus could go fuck themselves for all he cared, even right at this moment of his insane joy.

And then, as if someone in Heaven or Hell, had been listening to him, the skies opened to deposit their contents upon the city. In a few short minutes, Spike was drenched; trudging toward the park, rain sluicing off his bare arms, making his eyeliner run into stripes. "Bloody hell," he thought, as he crunched into himself, "need to get myself a coat first, before all those adventures I’ve been dreaming about."

Finis

A/N The song Spike attempts to sing at the beginning is Richard Hell and the Voidoids’ "Blank Generation", from which the title is also taken.
The poem Drusilla is so keen on can be found here.

Many thanks to lmbossy for the banner.

Humming Your Nocture on the Circle Line (Spike & Tara) PG-13

2006-02-27T04:34:58Z

Title: Humming Your Nocturne on the Circle Line
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: post-Grave
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Spike & Tara
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
A/N: This fic was inspired by Mimi Khalvati’s poem “Apology”.
Originally posted 4th November, 2005

Humming Your Nocturne on the Circle Line

He has a memory of riding the Circle Line soon after it opened new and fresh for the city to gasp at and choosing eenie meenie minie mo which stop to alight at and then following the most delectable treat so that once they reached the shadow of an alcove he could rip and roar.

Hiding the bodies was easier underground.

Now London is heaving under its own weight. The city is October-coloured weather and never ceases in its intermittent crying and bawling. He sits sullenly on underground trains observing people, revelling in their life, tormenting himself with what he cannot have.

Even in these newly remembered spaces, she exists in the gaps.

He wonders if he will encounter Drusilla. She always returned to where her heart felt home was, and now, with family dead, darkened and depraved, this would be the closest place to anticipation. He looks for her, but he doesn’t. He fears her retribution, he wants to touch her again.

The demon chafes like a hair shirt, trapped with him. Muzzled like a wild dog, never to know the delight again of freedom.

He sees familiar faces and wonders if they were victims or past friends. He cannot discern the difference now, everyone seems harsh and cold and brutal. Just like the evening rain on his face.

Sometimes, during his sleep, she comes and he wonders why. Her soft words and tender caresses so alien to anything they expressed in Sunnydale. He knew she always possessed the infinite capacity for loving but why spend her time with an evil, disgusting thing? He wonders if they observed each other’s existence back then. Now he feels her deep and fathomless. She is dazzling sweetness.

“Why aren’t you with your love?” he whispers.

“She is healing. I will only cause her pain.”

“And me?” He feels tentative, but needs, nonetheless, to know.

“You are special, William.”

He glows, then, from feeling the incomparable sensation of being loved. And knows that nothing is real. It is always about what is deserved, and he must only fear that.

“Your hair is different,” she chides, far too aware of the difference between gentle teasing and causing pain.

“I know,” he says. “Don’t feel much like doin’ it up. Only brings back the bad.”

She nods. “The Big Bad.”

He laughs then but his chest is tight.

One night he silently paces the streets of the place he once called home. Back then he smelt horses pulling hansom cabs, flowers from the market-sellers, the clinging reminder of compressed humanity. Now it is filled with disused crisp packets, football stadia and children overflowing with piss. He climbs a small hill and sits by the place he made his mother’s grave over one hundred years ago ‘til he can sense the sunrise clipping at him. It will be the last time he visits her, of this he is certain, so he leaves a bunch of multi-coloured peonies and traces the fading edges of her name carved into her headstone. He murmurs a prayer and wonders if the demon is scalded.

A week later and she returns. “Why do you linger? You’re only putting it off, you know.”

He shakes his head with vehemence and declares, “What’ve I to go back to? This city can be my home once more.”

She smiles that curious smile, that touches all aspects of her face yet still hides behind her hair. “You don’t belong here. You made a promise to a lady.”

He has no answer to the truth.

“If I leave, will you come with me?”

“When you return, you will find enough reminders of me. You can even visit my grave, maybe. I think Willow did a fine job.”

“So you’re sayin’ I have to do this all on my lonesome?”

She smiles again. “You’re never alone now are you? The weight of it presses and guides you. I know you can only choose wisely.”

“Wisely as in returnin’, you mean,” he mutters with dejection.

“With hope,” she counters.

And he makes up his mind to leave and return. He sends an apology to the city and disengages himself from its historical grip. A lullaby of a girl with sunshine in her hair calls him back.

He will never feel peace again.

Finis

Many thanks to katekat1010 for the banner.

Fic: A Wished for Song (Spike and Dawn) G

2006-02-21T11:33:28Z

Title: A Wished For Song
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: Post Doublemeat Palace but pre-Dead Things, S6 BtVS
Rating: G
Pairing: Dawn and Spike
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
A/N: Written for 12monthsofbtvs for the month of September, character Dawn.
Thanks to yourlibrarian for the read though and encouragement.
Originally posted 30th September, 2005.

A Wished For Song

Sunnydale was actually having a mini French Film Festival at the cinema on Broad Street. Janice had shown Dawn the flyers in class and they’d giggled, as maturely as they could, over the one that mentioned kinky sex. Of course, what was more important was that it was much more probable to see a hot Sunnydale U guy at a film festival than the losers they normally ran into. They could get talking about the meaning of the film, do their best to impress, then take it from there. It was A Plan.

Trouble was, Dawn had had a really recent movie experience involving Willow, an abnormally weird warlock (and she knew a thing or two about abnormal) and a serious case of the wiggins, which had all resulted in wearing the thing that shall not be named (TTSNBN) on her arm for over a week. Slipping out of the house had been the easy part – she just waited ‘til Buffy left for Doublemeat Palace Hell, snapped so bitchily at Willow that she retreated to her bedroom, then Dawn snuck out from her own bedroom window. Her landing was a bit impaired given her arm was still a bit tender from the TTSNBN, but overall she’d give herself a 7.5 out of 10. Yeah, all that was fine, celebrating the freedom from the cast, until she started reliving that whole fateful night a few times over in the dark.

The other problem was that because of the lack of lighting inside the room, while they watched the film, they couldn’t see any hot guys. So far. The film was long and complicated in parts but Dawn tried her best to remember important details, when she wasn’t reliving the run-in with the hairy demon, in case The Plan went into action.

The Plan was ceremoniously cut short once the film finished and they were milling about in the lounge, by a fleeting glimpse of shocking white hair and a flapping black coat that was getting rapidly closer.

“Dawn!” said the owner of the coat impatiently and geez it was first names, no pet names, which was not a good sign. “Not learned your lesson?”

Dawn could feel Janice drop into ‘Hot Guy’ mode that went on overdrive when Spike was around. “Hi Spike,” she said, drawing out the vowel sounds and twisting her hair around her finger. Dawn got the patented eye roll out, and used it for full effect.

Spike emitted a low, “Hmmppff,” then looked at Dawn. “Where’s your sister?”

“On the night shift, where’d you expect?” Dawn said sulkily, ‘cos when did they ever not talk about Buffy.

“When’s she due back?” Spike asked, trying his best not to look interested.

“How am I supposed to know? I’m not her keeper. Come on, Janice,” she said, grabbing her shuffling friend. “Let’s go.”

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, reaching out for her retreating collar, “’m walking you twiglets home. To your separate houses.” He turned them around and marched them out the door. “Buffy’d stake me if I didn’t, now wouldn’t she?”

Janice’s eyes just grew like saucers.

Janice’s house was nearest, more or less, and they walked most of the journey in sulky silence. Spike had tried some conversation with a cocky, “Tell me, when’d you two girls become interested in the oeuvre of Jean-Luc Godard?” which had resulted in choking from Dawn and some embarrassed bluffing from Janice.

The two girls farewelled each other with a ‘kiss kiss mwah’. Janice had looked hopefully at Spike, but he’d been much more interested in the puffs of smoke he could make from his cigarette. Janice ran up the stairs to her house and went inside. Spike and Dawn looked at each other.

“Dodgy girl she is, Platelet. Won’t ever get you into anything but trouble.”

“Loadsa fun though,” Dawn countered and smiled.

Spike returned a wicked grin. “There is that.”

“Buffy doesn’t like her though,” Dawn complained.

Spike appeared to jump at her sister’s name. He suddenly became gruff and turned on his heel. “Gotta get you home now.”

“But Spike, come on,” she wheedled, “I’m not tired. Can’t we do something together? Hang out. Like we used to? Before you forgot about me?”

With his back turned to her, the only expression she could see was an infinitesimal tightening of his shoulders. “Your sister will worry,” he said to the night sky. “Gotta get you home.”

“Please Spike,” Dawn whispered. “I don’t want to. Not when…” She paused, maybe for dramatic effect, but also because she could taste the tears threatening at the back of her throat. “I don’t feel safe there.”

“Huh,” he grumped, turning around, “that won’t work on me. Shouldn’t feel safe with me, should you? I’m the – ” He stopped, watching her kick the dirt, hanging her head so that her hair shielded her tears.

“Big Pushover,” he finished, flinging his cigarette to the ground in frustration. “’S not right though. Big Sis’ll get her knickers in a right twist when she finds you not at home.”

“It’s ok, Spike,” Dawn replied, eyes luminous with hope, “sometimes she’s out all night.”

“Great,” was all Spike said.

The only thing they could agree on, as amicably as Spike would allow the conversation to get, was a quick ride around Sunnydale on his bike, before she was returned home. They walked back to the movie complex and located the vehicle. Spike stopped short and contemplated Dawn for a moment, eyebrow raised in speculation, before swooping further down the parking lot, and returning with a black helmet. Dawn giggled, but Spike said haughtily, “Still not a pushover.”

“Will you return it, d’ya think?” Dawn posed, as she put the helmet on.

“Maybe,” he muttered, swinging his leg over the bike, and reaching around for her. He lifted her up and she felt weightless in his arms. He wrapped both of her arms around him, with a tenderness that lulled her, lightly patting her healed arm.

“How’s the arm, Bit?” he asked.

“Itchy,” she muffled.

He nodded, as if this was the answer he was looking for, and struck up the engine. They pulled out of the lot, and moved into the Sunnydale streets.

It took Dawn back. Way back. To the night when the world had altered back on its axis. As the chill of the wind bit into her jeans and light jumper, she wondered about how things had changed with Spike. How he’d become distanced, separated from her. Not only her, but she hardly ever saw him at the Magic Shop. Perhaps he was up to something evil that he didn’t want anyone to know about. Perhaps he was bored. Perhaps he was finally sick of putting up with Xander’s put-downs and Buffy’s indifference.

Dawn hoped it wasn’t anything to do with her, the reason he’d seemed to have vanished from their lives. Maybe he was bored. After all, what could a fifteen-year-old girl do to keep him interested?

Too soon, they arrived at Revello Drive and Dawn tightened her arms around Spike, as if to capture the moment one last time.

“Walk me in?” Dawn asked, after they pulled up and she removed the helmet dejectedly. “You never know what Willow…” She stopped the sentence there. After all, Spike had taught her the imagination was far worse than the truth when it came to horror stories.

He did walk her in, he even made sure she got into bed, and patted the bedspread over her. His whispered, “Sleep tight,” and the delicate kiss to her forehead lingered long in her dreams, even after he’d jumped from her bedroom window to the ground, striding off into the night. Possibly up to something...evil.

Finis

Many thanks to the folks at banner_grab for the banner.

Drabbles: Entertainment and Spectacle (Spike/Darla) PG

2006-02-20T23:00:33Z

Title: Entertainment and Spectacle
Author: lillianmorgan
Pairing: Spike/Darla
Setting: Pre-Series
Raiting: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
Originally posted 28th December, 2005 and February 5th, 2006, respectively

Entertainment

The boy was many things.

He was a nuisance. When he opened his mouth, he spouted musings far too nonsensical to bear. Which no-one rarely did. He bled prettily too, particularly after these musings had foiled his chance of freedom outside the apartment.

He was a lazy killer, no finesse nor measure. He tolerated Angelus’ and Drusilla’s wicked games eagerly. He tirelessly sought revenge, but invariably triumphed in drama rather than success.

He was a snob, an attention-seeker, a weakened poet who was nobody’s muse.

But despite all that, there were some things he excelled at. Which Darla always enjoyed.

***

Spectacle

His mistress was fickle. She was power-hungry and obsessed. He rarely set about to offend on purpose but, regardless of her whim, she always found fault. She was exacting and resolute and diligent in pain.

She could sear him with a merciless look in one moment; then inspire him to poetry for her irradiant beauty the next.

She was delightful and delicious and very, very dangerous. She was nobody’s fool, absolutely least of all his.

But when the mood struck Darla, or more specifically he became the mood’s delight, William let his fancy run wild and always aimed to please.

***

Many thanks to guided_by_fire for the banner.

Fic: "Coming Ashore" Part 2 of 2 (Spike/Xander) Hard R

2006-02-19T08:41:55Z

Title: Coming Ashore
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: Post-Doomed, BtVS Season 4 and post-NFA AtS Season 5
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: Hard R (Graphic: Adult-rated)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
Summary: Rather than ships passing in the night, it’s like they’re both at sea and just trying to learn how to float.
A/N: This story is set in the days after Doomed (which aired in the States 18th January 2000) and six months after Not Fade Away (which aired on 19th May 2004).
Thanks and viele hugs to yourlibrarian for the beta job, to whom this fic was also dedicated.
Written as my contribution to fall_for_sx.
Originally posted 9th December, 2005.

Part One is here

Coming Ashore

Part Two

Thursday, 20th January, 2000

It had been, and just was way too much effort to deny, a craptastic day at work. While communing with the extra tasty smells of grease, fat and MSG weren’t bad enough, running into not one but two former Sunnydale High alum (cheerleaders? lacrosse team? debate club? Xander’s willingness to flee!flee! from school activities caused rather the blip in further conversation) reinforced how much life was currently about the suckage.

Which then came back and whacked him upside the face the moment he trudged down the stairs into his basement, guard undeniably down.

The “What the -?” that erupted from his mouth didn’t even begin to cover it.

Anya and Spike were lying altogether too comfortably on Xander’s bed (and yes, bed is the place of repose, despite lumps and springs in all the wrong places) giggling like a pair of school kids who’d just sniffed the coloured markers and were high on the ‘joys of life’.

As soon as Xander made his presence known, nothing happened. In fact it took some coughing noises, a shouted “Watch it, Spike!” and a kick in the leg before they responded to him.

“Honey,” said Anya, bounding off the bed. “You’re home.” She chose to shake his hand rather than kiss him. “I understand that is the correct way to greet a girl’s fella once they walk through the door. Only … the men in the movies never seem to smell as badly as you do.”

“Thanks, Ahn. Great to see you too. So glad to see the chipped one has kept you … occupied.”

“Your pause must imply distrust. Or perhaps distaste. But, really there’s nothing to worry about. Even though, I’m sure Spike’s able to give wonderful orgasms, what with all his experience, my heart well and truly lies with you.” And she patted the place said organ beat its merry tune.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” drawled Spike.

Anya turned around from standing before Xander and beamed at Spike. “Shall you tell him or will I?”

“Was your idea, luv. I’m just the means to an end.”

“OK,” she chirruped brightly, as Xander’s frown deepened. “Now that we’ve established that Spike cannot hurt humans but can hurt demons, how about he pays his way for your offer of shelter by providing some well-needed lessons and training.”

“Training?” gulped Xander, a blush threatening to surface.

“Yes, in the art of demon warfare. You don’t have the skills of Buffy and I worry for you out there. You’d make such a tasty snack for whatever came along and you really can’t continue defending yourself by hiding behind Buffy. This seems like the perfect outcome.”

“Yeah?” continued Xander. “And what’s in it for Spike?”

“We’ve negotiated a very reasonable settlement between the two of us that I’m sure you’ll find very fair.”

Xander’s eyebrows raised in tired but inevitable acceptance.

“Just some fags and blood,” said Spike, smirk beginning to grow across his face. “And one night on the bed.” Spike spread himself back across said bed, sighing contentedly. “Besides, wouldn’t want anyone to get the feeling that I was a kept man.” Oh yeah, he’d been saving that up ever since Xander fired the first salvo back when the water pipe exploded.

“Really it’s very reasonable, when you think Spike will be saving your life, Xander,” Anya reinforced.

“And if I don’t want to?” Xander glared at her, trying to figure out where the sense was in any of this.

“Who wouldn’t want to? You’re human, you’re mortal. It’s all going to end some day.”

“And when exactly are your lessons, honey?” Xander inquired.

“I didn’t live over a thousand years without picking up a few tricks here and there. Besides,” she pouted, offering her bottom lip for thorough inspection, “I thought you’d be pleased at my concern, Xander.”

He paused and thought about it. If he gave in a little here, maybe he’d get something back in return. Something really good back in return. After all, they could negotiate a settlement. And she liked it when he talked money.

“OK,” Xander said slowly and carefully.

“Great!” triumphed Spike, leaping from the bed and rubbing his hands together fast and furiously. “Let’s have at ‘em!”

“Tomorrow!” shouted Xander, holding up his hand and collapsing on the chair.

~*~*~*~*

Sunday, 19th September, 2004

“So shall I make up the spare bed, which is actually masquerading as that lounge suite you’re sitting on…?”

Spike raised his eyebrow and smirked. “I came all the way to your cosy abode, engineered my way into your bedroom and you’re offering me the spare?”

Xander smiled first to himself, then let it touch his lips. Spike watched as it moved to his cheeks, then his eyes, until Spike couldn’t contain himself and had to capture those enlivened gestures between his lips.

A few hours later and they were lying together on Xander’s bed, mirroring poses of relaxed, sated nakedness. Spike leant off the bed for his cigarettes.

“Uh – uh – uh!” warned Xander. “Not in the bedroom.”

“Relax, pet. I’ll let you have one.” He lit up a cigarette, then turned to face Xander, cupping his face between his thumb and forefinger, stroking back and forward. “Missed this.” Then softer, tender, “Missed you, luv.”

Xander blushed, then whispered back, “Me too.”

Spike blustered his way out of the quiet moment. “Bed’s a bit small though, for two such virile blokes as we.”

“Yep, it hasn’t seen much action lately.”

“Tsk, tsk, pet. Then why the charade, the pretence still with the birds?

“Well, I don’t feel comfortable…I mean, hey, I’m Xander. I’m poster-boy for normal –”

Spike interrupted with a grunt of unnameable emotion.

“It’s what I do. I do normal,” continued Xander. Then, “Except you, of course. You’re the only thing I don’t do that’s normal.”

“Just as it should be,” Spike concurred.

“In fact, I bet you’ve never had an urge for normal in your whole entire existence – past, present and future.”

Spike’s smile was enigmatic, but also predatory as he leaned in for another one of Xander’s specialities – the sloppy kiss.

~*~*~*~*

Friday, 21st January, 2000

Tomorrow night came around all too stealthily and before Xander knew it, he was standing in his basement, being handed a large (and rather embarrassingly heavy) broadsword by Spike.

“Where on earth did you get this?” Xander asked.

“Ways and means,” Spike replied, “ways and means.” He began searching through the large canvas, military style rucksack he’d seemed to have acquired overnight.

“And those would be?”

“Look I can’t kill humans, right? But I’m bloody well going to defend myself against demons. Got to get my sport somewhere, yeah?” The vehemence laced through his reply made Xander shiver.

“And you use the word defend in the loosest possible way you can?” Xander parried, sceptically.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Spike replied, grinning maniacally and pulling out his own hefty axe.

In the end, Xander settled for a stake which was much more practical and he was able to keep the edge on Spike by pointing out exactly what stakes were used for. Rather than the fact that they were lighter and fit into the pocket of his cargo shorts quite snugly.

And the feel of the wood grain biting into in his hand felt reassuring as they walked through the outer limits of Crestfield Cemetery. Which if he thought about that further kinda wigged him. But then every time he caught a glimpse of Spike from the corner of his eye reinforced the unsettlement. It was unusual to see Spike in his original purpose, as a stealthy hunter of the night, body sleek and taut, in motion and standing still, every inch of his body prepared and ready to anticipate the necessary battle movements. And that T-shirt outlined his abs really well too.

Yes, the level of wig was seriously reaching diabolical proportions. But once they met up with two unsuspecting fledglings waiting for their friend to rise from his grave, all those thoughts flew out on the night sky, and Xander re-discovered combat-lust.

It was rather messy, the punches and the jabs but once he got going he discovered the stuttering movements gave way to a sense of fluidity. Well, approaching fluidity. Spike disposed of his target far too quickly, but with an uncanny patience waited at a distance and watched Xander fight. At one point, when the fledge had tripped Xander and he was upended onto his back, Spike barked “Roll!” before the other vampire could get him.

He’d finally managed to surprise his opponent with a lucky uppercut (dashing, his brain amended, inspired even) and rammed home his advantage with wood.

“You enjoyed that,” commented Spike from where he’d been leaning against a tree, lit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Xander flung his hands to his knees, and the adrenaline and need to breathe crashed in on his body. He sucked in great gallumping amounts of air, and then smiled. “Yeah.”

“Can smell it on you,” Spike informed, with a well-timed leer.

“Don’t be gross Spike. You’re ruining the moment.”

Spike pulled on his cigarette long and hard, causing his cheek muscles to cave in, as if he were trying to say something else. Like how good he was at sucking, maybe.

“No ‘m not,” he replied, after a pause, smoke following his words curling out from his mouth.

They made eye-contact then, and Xander felt the sensation of being pulled towards Spike’s eyes. He wasn’t even sure if his feet were moving, but he was stuck in a rip, and resistance was futile.

Unless that other vampire chose at right that moment to claw his way from the grave between them.

“Soddin’ hell!” was the first thing that greeted the vamp, followed by a swift stake to his chest. He’d only managed to get half of his body from the grave, but it was the half that enabled him to dust too quickly.

“Smooth,” informed Xander.

“Glad you’re impressed,” Spike replied. And this time Spike really did close the gap, striding toward Xander in two effectively short steps, coat swooping, lips descending, eyes enthralling and then they kissed. And Xander thought “Gah!” and “Guh!” and “Holy fuck!” and “Smooth, soft, sweet” all at the same time. Then he broke away.

~*~*~*~*

Monday, 20th September, 2004

Xander returned back to his flat as the late afternoon Autumnal gloom settled like a blanket over the city. He turned the key in the lock on the ground floor door, and climbed the two flights of wooden floors to his apartment, trepidation and anticipation warring in his heart and mind. Entering, he found the gloom was overpowering the inside too, with all curtains drawn and the television the only source of flickering light.

Spike was sitting on the couch, legs outstretched in front of him, hands folded across his chest, still and sleeping. He was wearing a pair of Xander’s black dress trousers and blue shirt he’d also raided from Xander’s cupboard. His feet were delectably bare. The television lit him up with an eerie glow, and cast the planes of his face into a blue-black relief.

Xander placed his bag at the door and walked toward the kitchen, opening the fridge door and removing a beer. His movements had not been loud, but nevertheless Spike stirred almost instantly from the couch.

“Sorry,” offered Xander, “didn’t mean to wake you.”

“’S alright. Bit of a light sleeper these days.”

Xander nodded and pulled another beer from the fridge, which he placed on the coffee table in front of Spike. He sat next to him, not too close, but far enough away too, to suggest his uncertainty about what would happen next. Spike put paid to all that by reaching for him and covering his mouth with a kiss that went from gentle and sweet to intense in the blink of an eye.

Xander broke away with a lopsided grin and suggested, “Beer first?”

“Yeah,” agreed Spike, though his eyes said something else. He swooped up his beer and drank three quarters of it in one go.

Xander sipped at his instead, and contemplated the difference. These days he felt more temperate, like he should savour each moment, savour sitting next to Spike drinking a beer again. Yesterday, he hadn’t had that. Today he did. Tomorrow he might not. Things were not easily regained once lost.

“What makes you a light sleeper then?”

Spike stared at him and moved in to kiss Xander. “You just wanna chat all this out then?”

Xander made an mmm-ing noise as if his mouth was being traitorous and wanted Spike’s lips back. But his brain said Spike was doing something else. Something his lips weren’t. Like avoiding. He’d been so reticent to give Xander any details of the whys and hows and wherefores of his sudden appearance.

“You offered last night. You said today we could do whatever I wanted once I got home from work,” Xander affirmed, and placed his beer on his knee for good measure. “And right now I just wanna talk.”

Spike turned his face away and sniffed haughtily, like he was a king and Xander his lowly servant, before turning around to face him and staring into his eyes, in that hard, brittle way when things weren’t going by his calculations. Finally, he raised an eyebrow and swung his empty beer bottle in Xander’s line of vision. “Think you had me by the short and curlies when I made that promise, luv. But if that’s what you want, better get me a few more of these, then.”

~*~*~*~*

Friday, 21st January, 2000

The kiss ended, as it began, like a surprise. Suddenly Spike’s lips were no longer there and Xander was left pouting into the midnight air. Spike had moved, with vampiric silky-smooth speed, to stand where the few steps had separated them before. But his eyes locked on Xander’s.

It was a strange moment, in the way those defining ones never feel momentous but when you look back, you realise this is just where the road turned. Like breaking yellow crayons or bumping into blonde girls in high school corridors.

In the immediate moments following the kiss, however, Xander felt loss. Not only was he missing the intense pressure Spike’s lips created on his, the combustion of feeling surging through his body but also at an actual loss of what to do next.

And, he jolted a few minutes later, that really should be wigging him out. Spike remained standing across from him, his face cast as marble, only a tiny line of skin dividing his eyebrows into a frown.

But Spike couldn’t stay immobile forever, so he jerked out a cigarette and leapt forward, brushing past Xander as he walked away.

Xander’s brain still wouldn’t tell him what to do, no matter how he railed for information, so the best option seemed to be following Spike home. Reaction not action was the plan when everything just seemed way too … odd.

The walk back to Xander’s house was weird. Xander kept stealing covert glances at Spike as he chain-smoked his way along the sidewalk. When he wasn’t smoking, he was swinging the axe, machine-like, from the arm on the opposite side of Xander.

It was odd watching Spike when he wasn’t talking. Usually Xander was doing everything in his power to avoid thinking about Spike because his mouth was spewing forth some lousy or obnoxious comment that Xander, had he not had eons of practice deflecting them at home, would have been more pissed than he ever showed. So the Spike not talking thing was odd, and that was because he radiated power. The barbs could be deflected, soaked up and spit out again, but the silence was hypnotising. It made Xander focus on all sorts of other things, like hands, and lips, and the scar that made his eyebrow sexy, or the way he controlled his environment by the way he walked, the way he held his weapon.

When they arrived back, Spike strode through Xander’s basement liked he owned the place, settled himself into a chair and turned on the TV, injecting the unnerving silence with noise. Canned laughter filled the room as Xander stared at the back of Spike’s head. Such a weird colour, and yet he’d know him, anywhere he saw him, he’d be all like “Hey, there’s Spike.” Spike defined by the back of his head.

He was so not ready to be without anything to say. He couldn’t remember the last time his basement had been so devoid of conversation not caused by television, because usually he was speaking to defend against something annoying Spike had said. Instead, doing something bizarro and contra the normal run of things with Spike seemed to send them both to the Great Silent Beyond, which was weird enough without them doing it together.

But, if they were going to do this … this … nothing, Xander reasoned that he really needed to fill it with something. He climbed the stairs and tiptoed through to the kitchen, where he found his father’s ready and waiting supply of beer. Returning back to the basement, Spike’s very Spike-like head had not moved, so he handed one of the bottles to Spike, who accepted it with a nod. Xander sat on his bed, settling in for the remainder of the evening to be filled with TV. And the TV did all the talking for them, the one faithful thing in an evening of change.

~*~*~*~*

Monday, 20th September, 2004

“So do you miss her?”

“Who?”

“Demon Girl.”

Xander paused and slitted his eyes so that they appeared shut. Sometimes the memory reminded him of pain. It was strange to lose someone and feel sadness. He wanted instead to embrace the things he loved about Anya, be reminded of why he missed her, because of her beauty, not because of the hole in his life she created.

“Like you miss Buffy?” Xander countered.

“Just asked you a simple question, idiot. Wasn’t making this into a bleedin’ pissing contest.” Spike stood then, ruffled and angry.

Xander suddenly felt unsure, like why had he even chosen to go on the offensive and behave so churlishly. So instead he chose honesty, just this once. It seemed important, like this opportunity was being preserved only in this evening. He’d lose it if he didn’t grasp it with both hands. “Yeah, I miss her. But the pain has dulled, y’know?”

Spike stared down at him hard. “Yeah,” he stated flatly, “I know.”

Xander huffed out a long breath and then said, “God we were bastards to each other, weren’t we?”

Spike strode to the kitchen and returned with six beers, the necks locked securely yet loosely from his fingers. “Was all just foreplay,” Spike suggested, handing him two bottles before placing the other four on the table. “Plus quite a bit of frustration.”

“And not to mention the things we did to each other,” agreed Xander, taking a gulp and feeling the bubbles cascade down into his stomach.

“There was some good,” Spike said, imitating Xander, then softly, “and some bad.”

“What’s all this mean, Spike?”

“What’s all what mean, luv?”

“This,” said Xander, rather ineffectively.

“Dunno.”

The next few moments passed by with the clinking of bottles being raised and lowered and alcohol glugging from bottles to bellies. Until finally Spike said, “Wanna fuck now?”

Xander shrugged nonchalantly. “Sure.”

Spike strode into the bedroom and Xander followed a few paces behind. Already Spike was shucking out of the blue shirt, and Xander watched with pleased appreciation as Spike’s muscles corded and tensed as he removed his clothes.

Such a beautiful creature, so much power and passion. But all bottled up, stewing and bubbling, so that when it popped, it was such an explosion. And either you were okay with the consequences or you really, really weren’t.

He turned then to smile at Xander, his face transforming into sultry sex, and Xander filled with desire. Spike took him by the hand, kissing him softly before gently removing his shirt, kissing his way from shoulder to shoulder. Taking his time to remember.

Xander ran his finger across Spike’s face, pausing with tenderness to kiss his eyebrow, run his hands over his crackling hair. It was slow and steady and no need to rush. And Xander understood that this was what he needed, right here, right now.

Time stretched out before him – the evening, the week, the year – and he realised he felt ok. Ok with Spike unbuttoning his trousers, getting on his knees and taking him in – Holy Fuck! – cool mouth suckling and slavering his impatient cock.

In fact, he might be reaching whole new levels of ok-ness on this date in history. He wasn’t sure he recognised the feeling but he was pretty sure what he should do with it.

And that was to enjoy it.

Finis

Many thanks to katekat1010 for the banner.

Fic: "Coming Ashore" Part 1 of 2 (Spike/Xander) Hard R

2006-02-19T08:21:40Z

Title: Coming Ashore
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: Post-Doomed, BtVS Season 4 and post-NFA AtS Season 5
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: Hard R (Graphic: Adult-rated)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
Summary: Rather than ships passing in the night, it’s like they’re both at sea and just trying to learn how to float.
A/N: This story is set in the days after Doomed (which aired in the States 18th January 2000) and six months after Not Fade Away (which aired on 19th May 2004).
Thanks and viele hugs to yourlibrarian for the beta job, to whom this fic was also dedicated.
Written as my contribution to fall_for_sx.
Originally posted 9th December, 2005.

Coming Ashore

Part One

Sunday, 19th September, 2004

Xander set the drink in front of him and smiled weakly at his date. They were sitting in a very chic bar called “Studio”, sampling the local beers. She was saying something about taking a boat ride up the river and how interesting it would be for him to see the scenery. As a newcomer and tourist.

He nodded. “Sounds fun.”

“Oh yes, lots of fun, and then we can go and visit a few Biergartens and you can drink a lot of Apfelwein and eat as much bratwurst as you like,” she said, and for good measure she rubbed his belly while giggling.

Girls were very tactile with him, he found, ever since the eye-patch. Girls that weren’t demons, that is. He could tell the demons because they didn’t want to touch him. Could see he was sullied goods a mile off. Tainted by the hand of the First Evil. But human girls, their hands went everywhere their eyes could not, anything to distract them from staring at the patch before stumbling to the inevitable.

“So how did you get the…?” She waved at his eye. “Sorry, I do not know the word in English.”

“Eyepatch.”

“Eyepatch. Haha. In German we say die Augenklappe.”

Augenklappe. He rolled the word around in his brain. He was picking up so many different ways of expressing an empty socket.

“I got into a fight, because I was trying to save a girl, and the guy didn’t play fair. Went straight for my eye with his thumb. Real nasty piece of shit that guy was.”

“Oooooh,” said the girl and giggled again. She had a nice giggle, quite deep and sexy. Now, if he could only remember her name. “You are a real hero, then, Alexander Harris?”

“I guess you could say that.”

She smiled at him. “German girls like American heroes. We see them all the time at the cinema or on the television. We like them, you know? They’re different from German heroes, who usually have some kind of problem.”

Oh dear, thought Xander, if only I could explain my problem.

After a too-long gap in conversation, he said, “Well, this is nice.” Which it was anything but. This was really his second official date for far too long between innings and he was way out of practice with the usual niceties. Trundling round Africa chasing recalcitrant but highly tanked up newbie Slayers hadn’t exactly done wonders for his social life. After he’d realised he was facing burn-out (on top of the very nice half dozen African illnesses he’d collected on the way), he’d tried London out for a bit. Stayed with Giles, hung out with the fuddy Watchers who were too old for him, the lusty young Slayers beside whom he found he was an old man. That had been his first official date, with a Watcher. A nice enough girl, but a little stuffy and very anti-demon. That had somehow perturbed him. Like being “anti-demon” was a big no-no in his formerly dualistic mind.

Musing around his beer he smiled at forgotten-your-name again. She was now talking about her office job and the internal politics which bore similar aspects to the mating rituals of a few demons he’d read about. Sounded dire in any case. Then, all of a sudden he had the distinct impression that he was being watched. It was like a shiver ran through his body, but he couldn’t place from where or why it came. He looked around a bit, trying not to distract her, and peering out of the corner of his eye. Sadly, his lateral vision was completely shot and was getting nowhere fast. He’d have to bend his neck just at that particular angle and then --

“What are you doing?” she laughed.

She tussled his hair and then said, “I must go to the toilets. I will be back soon. Shall I order you another Pils on the way?”

“No that’s fine, I can get it myself.”

He was very proud of the fact that he could order a beer in German, in fact it was one of the first things he’d learnt having come to Frankfurt. He’d got a contracting job with an American company, re-building and restoring older buildings – yeah Giles had set that up, on the proviso that he also did a bit of Slayer-rummaging on the side. The pay was good and, in any case, he was close to Buffy and Dawn; he’d been down to see them when he’d first arrived, and that was nice too.

He got the attention of the bartender. “Ein Pils, bitte.”

The guy smiled at him too. “You speak good German, my friend!”

“Gonna order me one too, pet? Don’t speak the language.”

Xander’s head whipped around, afraid that his ears were deceiving him and his lone eye would betray him. But there in the flesh, leaning louche and trouble-free against the bar, was Spike, eyebrow cocked, smirk in place, two eyes sparkling.

Well, Xander had also made an effort to learn that too. “Hey! Noch ein Pils bitte, for mein…er…Freund.”

Spike sniggered heartily at that, lighting up a cigarette. “Next you’ll be saying we’re engaged, boy.”

Xander just stared at him with his mouth agape, ‘til the waiter put the beer in front of him and he could fill it with something.

~*~*~*~*

Tuesday, 18th January, 2000

After he and Willow had calmed Spike down telling him that ‘No, they didn’t need to particularly kill any more demons tonight, the puppies and Christmas were quite safe thanks very much and besides they all needed a rest after averting another apocalypse’, he harrumphed into a chair.

“Still feel like doing a spot of demon-carnage,” he said, chin planted on his chest, voice silky but exasperated. As if that kind of little-boy-lost act would ever work on Xander. Never. No way.

“Poor widdle Spikey-bums. Feeling a little frustrated there?”

Spike lasered Xander with a direct look. “You know, Angelus used to try and get me annoyed like that. Was his form of foreplay, because he liked to have an excuse to beat me down before sex. Is that the kind of thing you enjoy too, Xander, my boy?”

“Whoa, where did that come from?” Xander stared at Spike, trying not to gape. Then he calmly held up two fingers. “Ewwwww. And, oh yeah, NO.”

“Um? Guys? Why don’t we just go back to the cartoons?” Willow pleaded, her embarrassment painted across her face as well. “You like cartoons, don’t you Spike?”

Spike switched his attention with pinpoint precision to Willow. “Cartoons are for children who have nothing better to do with their existence than be sucked into a world of make-believe and lies. And apparently they’re just the thing for the mentally disturbed and those who can’t cast a spell to save themselves.”

“Hey!” shouted Xander. “We said we’re not bringing that up again, remember?” He could see Willow beginning to stoop under the assault of Spike’s gaze.

“That’s not fair,” she said. “I told you I was sorry. And hey we were all with the compassion-giving tonight. Where’s the remembrance of that?”

“Compassion!” spat Spike. “I’m the bloody Big Bad. I don’t need any bleeding heart sonatas.” He leaned into toward her and sneered, “I would eat you up as the tasty treat you are.”

Xander jumped up and rammed Spike away. “Back off, Spike.”

Spike pushed his tongue through his mouth and grinned. “Make me, Harris.”

“OK Mr Chippily Challenged. If you want it, I will most certainly dish it out.” And he took a swing at Spike’s head, which Spike effectively dodged. Spike then stuck his leg out, which Xander, off-balance from the punch, stepped right into and fell to the floor.

Spike’s body jerked as the chip must have fired and Xander heard Willow’s implored, “Guys, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna call Buffy.”

Xander got to his feet and decided that was that. He so didn’t need Buffy to sort out Spike who had a chip and couldn’t hurt him back. Rolling his shoulders, he breathed in and lunged. The sucker-punch to the stomach worked like a charm because Spike folded and ooofed. Xander knew he should karate chop down on Spike’s waiting back but something deep in the back of his mind said, ‘Maybe not.’

Xander turned round to see Willow’s tensed face and said, “OK Spike. Truce? I’m not going to-”

Two loud and dynamic choruses of ‘Owwwww!’ resounded through the basement as Spike punched Xander in the nose.

“Why you piece of shit!” bellowed Xander, pinching the nose to stop the blood stream. “You just wanna fight no matter what isn’t it? And why the fuck is that. You just want some kind of attention from me? Is that it? Jesus!”

But the moment the words were out of his mouth, Xander checked himself and noticed Spike doing the same. OK so Spike was obsessed with fighting that’s true, but after fighting came … things that definitely didn’t need to be thought of in the same sentence as Spike, but nevertheless Xander found himself doing. Bad, bad, irredeemable thoughts which every time he looked at Spike bending over his knees, recovering from the chip-freeze, seemed to escalate. Hot thoughts, different thoughts, endless possible what if thoughts; thoughts that had never once passed through his mind when Larry made with the care and share.

“Come on, Xander,” Willow said, as he stared at Spike and Spike stared back. “We’re tying him up. No leave passes for you mister. That’s what you get for going around punching innocent bystanders.”

And ok denial was secure, was safe, was definitely of the good.

~*~*~*~*

Sunday, 19th September, 2004

Of course Spike wouldn’t remove himself from the date so the three of them went to a swanky restaurant on the Fressgasse for dinner. Turned out Spike did speak German though, like so many other things, he just couldn’t be bothered doing it often. Like acknowledging when his presence might be upsetting a neatly hued balance.

It had been a bit embarrassing when Xander had to introduce them to each other and he’d tried to cover not knowing her name. And how to explain Spike? He’s my best friend’s … no that’s admitting too much. He tried to kill me a bunch of times and then saved me from Evil Preacher Boy. We have big complicated, outstanding, non-refundable issues like he fucked my was-to-be wife who’s now dead. He’s probably fucked everyone I know, but only loved…

In the end he settled with “He and I used to flat together,” which amused Spike no end.

So Spike and his date (whose name he discovered was Anna, only she didn’t pronounce it the same way Americans did, more like Aaahhhhhnna) spent most of the evening speaking German about something or other. Xander got about 10% of it, usually the sentences with ‘the’ and ‘a’ in them. Spike impressed Anna a lot, Xander could see that, and he wondered vaguely if the two of them would wander off into the night together and Xander would be forced to return to the small, but slightly sterile flat the company was renting out to him, alone.

In the middle of his thoughts about how he could possibly order the Blade Hand Planer for every guy on his team at work and get that one by the boss as a necessity rather than the extravagance anyone with a half decent carpenter’s brain knew it to be, Spike started coughing. It was a weird sound, sort of a hacking sound. Anna started patting his back comfortingly, in smooth serene strokes, her blonde hair falling across them both, and Xander thought, ‘Oh yeah. Here we go.’

Spike kinda cocked his eyebrow and said to Anna, “Think I need to rest up a bit, pet. Jetlag, you know. I’m not the man I used to be. Time was I could sail around the world with never a care in the world, but what with just coming in from the States and that beggaring long flight and being so tired. Think I just need to put my boots up somewhere.”

Xander felt like getting out a notebook. How to steal a guy’s date 101, lessons from the master vampire.

But he continued on, “Xander, listen mate, wouldn’t put me up for a couple nights would you? What with us being such good buddies and all?”

Anna nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, Spike. You should go to Alexander’s home and rest. And for me, too. I must work tomorrow. But we should meet up again, right? Here is my handy number. And you and Alexander give me a call and we can all go out again. It will be so much fun, just like tonight!”

They paid up, departed (not without kissing each other’s cheeks first) and Spike leaned on Xander for support as they shuffled homewards across the cobblestone footpath.

“Not one for Frankfurt, really,” mused Spike. “Mainly bankers and booksmart people here, makes the blood terribly bland, you know? Berlin’s more my cuppa tea. Never know what will turn up in the blood of a ripe, young temptress there.”

Xander felt very much like dropping him, but didn’t. Sense of duty. Sense of camaraderie. Sense of seeing someone that he knew for the first time in a couple of months.

“Well, what are you doing here then?”

“Oh you know,” he said, quietly, ponderously, “just passin’ through.”

~*~*~*~*

Wednesday, 19th January, 2000

The demon was a mean and ugly beast, all things considered. Multi-waving tentacles, snapping incisors and razor-sharp armour running down the length of its spine, shaking with all its combined fury and power at actually being challenged by a being roughly a third its size. Said being let his coat swoop around him as he dodged and ducked the painful bits and dived in with punches for the tender bits. For its part, the demon was emitting a weird gurgling sound – pretty close in proximity to the noise the coffee grinder at the Espresso Pump made.

Xander and Willow were doing their best Sundance Kid impersonation, hiding behind a suitably large headstone so as to shield them both from either creature’s rogue punches. At least two sharpened stakes lay at their feet.

“Do you…need…a hand?” shouted Willow, in her best ‘I might be willing but very, very timid’ voice.

Spike growled a deep and primitive growl, then let out an equally opposing scream of laughter, aiming a precise, low and lightning fast kick at what would pass as the demon’s knee. If it had one, of course.

“Willow!” Xander cried, plaintively. “What’d you go and do that for? All we’re supposed to do is maintain our role as Spike-sitters. I’m not going in there unless the thing comes at me.” He weighted his sentence with a sharp point to his treasured chest.

“Don’t worry,” Spike concurred, shouting his reply at the demon. “This baby’s all mine.”

“I’m not really sure I’d call it a baby,” Xander suggested, but at the same time wishing he’d been more adept at saying no to Spike and well actually not being put in the position of having to take care of the vampire in the first place, which, if you weighed things up –

Xander’s inner monologue was forestalled by a sickening crunching noise as the demon had somehow managed to skewer Spike onto one of its spines and was hoisting the vampire up off the ground. Spike let out a very long, “Ahhhhhhh!” which pierced the battle with its intensity, just as he was being pierced himself. Lifted up into the air, he cast a white and black relief against the demon’s purple skin, highlighted in his starfish pose of pain.

Willow leapt up, of course, her sense of duty being much stronger than Xander’s. But nevertheless he found himself running with a surreal trepidation toward the gurgling demon. Without thinking, and definitely not stopping to consider his motivations, he nimbly dodged a tentacle and aimed his stake straight for the demon’s foot.

With a roar, it leapt skyward, somehow dislocating Spike in the reverse impact, and Spike soared through the air – flying with something approaching a balletic grace. Landing on his feet, but gripping his stomach wound with a grim determination, he liberated Willow of her own stake, ran and thrust it straight in the demon’s eye.

Xander gaped at him, in awe of either the violent ruthlessness or the bathetic ending. The two warred within him as he contemplated the silhouetted vampire. Spike raised his eyebrow.

“Tunettal Demon, Harris. Killed by piercing its eyes. Really should pay more attention during research hours.”

“Wait…you mean…you knew how to kill it right from the beginning?”

“Can’t give all the trade secrets away, now can I? Wouldn’t be sporting. Besides, bloody good fight gaping stomach wound ‘n’ all. Didn’t think I’d come off quite so lucky.” He paused to contemplate the sentence, and then as if to cement this piece of good fortune, pulled out a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit up. The smoke wafted amorously around his head before fading into ever-diminishing translucence.

When they got back to the Basement of Doom (or more precisely still-mouldy-smelling-from-exploded-water-pipe Basement of Doom), after first swinging by Stevenson dorm to make sure Willow got securely tucked up in bed, Xander made with the crashing onto his own bed and loud, grumbling, sleep-needing noises.

Spike was flinging drawers open, mainly in a fit of post-battle high, searching for something.

“What are you looking for? And why in all that’s evil and naughty are you making such a hullabaloo?”

“Gotta find something to patch myself up. Can’t have me bleeding all over your palatial palace.”

“Oh,” Xander agreed. Then hoisted himself up, shuffled up the stairs and returned with some gauze and antiseptic moments later.

“Here y’are. Now, please, do me a favour and let’s sleep. ‘K?” Xander crashed back down on his bed and flung his pillow over his head for good measure.

“Can’t,” Spike mumbled, spreading the lotion over the wound with a hissing noise and then securing the wound with bandages and tape. “Just too awake to sleep.”

“Yeah? Not a few days ago you were propping up the stakes, trying to redecorate with dust. Think I got some blackmail potential that says you do most definitely wanna sleep.”

“Oh come on, Harris. Don’t say you didn’t enjoy it, mate. All that blood and carnage and killin’ and fightin’ and savin’ the world from evil, horrible wrong-doers. Doesn’t that give you the tiniest bit of buzz?”

“Buzz. Sure. But also when I want to keep the day job. Gotta get up in like,” he lifted the pillow from his head and squinted at the alarm clock, “too few hours. Wanna sleep.”

“Sleep is for wimps.”

Xander said nothing, realising with clinging hope that if he said nothing, if Spike didn’t have his audience to goad, maybe, just maybe, he’d shut the hell up.

And sure enough, all heavens and hell dimensions be praised, Spike continued to probe with the caustic comments until he too fell silent.

Before Xander passed finally, blissfully, into sleep, he heard Spike say, “Same time tomorrow, yeah?”

~*~*~*~*

Sunday, 19th September, 2004

“So, nice digs,” said Spike, after Xander had mumbled an invite into his apartment. He hoped he wouldn’t regret that later.

“You haven’t, ah, lost your soul or anything, like Angelus-style?” Xander said as Spike was leering at his entertainment system.

“Bit late to ask that, don’t you think pet?” Spike smirked. And Xander wondered if there were any stakes to hand and what was the number of that Slayer he’d found in the outskirts of the city? And he had to keep control over his arms so that they wouldn’t start flapping uncomfortably.

“Relax, I’m still all soul-havin’. Remember, I got it myself. No curse attached to it. Not like … D’you have any decent DVDs? All Babylon 5 and Star Trek this that and the next thing and oh! You have Farscape. Quite fancy that bird. She’s all that and then some.”

“Like Buffy?” Xander couldn’t resist.

“If you mean, unattainable as in Buffy, then yes, just like Buffy.” The words came smoothly from Spike’s mouth but Xander immediately noticed how Spike’s fingers tightened in their grip on the Farscape DVD.

“So you haven’t gone on a jaunt to Italy then?”

Spike looked at him, this time his eyes narrowing. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Because Buffy and Dawn are there. Come on, Spike. You mean to tell me that you haven’t even considered it?”

Spike’s eyes wandered away from Xander and toward the direction of the kitchen. With a practised calm Xander couldn’t recall seeing in him, he said, “Do you have any beer in this establishment? Have fond memories of German beer, I do. You know, those Bavarian serving-wenches have a lot of blood in them.”

“What kind of throwback says wenches?”

“Just your kind of nutter, pet,” said Spike, smirking and inserting a disc into the DVD player. “Well, run along then. You must have something to refresh my mouth in the amber nectar variety. You certainly kicked it back when we were roomies.”

“Don’t push your luck, Spike.”

“Whatever do you mean?” he said, spreading himself across Xander’s favourite couch, remote in hand, firing up the television.

~*~*~*~*

Continued in Part 2.

Many thanks to katekat1010 for the banner.

Fic: A Symphony of Memory (Spike Gen) PG

2006-02-15T21:29:38Z

Title: A Symphony of Memory
Author: lillianmorgan
Pairing: Gen fic, Spike-centric
Setting: Future-fic
Rating: PG (for swearing)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
A/N: Written for the darker_spike Dickens and Christmas challenge.
Thanks to gillo and yourlibrarian for the beta.
Originally posted January 16th, 2005

A Symphony of Memory

The year is 2046. The future does not belong to us. We are prisoners to its voracity...

Staff One – Overture - Sonata in D Minor

He had been running too long and this he knew. His body but more significantly his soul knew this too but time is the destroyer of hope when loneliness is your captor. When no-one else you know is alive.

On this occasion, he’d endured a narrow escape from the Purge. He’d managed, despite his best intentions, to get caught in the crossfire between a Resistance guerrilla attack on one of the Purge’s outlying fortifications. His Minder had ordered a large delivery of Black Market goods which could only be sourced from the edges of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart’s Empire. Tricky thing was, that these places tended to harbour the dangerous elements as well, the elements that traded on a language of warfare and death.

And the irony. Oh the bleeding irony, was that he had also got mixed up in a snowstorm. That might have suggested to him that the season was winter. But he had only really been able to judge weather accurately before the Great Drought. Now the vicissitudes of the sky simply had a mind of their own and waged war on the earth, rather than gave it succour.

Now he was lying low, riding out the danger and the cold in a tavern beyond the back of beyond, the goods secured in a hiding place in his room and musing his way around a rather despicable pint of blue beer. Time was, he remembered it well, when he’d enjoyed pints across the globe, sampled the different textures, tastes, sensations and noted with great alacrity which ones got the humans drunk the quickest. But these new fangled times brought hardship, restrictions on travel, restrictions on life (even to those who weren’t, in the truest sense of the word, living). And, bathetically, blue beer.

The girl (and he rather jumped at that particular fact) serving him was dressed simply, in a brown shift, tied at the waist with rope, and barefoot. She could have looked like she was impersonating a sack of potatoes, were it not for the places where her bones jutted out instead of soft, sinuous fat. But this tavern was run by two Jagwar demons, who were Sympathisers, which could only mean that she had been caught up in human trafficking. And that, too, would explain the nasty rope marks branded into the skin surrounding her wrist.

He tried to smile at her, but somehow his lips wouldn’t bend. Despite his passing for human, which might appease her, she probably knew, like him, that no-one was as they seemed, and dropping your guard inevitably meant death. Vampires had long since preyed on the good will of humans, and so they always would. She placed the pint in front of him, silently, averted her eyes and moved to the next table. He would not have given her another moment’s thought (he couldn’t, not anymore) were it not for the younger girl who ran up to her. She was pure, dressed in blue, and unshackled unlike her sister. She stood before Spike, and smiled. He had always had a way with young girls – which was most unfortunate for her.

Memory danced with him then and flung a gauzy, soft material across his face, and in the places he could see, he dreamed. Of a girl. With long brown tresses that framed her face in loss and defiance, blue eyes that looked upon him with pre-pubescent desire, and hands that had placated him with the gift of unconditional love.

“Mind,” the serving-girl whispered in urgent tones to the Dawn-look-a-like, pushing her back to the room behind the bar, but it was too late. The demon clientele had smelt the air tinged with nubile, fresh teenaged flesh and had begun to murmur.

The serving-girl returned to stand beside where Spike was sitting but her eyes were jittering everywhere across the room. It didn’t take much more than a few minutes, before a Renflem demon got to its feet and roared. It was ugly, as all demons are prone to be in the eyes of a human, with reddened horns that curled from the top of its head to its neck, an enormous snout and cloven hooves designed to crush.

It staggered toward the bar, and the small, Jagwar demon behind the bar, held out its hand. He received a bag of gold and held open the door, behind which the girl was whimpering.

“No!” screamed the serving-girl, and ran toward the bar, but she was backhanded by the Jagwar’s mate. Her limp body flew across the room and she landed, obligingly, at Spike’s feet. He looked down at her, as she tried to heft herself up, tears overflowing from her face.

“Hush, pet,” he whispered, against his better judgement and grabbed hold of her arm. “Or you’ll both die.”

“But she’s my sister,” argued the girl, twisting in his impenetrable clamp-hold.

“Right, but who’ll tend her afterwards?”

“Will there be an afterwards?” she countered, still persisting in her jerking movements to get away from his hands.

“Might be. That’s why you need to hold still. Preserve yourself.”

“What good’s that for me?” she whispered, but her words were drowned out by the screams of her sister. Spike swallowed and turned his head.

“Too late now, in any case.”

**

He mounted the stairs with feet far too heavy to bear. He wondered if his conscience rested in his feet at this moment for all they were causing him grief. He shook his head. He couldn’t get involved in petty human disputes. Not now, not ever, not since … besides, he had his own problems. And keeping outside the radar of the Purge was one of them.

He unlocked the door to his room, first priority checking on the goods. Still there, still safe. Nearly two hundred years and he knew how to keep things safe. Could have made a damn fine petty thief if things had been different.

He stretched himself out on the rickety bed, placed his hands behind his head and, noting the stillness about him, decided it might be feasible to get a bit of kip. Just a bit, though.

Stirring from slumber, he felt a presence in the room. He peeled his eyes open, as if they had been sealed shut, and when he focused he saw a girl. No, not just a girl, the girl. The one who had died at the hands of the overzealous Renflem demon.

“I died,” she whispered. Her voice came at him, like an autumn breeze, tender at first but biting once it reached the bones. Softly, behind her, he heard an echo, light and flimsy in its delivery, “She died,” followed by another, deeper and duller in resonance, “I died.”

“You didn’t save me.” The first voice intoned.

“You didn’t save her.” The second voice whispered.

“You didn’t save me.” The third voice grieved.

“My body, broken and bloodied.” As the dead girl spoke the words, the faces of the two apparitions in the chorus gradually appeared behind her and Spike gasped in remembrance.

“Her body, broken and bloodied,” whispered the second girl.

“My body, broken and bloodied,” shouted the man.

“My name is Elektra. And you did not save me,” screamed the girl, rushing toward him, her ghost-body passing through him like an electric shock.

“My name is Dawn. And my sister died because of you,” cried the second, and Dawn’s body shook and shimmered out of reality.

Spike sat up and cried, “No! Please don’t!” grasping at the air around the last ghost’s body.

“My name is Liam. And you killed me.” Angel’s sheath-like body flickered around Spike, taunting and diving at him, until he gave Spike release and rose to the ceiling like smoke from a fire.

Spike threw himself back upon the bed, and shook his head in grief, crying, “No, no, no,” over and over until he could no longer force the hoarse whispers from his throat.

He turned over in the bed, wrenched his eyes shut, willing sleep to deliver him from his misery. But when he opened his eyes he was no longer in the bedroom.

A voice called to him, “Well, hello there. And welcome to Wolfram and Hart.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staff Two – Largo in B Flat Minor

He sat up, amazed and well beyond perturbed, and promptly fell through the desk he had been perched on. Looking around him, he identified the surroundings as those belonging to the girl once called Winifred Burkle. He was sitting in her lab inside the Wolfram and Hart offices of the early twenty hundreds. He recognised them, but that didn’t stop his eyes tripling their size in shock as he tried to attune himself to the change.

“Not exactly what I had in mind either,” said the woman, standing opposite him. “Would have been nice to land in a jacuzzi in Maui. But, apparently, this is all about you.” Then she added with sarcastic humour, “Champ.”

“What?” was simply all he could find in his vernacular to say. The room was exactly as he remembered it. Or imagined it. Because this could all be a dream, his mind playing another round of poltergeist hootenanny.

That was when he discovered that he wasn’t resting against the desk from which he had fallen off, but rather through it.

“Not bleeding again!” he roared, watching as his hand passed through the floor.

“Shame about that, really. But what can you do? I can only appear to you in the offices formerly known as the LA Branch of Wolfram and Hart. Your mind takes you back to one of your happier memories here. Apparently that was with Science Girl. You know, I really should call you out on that. What is it with that fucking girl? Is it the glasses? It’s the glasses, right? Makes you all wanna protect her. Lousy taste in women all you English guys have.”

Spike frowned and this time, focussing his energy to remain on rather than through the floor, he trained his eyes on her. She was good-looking. Hell, she was good-looking. And he wasn’t just thinking that because he hadn’t had a decent lay in … not even thinking that. Tits bulging, eyes glittering, legs sheathed in black silk up to her armpits. Spike smiled, but he knew her instantly. She was dressed to kill.

“Don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced, pet,” he drawled.

She clapped her hands. “Good one, Spike! That’s the guy we all know and love. My name’s Lilah Morgan, Attorney at Law. And, thanks to you, Charles Gunn owes me a coupla hundred bucks.”

“Charlie?” Spike asked.

She grinned at him, like a feral cat, rather than a sex kitten, and continued, “You’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, Spike.”

He blinked, then straightened himself up. He wasn’t going to let this hoity-toity jumped up bitch push him around –

“You’ve been running away from the Purge and the other minions of Wolfram and Hart like you’re a little fraidy cat. You’re like a cat that’s been neutered, all pathetic, balls chopped off, more like. Wolfram and Hart are really not very happy with you at all. But best of all?” She leaned toward him, and brushed her lips across his cheek.

He felt that, he bloody well felt that. Then he smelt her lips frosted in peach-scented lip gloss as they slithered their way across his cheek. He urged himself not to, but he couldn’t help turning his face to meet her lips.

“Best of all?” she breathed across his lips, quirking her own then stepping back to stand over him. “We’ve been having so much fun watching you. You’re providing such amusement to the team. We had a great Christmas feast last year because of all the money that was flying around the office. And we want to do it again this year. Not that we’re great gambling types, but you know, gotta find your fun somewhere, right?

“But this time, I got a lot of money says that you’re gonna stop running from Wolfram and Hart. You’re gonna stand and fight back. Right?”

Spike stood and walked toward her. “Yeah?” he drawled. “Thought you worked for Wolfram and Hart?”

“Did I say that?” she asked innocently, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. “Your memory’s obviously playing funny tricks on you Spike.”

“What’s all this about?” he growled, trying to grab her arms. His own fell through her body and he tumbled forward.

“I was told you had a terrible temper. Geez, they weren’t lying there. Got yourself in all sorts of knots, haven’t you, Spike? Need to get them untangled so you can work things out. Gotta think about the important things in life. The things that keep you fighting.” She started walking away from him, toward the exit. She turned back and smiled.

“Wait!” he yelled trying to run toward her, but his feet kept slipping through the floor.

“Oh and Percy says hi!” she trilled, before disappearing down the corridor.

“WAIT!” he screamed, but it was too late, he was falling and falling and falling and –

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staff Three – Minuet in E Flat Major

He was in the Magic Box. He knew that not just from the telltale surroundings, but also from the fact that he could sit on one of the tables in the back area. Could sit there and swing his legs effortlessly back and forth, back and forth and when he wanted to he could hit his leg against the corner of the table and listen with glee to the resounding ‘thunk’ that echoed around the room. No more non-corporeal bollocks for him, thank you very much.

It looked the same as his memory was trying to convince him. Before Red did her thing and brought Hell to Sunnydale. He could maybe even place the time precisely to the odd and fragrant condiments on display. He’d lurked about enough, when trying to do anything but pay attention to the damned Scoobies and their mitherings. It must have been early on in the Magic Shop days because he could still count the number of newts’ eyes to exactly –

“Having fun?”

He spun around, half expecting, hoping, really dreading to see her or maybe her sister, but instead it was someone … better?

“Tara?” His voice was incredulous and wavering in anxiety.

“Spike,” she nodded, then smiled and wrapped her arms around him. “It’s been too long.”

“You’re telling me, pet,” he said, then, quite without meaning to, he forgot about restraint and laughter escaped from his body. “You’re telling me.”

She stepped out of the embrace but kept her arms wrapped around his own. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m looking alive. Or rather, not dust.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes dancing, that were too soon covered by her framing fringe.

“What do you mean…?” he asked. His face creased into a frown and he was slapped in the face with an anxiety he knew he should have felt from the beginning.

“Oh Spike,” she said, instantaneously and he wondered if it was her witchly ways or something more sinister that had picked up on his unease. “I didn’t mean to … I mean I w-w-wanted to … it’s supposed to be about you.”

She hung her head and the smile was wiped from her face. “It’s not good when I stutter, Spike. I’m nervous. About what’s to come.”

“Pet?” Despite his worry, the chivalric side of him that emerged at the sight of a distressed woman flew to the surface. He patted her arm, and gave her a lopsided grin, before raising his eyebrow and turning the smile into a smirk.

She punched him in the arm. “I’m not falling for that, mister. We’ve got important work, here. Important things to discuss.”

“We do?” he asked. “Perhaps we should discuss how your heartbeat’s dashing itself out of your ribs?”

She stepped away from him and spread her arms about her. “Remember … do you remember this place … I mean not the Magic Box, because I’m sure we both remember that, but I mean this exact place, this exact moment in time. What it meant to me? What it meant to you?”

He shook his head and tried to form words that he couldn’t even comprehend himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, luv. This is all a dream. It’s not real.”

“It was real, what you did for me on that day. What the others did. How we stood as one.” Her face shone with beatific grace upon him and he felt all tension swoon from his body.

“I don’t … understand …” He felt himself moving as if through molasses, as if he could hardly think or feel or be able to exist unless he was moving at minus velocity.

“We all remembered what the most important thing is in life. The reason why we fight. Not for money or fame or the need to be right … but for something much richer, much more important. You taught me that. Buffy taught me that. We all taught each other that.”

She turned to him, and brushed tentative fingers down his face. “You’ve not much further to go, Spike. Not much further. I hope I could give something back to you … to repay you for your kindness.”

She stepped from him and walked toward the exit, swinging the door open, the chime of the doorbell echoing inside and outside his body. “Remember we’re all watching you. She’s watching you.”

And she passed through the door and into light. And Spike could only think to scream, “No! Don’t leave me!” before all became black.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staff Four – Scherzo in A Minor

The stone floor was cold against his cheek and all about him was blood. Blood from the market, the pigs’ and cows’ and sheep blood running as it had for years down the floor and out into the drain system of a clogged up Victorian London. But this time, there was human blood. A massacre. The sweet tang of fear and horror clung with such vigour to his senses that he nearly wept. It had been so long since he had been this side of a massacre, too long.

A foot kicked him in the ribs, a dainty foot, but nevertheless one that caused his bones to sing in pain. “Well, get up.”

Bloody, buggaring, bleeding hell.

“You do look a dishevelled mess,” she said, eyes hard as flint, nose sniffing in disdain.

“Darla,” he greeted. “Got some tricks for me too?”

“Hardly, dear boy. That’s not my sort of thing really is it?” She stepped forward and without warning kicked him in the shin. Well, he thought, as he hopped about on one foot and raining curses upon her, she never did anything with a warning.

“I am so disappointed in you. So disappointed.” Her voice juddered in a rage that ate into his bones, his marrow and his soul.

“You don’t deserve to be alive,” she continued. “You don’t deserve to feel the ground upon which you walk.”

“He does then?” Spike asked, knowing the answer before the question was posed.

“Yes, he does. Of course he does. He is brave and strong and fighting for what he believes in and - ” She stopped suddenly and a flimsy mask fell across her features. The rage that had filled her up, vanished and a snide smile took its place.

“Dear boy,” she cooed, cupping his face in her hands. “Do you remember this place?”

“Why do all you bints sodding well ask me that?”

“A question with a question. You must know then.” Her voice dived in and out of a playful, treacherous tone.

She tapped her foot and he realised that she was waiting for him to tell her. He pulled himself up as tall as he could go and decided to stare her out.

That lasted for all of forty-five seconds.

“Spittlefield Markets,” he said, all in a gush. “Site of our first massacre. Where you and Angelus and Drusilla brought me. As … the four … as a family.”

“William,” she pronounced, clapping her hands in mock celebration, “I see you haven’t lost all of your faculties.”

“So?” he asked, spinning around, “why here?”

A disgruntled sigh forced itself from her body and she slapped his cheek. “Insolent boy. Do you learn nothing?”

He shook his head in disbelief, then turned angry. Taking a step toward her, and weighting his voice, dripping with menace, he said, “I am not that same vampire, that you knew Darla, if I want to, I could - ”

“Did Angel, for he was Angel then, did he ever tell you about my boy?” Contrarily, Darla’s voice was light and effervescent, as if she had been transported somewhere else.

Spike stopped stock-still and, in surprise, waited.

“Perhaps he introduced the boy as his own. Angel was good at that wasn’t he, bending the truth to suit his purposes?

But the boy, such a sweet, devoted, messed up boy. I gave him the gift of life. I gave him my body so he could have his own. I gave him - ”

She stopped, and in the very first moment of his entire existence, Spike witnessed a tear welling at the corner of Darla’s eye. As if she recognised this too, she spun around on him.

“And you!” She yelled, taking a fist to his chest, and with each word beating and beating against him. “You insolent, degraded, good for nothing, lowly speck on my boot who has refused to help him -”

The pain took hold of her and finally, she collapsed against him. Spike could not summon the energy to do anything but gather her in his arms.

They stood together for many minutes, Darla heaving tears from her body, slowly but surely ebbing and waning as Spike brushed his hands down her luscious curls, a thing he had always dreamed of doing, but in this moment wished somehow that he was not. But he was, and emotion filled him so that he was complete.

He felt her body tense, and she jerked her head away. “You’ve got to go to him, Spike. Think about your family - ”

But her voice was wrenched away from him, he was nowhere and then somewhere. And with that he woke with a start in the bed in the tavern and felt, disconcertingly, a presence in the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Staff Five – Finale - Rondo in G Major

He peeled his eye open a fraction, and recognised the girl from the tavern. The girl who had lost her sister at the hands of a demon. A girl seeking revenge on the end of a stake.

She lunged toward him, hoping the dark would act as benefactor and screen her intent, but his vampiric eyes caught her movement and he parried her attack with a practised efficacy. He disabled her progress, wrapping his body around hers, and knocked the stake from her hand, watching it soar across the room and land against the wall.

He should have been furious and he should have snapped her head from her body in repayment, as he had countless times before. But he didn’t.

Was it the night’s travails that made him go against his better judgement? The weird visitations that had been forced upon him, the memories distilled, disturbed, fractured through lies, honesty and the day-to-day meanings we find in the middle.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know, but with a grudging realisation of what he should do, he instead wrapped his arms around the girl and rocked her wailing body until she subsided into sleep.

When dawn came, and brought with it the usual cloud-heavy skies, perfect for all sorts of demons to exist under, he rose from the bed and gathered his belongings. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but the girl stirred and opened her eyes.

“Did you kill me?” she asked. Then softly, almost too serenely to bear, she whispered, “Am I in heaven?”

“No,” he muttered, “on both counts.”

“But…?” She gasped and could not finish her sentence.

“I’m leaving,” he said, a cold finality edging his words. “I know of a place. A group. Guerilla fighters. You would … be safe there. They’re all human and they would take care of you. If you come with me … if you trust me … I will take you to them.”

“You didn’t kill me,” she said, her voice still swept up in a dream.

“Pinch yourself and you can tell, luv. Or do you want me to prove it to you?” He grabbed at her, and she cowered. He was angry, at himself, at her, at the world, at the death of so many loved ones. But there was one still alive. He would go there.

“This group,” she stammered, clasping her arms around her body, “they’ll look after me?”

He nodded, taking the question as an assent, picked her up from the bed into his arms, and walked from the room in long strides without a backward glance.

**

He had always been a tracker, and so it was not difficult to find them. When he did and he was nearly staked on sight, he was grateful for the girl’s presence. She acted as intermediary, explaining their situation, their flight and journey, the weight of his soul.

The fighters were rough and hardened with experience, covered in the dirt of the earth and the war, and so they trussed him up and slapped him inside their hide-out, a disused 1940s bunker underneath the ground. They kicked him about a bit, too, for he was a vampire and that was what they did.

When he entered the bunker, he caught the sounds of celebration. Singing, clinking of glasses, laughter. If it was winter, then could that mean …

He was forced against the cold steel wall by two of the burly men, their overwhelming humanity pressed against his own body. Two more walked away down a corridor, their footsteps echoing around him.

He could not tell how much time had passed, but when they returned, he discerned a third pair of shoes. He was spun around and before he could see anything or anyone, he was kicked to the floor. A boot was placed upon his back to still any resistance.

“The vampire asked to speak to you, El Chefe. We were to stake him, but he brought a girl with him who said he has a soul. Does he fit the description? Perhaps you have other orders?”

“Thank you,” said the man. “You have done well. But now you may leave us.”

“But - ” began one of the soldiers. From Spike’s vantage point on the floor, he could not tell what passed, until fingers found his arms, unwrapped his restraints and he was lifted to stand in front of an older man. He was decorated in age with grey hairs and wrinkles, but his blue eyes spoke of intelligence and fortitude.

“You came,” was all he said. “Why now?”

“It’s Christmas,” Spike replied, looking the other man directly in the eye. “And Christmas is a time for family.”

The man coughed, but proceeded, “Will you stay?”

Spike nodded. Then sighed wearily and said, “I’ve kept away too long. I realise that now, and I’m very sorry for that. My place was here by your side. Fighting.” Spike hung his head in submission, but not to be mired in the error of his previous stance, he lifted his head after a few moments and summoned one of his trademark smirks. “But I’m impressed by what I see. Your father always told me to guard a perimeter. I see you’ve learnt that particular lesson well.”

The old man, who was called El Chefe by those who surrounded him, but in another life was given the name Connor, which means much-wanted, strong-willed, smiled.

“And your mum,” Spike stuttered, “mustn’t forget your mum. She’d be right proud of you too.”

“My father said something as well,” Connor replied, “about not forgetting her. I see you were both under her thumb.” He laughed and slapped Spike on the shoulder. “I don’t completely trust you Spike, but will you do me the honour of joining us in our feast?”

“It would be my honour,” Spike said, bowing slightly and following as the other man lead him to the celebration.

Finis

Many thanks to stolen_childe for the banner.

Ficlet: Quiet Beauty (Darla and Connor) G

2006-02-13T20:39:09Z

Title: Quiet Beauty
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: pre Inside Out, AtS Season 4
Rating: G
Summary: Who does Connor dream of?
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
Originally posted November 19th, 2005. For kittyzams.

Quiet Beauty

He dreams of her, sometimes. When his mind isn’t filled with Cordelia and their baby. He has responsibilities now; he’s going to be a father. And like his father before him, he wants to do right by his child.

So it is that she appears only when he sleeps, and that is rare, because as he’s already mentioned he has responsibilities and sleep becomes a luxury now. Especially as the makeshift bed on the wooden floor provides little in the way of comfort. He’s got to be attentive and watchful and all the things he never expected to be in this dimension, but finds is still ingrained, still known. He wonders if his father’s lessons have been learned precisely for this moment.

But nevertheless when his eyes close, and he has drifted away from Cordy, she is there. An angel of the night. Sometimes she hums him a lullaby, an antique song with old-fashioned words. Sometimes she strokes his hair and speaks in a mother’s voice filled with pride and warnings. Other times she is far off in the distance and he grabs on to glimpses of her dressed in bright coloured robes, Chinese silk, French brocades, Italian velvets. She is forever flickering, like one of those old-timer films, hazy in a sepia-world. Sometimes laughing, sometimes disinterested, always commanding.

He never sees him because they’re his dreams and he doesn’t allow it, but sometimes he feels the imposing presence. Like he’s on the sidelines, waiting to be let in on the game. He gets the feeling she misses him. He can taste a melancholy around her, on occasion, that she usually keeps wrapped up inside her. But the dreamscape is only theirs – him and this woman of flaxen brilliance whose smile belongs only to the two of them. It’s secret and delightful and something he can sink into, as comfortable as resting his head on her knee as she tells him a story.

He gets the feeling from the way she regards him, especially when he catches her unaware, or the way her voice inflects over certain words, that she can be wicked. And merciless. And she is accustomed to holding the destinies of others in her delicate, little hands. But he always feels safe with her, it’s as if he knows no other way; he gets the impression that she will never falter, she will never bend in the road of loving him. He doesn’t know if this is a good thing. He has never known unconditional love, and feels uncertain what to do with it. He feels her strength, and wishes he could touch it all the time.

The dreams are fleeting and illusory. He doesn’t want to wake, but he knows he must, because when he opens his eyes he tries to hang on so tightly to her memory. In the waking hours, she is gone, essentially forgotten. No matter what, he has responsibilities.

Finis

Many thanks to momentsintime for the banner.

Fic: In the Darkness (Wesley/Lilah, Angel, Gunn) R

2006-02-07T10:35:14Z

Title: In the Darkness
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: immediately post-Not Fade Away
Genre: Ensemble Wes-centric fic, though Wes/Lilah, Wes&Angel, Wes&Gunn remain the main focus
Rating: Hard R (language, and sexual situations toward the end) And um, kinda angsty.
Disclaimer: I don't own Joss' or ME's toys.
A/N: Thanks very much go to yourlibrarian for the always helpful beta.
My contribution to winter_of_wes.
Originally posted February 2nd, 2006.

In the Darkness

Floating.

That’s what it felt like when he was with her.

Not in some esoteric manner, not as if he were suspended in air and buffeted by clouds or other manner of heavenly imagery.

No, it was more like he was detached from physical engagement. As if she brought out sensation in him and that one bodily response trounced any other that she could elicit.

He would feel the sweat bead at his temples, watch it trickle from his heaving chest, feel the heat rise in the corners of his body and surge to the centre.

Disconnected from thought, trapped in the physical.

***

It was nearly dawn and this was the most immediate bit of information tapping its way into Angel’s brain. Despite the fact that even his bones felt like they could no longer hold up the mass of screaming muscle that constituted his body, he knew he had to keep going. Nearly dawn and that meant he and Spike didn’t have much time. After all that they’d been through he wasn’t about to let the goddammned sun get to him too.

It seemed Spike was on the same page, and he wasn’t stopping to enjoy that moment, as Angel saw him running toward the heap of blood and body tissue that appeared to be Charles Gunn, propped up against one of the dumpsters at the entrance to the alley, still breathing, in shuddering, stilted bursts.

Illyria was seeing to the rest.

“The rendezvous point!” yelled Angel and Spike nodded at him. He tossed Gunn’s body over his shoulder and began loping toward the hotel’s back entrance. Angel kicked and punched at a few Kravlak demons that were impeding his exit before he too turned and ran for shelter.

As they stood in the doorway, they watched in bewildered amazement as the battle played out before them, tips of sunlight illuminating their view.

At some point between the beginning and the, now inevitable, end the demons had stopped attacking Angel, Spike and Gunn. Stopped attacking was perhaps a misnomer, for they had certainly shifted and pitched and forked and dusted their fair share, but there had been a tilt and a moment at some point in the centre of the fury when the attack had shifted its focus away from razing the earth and all its ensouled vampire contents.

The horde had one target and that was Illyria.

Perhaps in some instinctual way the demons knew that she was the most competent fighter, the one being able to destroy them outright and thus had focussed their entirety on her. But it made no sense to Angel, no sense at all. Not when he thought he had been the main target.

Watching now he could appreciate that she was liquid blue wrath in motion. She more than held her own, but she was weakening, as she had been since she had destroyed Fred, trapped inside a vessel much weaker than the contents it housed. Unable to fulfil her potential for mayhem because of humanity.

Beside him, Angel could feel Spike twitching. He was a loyal beast, this Angel knew and nearly always exploited, and he had somehow developed a sense of chivalry for the Blue God. Whether or not his sappy soul couldn’t quite shake the memory of the dearly departed Texan Girl he wasn’t sure. Angel’d long since managed to differentiate emotion from end-result and right now he didn’t care if the world ended, as long as he, and those he cared about, survived.

“Angel,” Spike muttered, “we gotta help Blue. It ain’t right. We can skirt around the edges of the building, use the shadow as protection and knock off a few of the number attacking her that way.”

Angel stared at Spike, long and hard, using his most effective tool, silence, to persuade Spike ‘No’, picked up Gunn, and walked further into the Hyperion Hotel.

“Board up the doors, Spike,” were the only words he flung over his shoulder.

When he reached the lobby, two men paused, turned and looked at him. Lasered him with intense mirroring blue gazes that pitched and heaved him to the floor, invoking the memory of emotion, and causing Gunn’s still-barely-breathing body to sprawl out underneath him.

“Dad!” exclaimed one and rushed forward grabbing him up and he did the first thing he could think of which was to hug him back. Behind him he heard Spike’s footsteps stop and over the top of Connor’s head he caught Wesley’s bewildered look.

“You survived,” he heard Connor breathe into his ear, in a wonderment that would have stopped his heart had he had one. “You survived.”

***

It was easy to figure out why he might engage in shagging her if you knew nothing about her. If you saw them together, laughing over fruity cocktails in some swanky L.A. bar, you would say to yourself, “She’s hot.”

And you’d be right in that summarisation.

Legs that went to infinity, tits primed and perky, long brown hair cut to reveal her perfectly shaped face, her strong and intelligent grey eyes.

There was nothing about her that wasn’t hot.

But the moment you saw an inkling of her personality you might waver, ever so slightly. A tiny frown might crease in the centre of your forehead and you might alter your original assertion to, “Too hot.” And then, belatedly think, “And what the devil is he doing with her?”

***

The first thing after that that Angel registered was Wesley bending down to examine Gunn. He caught Angel’s eye and said, “We need to get him to a hospital, Angel. Immediately.”

“Can’t go anywhere with the demon bender party out there,” retorted Spike, jerking his thumb and looking glumly between Angel and Connor.

“What is going on out there?” said Wesley, walking toward the exit.

“Wes … wait … no … Illyria,” Angel stuttered, realising too late that for Wesley witnessing the second death of the body of the woman he’d loved might destroy him.

Wesley turned slowly around and looked at Angel, blinking rapidly. Angel walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Spike,” he said maintaining eye contact with Wesley, “report back.” Spike huffed and puffed and left the room.

Wesley fluttered his eyes to a close, blocking off any entry Angel could get to his emotions. “Angel. It’s imperative we get Gunn to a hospital.”

“I know, but Spike and I … we’ll be stuck here. Can you?” Angel heaved the words from his body, too tired to think beyond them.

“Of course,” said Wesley, smoothly, calmly. Angel took a moment to take in his appearance, to take a closer inspection. He was well-dressed – dark pants, brown leather jacket, dark blue turtleneck jumper. Clean-shaven, hair immaculate, face set to steel.

“Wesley,” Angel began, turning to look at Connor, “Illyria said something before the battle … that you had-”

Spike seized the moment to interrupt the question by bursting back into the room and exclaimed, “They’re all bloody gone.”

“What?!” Angel retaliated, swinging his gaze on Spike who was now fumbling for a cigarette, hands tremouring in uncontrollable shock.

“Angel,” Wesley interrupted, while Spike at the same time said, “Gone! What part of that don’t you understand?”

Wesley walked to the door, and peered outside it. “Seems Spike is right. Now would be an opportune moment for me to take Gunn to the hospital. Connor, will you help me?”

Angel felt a wave of unease subsume his body as he watched Wesley take control of the situation. If he thought about it rationally, it did make sense that Wes, calm and in command, having not just fought the hounds of hell, would be able to make a better judgement call on the most important issue in the room. But the problem was that for once Angel wasn’t in control of his emotions. He couldn’t fathom why or what or how, let alone who.

“When you return,” Angel said, as Wesley shook his hand before leaving, “you’d better have a good explanation for why Illyria said you were dead.”

“Of course,” Wesley nodded, then departed, leaving the unanswered threat hanging between them. Connor followed in his wake.

Angel collapsed onto the poof, beside Spike, “Gone then.”

“Yup.”

“How?”

“Dunno. The alley was completely wiped of … everything. But I walked around for a bit, and the air felt like electricity. Like a sizzling portal had whammied itself open and sucked the contents of the alley straight down into its belly.” Spike punctuated each of his words with a fizz and wheeze as he sucked in and blew out on his cigarette.

“Illyria?” Angel asked.

“Dunno,” Spike answered, and spoke no more words except for the puff of his cigarette.

***

When you die, it is true that your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. You see the moments that have crystallized what you were. The people that filled your life, the ones that stayed in your heart, the ones that healed you, and the ones that sought your destruction.

But if you happen to gasp and squirm and convulse with your dying breath, it is not because of the pain of the wound, or the rush of those memories. Instead, it is the knowledge of all that you could have been. The future that was to be yours had fate not dealt you the hand of death.

And when you wake and you see her, you alter those limits, you change your perspective. You begin to see reality.

***

When Gunn woke, the first thing that registered was pain. Searing pain. In and out and all around his body. Memories came back, fatigue surged through him, and he felt like he was going to die all over again. He was fighting, forever fighting – kicking and punching and carving through demon after demon. Only this time the demon seemed to be the shard-like line that connected him between life and death.

He coughed, then, because the pain was shattering at his nerves and he just wanted to eject it from his body. He felt a cool hand on his forehead, and he blinked his eyes open.

“Hey.”

He blinked some more and wondered if it really was Wes staring back at him.

“Illyria said you were dead.” He didn’t know why these were the first words his brain communicated to his mouth, but once they were out there he didn’t feel shy of them. He wanted to know. He wanted to believe that someone else he cared about hadn’t been sacrificed.

“Well,” returned Wesley, his voice dipping slyly out the comforting tones he had begun with, “she was wrong.”

Gunn wanted to say something more, but his body had other more pressing matters and he passed once more into the blackness.

When he woke again, hours, days, even years later, the pain had gone, and his first thought was, ‘I’ve finally kicked the bucket.’

But when he turned over in his bed, he saw Wesley slumped in the seat, reading a trashy magazine. Gunn grunted and tried to sit up.

Wesley reacted immediately, and got out of his seat. “Easy, easy,” he said, gently, positioning his hands beneath Gunn’s feather-light body and helped him move up the bed.

“Pain’s gone,” Gunn observed.

“That’s possibly because they’ve just injected you with the next round of morphine.”

Gunn nodded. That made sense. Much more than the fanciful idea he’d come up with that Wes had magicked away the pain, just by his maybe-dead, maybe-alive presence in the room.

“What’re you …?” Gunn began, leaving the sentence open with a possibility he couldn’t face.

“Just rest up, Charles. Rest up, I’ll explain everything when I don’t run the risk of you collapsing back into unconsciousness the moment I begin the exposition.” Wesley smiled gently, and Gunn wondered if he was speaking from experience. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve just gone ten rounds with Mohammed Ali, George Foreman and Mike Tyson.”

Wesley’s smile deepened. “But not Lennox Lewis?”

Gunn grunted in laughter. “Nah. Piece of limey chicken …” He started coughing again and took some time to recover.

Wesley turned from him and poured water into a plastic cup. “Here. Drink this.”

Gunn gripped Wesley’s outstretched hand. “Is it really you, man? You’re not just a figure my whacked out imagination has dreamed up?”

“Real as the hand you’re holding on to,” Wesley replied, even though Gunn no longer had the stength to grip, but whose fingers grazed over Wes’ hand. “Drink up,” Wesley urged again.

Gunn took a long draught but fixed his eyes intensely on Wesley.

“Will you rest, you think?” Wesley asked gently, once Gunn had relaxed back into the pillows, his nostrils caught with the surrounding ambience of hospital sterile.

“Yeah. It’s what I do best, right about now.”

Wesley smiled at his joke. “It’s just … I should get back … Angel and Spike … and … the others, they’ll be wondering how you are. I have a cellphone. I’ll leave the number at the hospital front desk. In case there’s anything. Anything you need, Gunn, and I’ll be back. And I’ll bring the others with me.”

Wesley stopped and contemplated Gunn for a moment. “Is there anyone I should contact … that would be missing you? I know that we should have continued to share these things … and I’m sorry that we stopped that. I want to make amends for that. Restore the balance.”

Gunn stared at Wesley, trying to fathom the meaning and portent of his hesitating speech. He felt the tiredness take him over again, and could only manage to answer, “No. No-one.”

***

He never knew why she didn’t turn and walk out of the bar. Why she didn’t laugh in his face, or tip her glass filled with Scotch across his trousers. Fight back with a jagged curse that would wound him far more effectively than severing her neck from her shoulders.

Why, indeed, she returned the feelings so fervently. Why she strove to impress when he advocated indifference.

Perhaps they were both lost, and seeking a redemption for past sins and misdemeanours. But in all the wrong places. Two wrongs make an even worse complication.

No matter how delicious they are.

***

When Wesley walked back through the front doors of the Hyperion Hotel, he was greeted by three intense faces regarding him with different expressions – one open, one ambivalent and one very, very guarded. He shifted uneasily at the entrance, wondering about the validity of his welcome.

“Gunn is still alive, but slipping in and out of consciousness. He’s recovering, but the prognosis looks more positive than twelve hours ago,” he informed them, taking the opportunity of the message to step further into the room. “I have asked the hospital to keep me primed with information, should his status change.”

Connor smiled at him. “That’s good to know. Thanks Wes.” Then as if reciting his lines from a transcript, he turned to Spike. “Wanna come and find some food, Spike?”

“Sure thing,” Spike agreed, nodding his head and striding from the room. He passed by Wesley, but the look he gave him inspired a shiver to pass up Wesley’s spine. Vampires, remember, not the most accommodating of creatures.

“So, Wes,” Angel murmured, after Connor and Spike had left, leaning against the front desk, “alone at last.”

“Indeed,” replied Wes, rocking back on his heels.

“Wanna explain this whole, coming back from the dead gig? I’ve had some experience with it. Hoped we could compare notes. There’s an air about you … like … you’re off.”

Wesley shifted his weight from foot to foot, then moved and sat down on the poof. He calculated in his mind that this deference to Angel’s standing position might soften Angel somewhat, give him the illusion of power he might think he still had over Wesley.

“I’m not dead, Angel. I don’t know what gave you that impression. Whatever Illyria told you was wrong.”

“Come on, Wes,” replied Angel not moving from his position. “You can do better than that.”

“Frankly, Angel, I’m somewhat distressed you would take the advice of a Hell God you feared and despised over a trusted colleague and -”

“Why would Illyria lie then?”

“I cannot presume to understand the workings of her mind. Whilst I did spend long hours researching all and every last scrap of information I could find, one thing I did learn was that one could never predict the unpredictable.” He splayed his hands flat across his lap in a gesture of pacification. “But I do reassure you, Angel, there’s no trickery, I am not dead.”

“Say … I was to believe you,” Angel began noncommittally, “what do you want from me?”

Wesley paused and then looked at Angel with an expression of unreserved honesty. “What have I ever wanted from you, Angel, but to serve you.”

“I’m not your master,” Angel rebutted, thrusting his hands into his pockets, as if the double implication unnerved him.

“But you always were the one I looked up to. The one I wished above all others would be my friend, my greatest ally.” Wesley stopped and looked beyond the French doors to the outdoor conservatory. “The rift that fractured and widened between us, Angel, caused me the greatest pain in my life. More so than the ignominy of my disgrace after Sunnydale. More so than any words my father threw at me. More so than the moment I realised Fred loved Gunn, with a greater depth of feeling than she would ever feel for me. If I were able to turn back the hands of time, more than anything, I would take back that event.”

“But you can’t, Wes,” Angel replied, his eyes hard on Wesley’s when he sought his again.

“No, I can’t. But that doesn’t mean the desire isn’t there.”

“To right a wrong?” Angel asked. Wesley nodded but the silent pause stretched between them. Time moved through molasses and Wesley could decipher little of what passed across Angel’s thoughts from his stone-sealed expression.

When he finally realised that Angel was waiting for him to begin the next round of negotiations, he started to frame it in his mind, but was suddenly stopped by a need to tell the truth. To impart any and all information to Angel. To save him.

“Do you trust me, Angel?”

Angel jerked his head back slightly as if stunned by the question. “What sort of question is that?”

“One that I hope you’ll repay with an honest answer,” Wesley kept his voice smooth and soft, but inside his feelings were roiling with anticipation and fear.

“I … don’t know, Wes. It takes me time to form trust. Years. Decades, sometimes.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that. We may not even have time for this.” Wesley got to his feet and began pacing, not being able to contain his nerves.

“It will never be over,” he continued, watching as his feet pounded across the floor of the lobby. His voice grew tighter, stranger and sped to a velocity that was hard for Angel to comprehend. “This is just the lull in the storm. You think you have won. You think the Powers have granted you victory because you are their chosen champion. The victory is not yours, will never be yours. There will always be someone … somewhere coming after you. They may be underhanded, they may not strike at you specifically, they will always attempt the weakest link in your chain of networks. They will - ”

His liturgy was interrupted by an electronic beeping. Wesley cursed loud and long into the gap in conversation.

He rushed toward Angel, and grasped him by the collar. “From inside it devours you, Angel. From the inside, it overpowers you.”

In their pressed position, Angel could discern a vibrating against his chest. It could have been Wesley’s heart which was pounding in and around his senses, flooding his demon with bloodlust, the fear, the intensity of his words overwhelming.

Wesley jumped away and stamped his foot. “Bastards!” he shouted to the ceiling, it seemed to no-one in particular.

Then he subdued, allowed his body to go limp, reached inside his upper coat pocket and withdrew a ringing cellphone. Flipping it open, he answered in his most cordial tone, “Wyndham-Pryce.”

***

He never thought himself in love with her. Whenever she was near him, he registered nothing but the need to fuck her. Or fuck her over. One or the other, he could never quite make up his mind. But love, he had experienced once, and with Lilah it never touched that.

He often wondered, after she died, whether he could have loved her. Somewhere, somehow. If they had all been college school mates, he the bookish nerd and she the head of the Gamma Rays Sorority. Except, even then, a sea of experience would have separated them.

In his office, in his bed, but most disconcertingly in his head, she sometimes lingered. And he wondered if it could ever be possible again.

***

Wesley took his sweet time but finally he walked out of the Hyperion Hotel and around the corner into the shadow of the neighbouring building. Walking inside the doorway, and pausing just a few feet within, he announced, “Hello Lilah.”

“Well, well,” she replied, stepping out of the shadows, “someone’s been very naughty.”

She discerned a sigh from his body, a minor victory to her. Finally he said, “I thought this was to be done on my terms.”

“Nuh-uh. Not when naughty Mr Wyndham-Pryce starts batting for the other team.” She let the double entrendre hang in the air. “Thought you cared for me, Wes. Can’t tell you how disappointed I was to hear you had your tongue all the way up Angel’s ass.”

“Mission one was completed,” he bit back at her.

“No thanks to you. I think a whole lotta demons would be banging down your door arguing that they’d wiped out the blue-tinged priority first.” She strolled toward him, and licked her tongue up his face. “Don’t you?”

It intrigued her after all this time, that she still couldn’t get a rise out of him. She could sense that he wanted her, that his body was humming for hers, and yet he kept that cool, calm and collected exterior icy cold and instead just glared at her.

“Awww, baby, don’t fret,” she cooed. “Your Lilah-kins still thinks the world of you.”

“What happens now?” He stepped away before her tongue probed further and she pouted at him.

“No fair,” and she stamped her foot with mock impertinence, “we ain’t never done it this close to your buddies.”

He was on her then, his hand at her throat, his body slammed on top of hers and her back against the wall. “Don’t you ever speak like her …”

She got what she wanted and he fucked her good and hard against that wall. Well, it started off good and hard, but like she knew he always would, he found his rhythm which turned to sinuous, relaxing rocking as their bodies strummed together. He let her come first, which was a plus and a rarity, and must have meant he was feeling bad. He’d let her down. She could almost forgive him.

He pulled out of her and she licked her lips at him. “That was good, baby.”

“Of course,” was his pre-emptive, arrogant reply, “I know how to please you. Now, I want to go back.”

He turned and strode away from her but found himself stopped by an imaginary shield at the door’s entrance. Turning around, he looked at her, eyes narrowed, and then kicked at the shield. And kicked and kicked and kicked.

“Sorry, Wes. There’s been a change of plan. You’re to come back with me. You’re my Special Project now. Seems we rushed the training and you didn’t take in some of the vital elements of the plan.”

He turned toward her again, and began laughing. Wild, raucous laughing that overwhelmed his body.

She thought she could have said something further, then. Something like, ‘Pulled all sorts of strings, Wes. So that you wouldn’t be sent to a Hell dimension. That I could keep you with me and keep you safe from them. Because you mean enough to me that I would do that for you. So I could protect you and look out for you and make sure you were mine. So that you were never his. Again.’

But she didn’t.

Instead she walked over to him, and slapped his face. “Cut it out, Wes. Sucks to be dead, doesn’t it? Now get over it.”

And she turned and walked away from him. Within moments he was following the clacking of her high heels all the way back to Wolfram and Hart.

***

He remembered the moment when he’d stared at her corpse, willing some sort of animation from it. Willing anything for a rosy glow to paint her cheeks, like the ones she’d always exhibited when she came, calling his name, slumping from the ecstasy into his body.

But she was cold, her skin ashen, and he swore she could have been a vampire. Angelus’ revenge on him. To kill his desire.

Only Angelus – or even Angel – hadn’t cared enough about him to even do that.

In the way that grief overcomes your soul, he wept for her, and sent a silent prayer out into the stratosphere that she would be safe and cared for in the afterlife. That one day they might meet again, and make peace with each other.

But in the darkness, in the depths of depravity he met her again. His soul was covered in a blood oath that bound them together. And nothing ever became possible again.

Finis

Many thanks to katekat1010 for the banner.

Fic: Ten Reasons to Change or Simply Stay the Same (Spike/Buffy) NC-17

2006-02-01T22:34:37Z

Title: Ten Reasons to Change or Simply Stay the Same
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: the aftermath of As You Were, although it’s setting within canon could go right the way up to Normal Again.
Rating: NC-17, but only in bits and pieces
Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Disclaimer: Not mine, such is the woe. Or, possibly, woah.
Author’s Notes: Ten one-offs as to why and why not the Spike/Buffy relationship works and has possible potential to work some more. First person POV, shifting between Buffy and Spike.
Thanks so much to yourlibrarian for all her time and effort on the beta work.
My contribution to the Autumn round of seasonal_spuffy.
Originally posted November 15th, 2005

Ten Reasons to Change or Simply Stay the Same

Catullus 85
Odi et amo, quare id faciam fortasse requiris?
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
I hate and I love. You ask why I do this?
I don't know, but it happens and I am pained.

***

The End

I called him William. Not that there was much to break up over, it had all just been sex. And a bit of feeling, maybe.

I finally realised what it meant to treat him not as a monster, but as a man. That this thing between us was hurting us both. I couldn’t trust him, because when I touched him all I felt was fire and how can you ever live up to that? If someone loves with this burning kind of passion and it’s like all that he ever, ever wanted was me, and it was so intense for him and you don’t feel the same way, what can you do? Really?

Besides, he only saw me. I had other things to worry about. So, the thing between us never affected him. Not like for me. He had the easy out, he’s the demon. I’m just somewhere, undiscovered, in between.

He looked so sad when I said his name and it took so much to push the name past my lips. But I did it and walked away.

To where I’m not really sure.

*

She called me William. Brought all the bleeding memories of that stupid ponce flooding back. After all, that name had only been used as a term of derision – sires, elders, so-called friends, women floating so high as if they were on Icarus’ flight plan. And now her, added to the list of pain.

Should have said something, anything to crawl back a bit of respect. For her to use that name in that moment. Bloody Slayers – always would get the better of me, as too oft protesting sires had claimed.

William. Bloody ponce. Another hurt to add to the liturgy of my distress.

***

Passion

There’s no denying how good he was in bed, no matter how much the level of wig. If I deny it, it’ll only mean I’ll give in and find myself outside his crypt door. Again. For in denial lies the madness.

The things he could do, the things he taught me, the things I bared to him. When I was alone with him all the passion that was trapped inside just came spilling out of me. And that made such a big difference to every other day facing the passionless, monotony of being alive. Not saying good or better, just … different.

He made me feel special, wanted…passionately needed. And I should thank him for that. I really, really should.

But I won’t.

*

Taught the Slayer a thing or two about carnal matters. Only right that it be so. She’s just legal in some states and I’m steeped in experience. But if it were only one-way, well where’d be the fun?

She was insatiable; more so than any human I’d ever fucked. Must be the demon essence inside her that spurs her on to suck the way she did. Then swallow. Beautiful, copious amounts down her willowy neck, undulating and exposing the curve and line and…

That’s gone now of course. Her passion. The thing that lit up the room when she let all instinct and thought fly from her body.

***

Fire

It always sorta confused me how I wanted the fire, and Fate gave me him. He was anything but fire – he was cold and dead and like the grave.

But, then, whoever controlled these things probably knew, like I do, that that was only skin deep. Like that thing he could do with his tongue; not just the touch, the scraping and licking, the mixture of soft and sweet and hard and raw, and the way he spoke too, the things he said, how his accent lulled me or drove me wild to hysterical distraction.

That was his fire. And because I was never cold in those moments, I could never combat it. I always surrendered to his flame.

*

She liked my candles, I think. Used to pass her dainty, little fingers across the top of them, sometimes in my crypt, when the light they gave off was guttering so against the wall, and her eyes would get that glazed look and I’d speak or touch and receive a ‘Come hither’ crooked finger or a back-handed slap.

For a girl who spent her best times in the dark, she was enamoured with the fire. Was it the light? Or was it the deepest, darkest things that only existed at the centre? The wild things that made her soar and shake from pleasure.

For myself, always displayed candles ‘cos I’m a Victorian gent. And maybe kept using them because she liked them. But don’t go whisperin’ that little secret, right?

***

Beauty

The thing with Spike was that his beauty came from contradiction – he looked like this weird punk guy from the ‘80s, hard and brittle, who’d either snap you in two or lick your…you know… if he wanted to. But he also didn’t want to be in control – he wanted to be controlled, because sometimes he was soft and pliant and beautiful at the hard edges.

I’d never admit it but he was beautiful. All sharp, sleek curves and points – he’d say delectable, and probably run his hands over his body and lick his lips and…

Guh...

I broke up with him why?

Yeah, not because he isn't good to look at, because he’s most definitely that. Because a vampire never gets old. Retains that beautiful perfection for eternity. Even if he looked sad and lost and skinny as hell from deprivation of love.

I broke up with him ... I mean it’s not as if ... well, there were other reasons.

*

To see her in the middle of a fight; to still at the centre point of the turning world, stand back and watch, well, it was fucking magnificence, mate. Swirling symmetry as arms curved for greatest impact, and legs spun and shucked their way through kicks and twists. It wasn’t just the violence, it was the artistry – the way she controlled a fight from start to finish, set the pace, decided when it started and when it most definitely reached its conclusion.

It was beautiful. And addictive. And glorious to behold. Unless you were on the inevitable losing end.

And when she caught you unawares, grabbed you by the ghoulies and took you for a ride you weren’t expecting, well…

Liked her hair though. Beautiful tresses. Used to shimmer when the light caressed them from above. Pity she cut those locks off, really. Was the one time she listened to me, I expect, and look where it got me.

***

Scoobies

Sometimes, when it was quiet, and I’d lie beside him, and he’d contemplate me, run his fingers through my hair, sometimes whisper sweet profanities, or just be content to be…beside me, I wouldn’t think of anything but him. Those moments were sweet. But seldom.

If it was quiet and he was quiet, my brain sometimes drifted to wonder what would happen if Willow and Xander found out. If they accepted things…or not. They really hate him, don’t they? Or maybe they only mildly dislike him. I could never tell, sometimes. What if they only rolled their eyes, whispered to each other in sarcastic voices in that Xander-Willow-only-club kinda way, ‘She’s got a thing for vampires. They get her hot.’ Like it’s some kind of badge I wear. With honour.

But that night on the balcony was danger and separation and he taught me that the two could never mix.

*

Those fucking friends of hers. Reason she kept everything hush-hush. More than that, though. Was a reason for the danger, something to make her feel naughty. If she kept everything to herself, it was for herself only, she was being illicit and walking on the dark side with the Big Bad.

Showed her the dark side that night at the Bronze. Watching them prance below in their naïve little way. Still wet for me though, still came gushing and sweeping me up through her divine cunny.

Was it ever about them? Reckon some of it, yes. Truth be told, wouldn’t have wanted to play nice-nice in any case with the two of them, too many hurts on all sides. Liked the quiet between her and me.

Liked to taunt her though. Probably still will. Unless it gets that she hurts me more than I’m hurting now.

***

Spike

He’s one thing or the other, but never in the middle. And so when I became the thing, he never let go, he worked and worked and worked and worked on me, ‘til it felt like I gave up, stood in the middle of the room and said ‘Alright already! Have it your way!’ Except the floor gave way beneath me, and I fell.

He’s devoted, and you’re the only thing that matters to him. He’ll do anything for you – even bury a body that’s long dead. He’ll follow you with his eyes as you walk from one side to the other, making sure you don’t falter. He’ll listen without interrupting to anything you say, no matter how toxic.

He’ll make you do all sorts of things you never thought you’d do – kiss as though your lips were demanding his touch, savour it when he goes down, show you that going down on him is just as fun, finding out that enjoyment can be power and pain rolled into pleasure.

*

Yeah so I’m love’s bitch. What’s more to say?

***

Buffy

I haven’t felt right since they brought me back. Not in tune with the world. Not able to deal with anything that comes at me. Not ready for the ups and downs, just numb and wanting to stay that way.

He and I used to talk and sometimes that helped. Hearing someone else talk about the things that only went around in my head. But when the talking stopped other things took over, and I got majorly good at repressing.

I told him all the things I’m doing to him that I hated in myself. I’ve turned into this person that’s completely alien from everything I believed in – and part of that’s him, and part of that’s me. The weakness and selfishness tasted so good, but how can I love him … when I can’t love myself?

*

Yeah, so the Slayer’s mixed up. Confused. Doesn’t mean she’s confused about me – about wanting to be with me. Sex on a stick and she’s got all she needs right here, whenever she feels like it, she can take it. Serviceable. Using me. Everything she ever wanted.

‘Cept it’s not, is it? Told me so. Told me that she can’t love me and she’s weak and she’s selfish. And I was killing her. Awful lot of dying, in the Shakespearean sense, going on before she decided it was bad.

Probably wasn’t right, really. If I think deep down inside, and listen to the quiet voice that’s always out-shouted by the demon. Not what she needs, not really.

But still love her. Can’t change that, can’t change the way I feel about her. The burning consuming passion just to be with her and make her feel that she is the most glorious creature in this entire fucking universe and if she’d only let me, I’d be all hers.

***

Dawn

Dawn was once in love with Spike. She denied it, but not because he was an evil, soulless fiend, but because she’s a teenager. She was embarrassed I’d discovered her secret, and who shares these kinds of things with your sister? And also because she was carrying a torch for someone whose eyes wandered elsewhere.

Not that I’d ever had experience with the sharing thing, but she used to stand up for him, like some kind of loony, devoted sidekick.

I think, if I’m honest, she’s the one person I’ve avoided all along. The look in her eyes when I tell her. The admission that all I’ve stood for has come crashing down. She’d probably be jealous, she’d cry about how he left her for me (which is true, if you think about it) but most of all she’d look at me with eyes that shriek, ‘You hypocrite.’ And then she’d probably scream and yell ‘Get out’ and it’d be like ‘Yes, totally inadequate sister of the year goes once more to Buffy Summers’ and I’d feel so bad all over again.

Because yeah, Spike makes me feel bad. But in a good way.

*

Missed the Nibblet since the Slayer came back. Thought I did a job, neither good nor bad, but adequate, of minding her. Didn’t die, did she, on my watch? Always kept my promise. Carrying the weight of all that loss with her, offerin’ a shoulder when it seemed necessary, taking up the strain from the others for taking care of her. Thought we had a bond, a deal sealed between fellows.

Trouble was, and always is, that even though there’re two Summers girls, there’s only ever going to be one, yeah? One girl in all the world who’ll work her way into my affection, root herself in by the pointy heels of her stiletto boots and refuse to leave no matter what I throw at her.

Dawn doesn’t belong in there. She doesn’t need it from a demon. And I don’t need it from a teenage girl.

But, I suppose, there’s always love, isn’t there?

***

The Dance

He used to call what we did, dancing. Funny that when you stop to think. I’ve called Slaying – fighting and killing and maiming and murdering, but he’s the one that comes up with the poetic and passionate title.

It’s a dance to the death, only we don’t know whose yet.

If he’d never got the chip, would he still be alive? Would we still be dancing? Would he ever have fallen in love with me? Would I have ever stopped to…?

Considering that we’ve never actually danced, in the traditional sense of the word, I guess it makes him different. I’ve danced with Angel and I’ve danced with Riley. And even a little boogie with Poophead Parker.

Maybe that’s where he was going wrong, or right, all along.

I wonder what he’d be like to dance with? Really?

*

Used to dream of dancing with the Slayer, before all the hot sex came in the way. Dream of taking her out in a fight, mixing in my head with waltzing her round in pretty, satiny dresses.

Intricate complex dance-steps we’d perform, upon great expanses of polished floors, and I’d hold her in my arms and whisper how good she was, how I enjoyed watching her, the pride that swooped up my body just to call her mine.

Dreams can be fickle things.

Always danced with Slayers. Always enjoyed it. The rush of besting a being superior to me. Yeah, I’m a showoff and I know it, so the adulation that followed was probably some of it, but there, in the moment, on my own, just me and her, knowing how to win, how to take a life from something that’s not afraid of me.

Never dance again with the Slayer now, will I?

***

The Beginning

Ok so this is hard. And this is pain. And I hurt so very much. Again. Because if there’s one thing I know too well it’s pain. But he always made me feel. Makes me feel…

And I don’t know if I will be strong, but I know I must. I have to stay away from him. I have to learn on my own. I have to find the Slayer again.

And I have to find Buffy.

And I need to know how I can learn to find my gift again.

Because even though he’s there, and he’s devoted, and things fall apart, and they don’t mend themselves ever. And even though maybe he makes my tummy, my heart and my head swirl around and around, and I lose my focus and maybe that’s a good thing but now he’s gone, I hope he won’t be gone forever.

And even after all that, I trust you, Spike. And I hope for the future.

*

Darkness, that’s what’s in store for me. Without her light to guide me, to shine on me and make me see things differently. Fucking hell.

So, if it’s not her it’s back to what? Dastardedly demon of the night? The Biggest Big Bad? Not back to playing with the cute and furries. Like that’d ever happen.

Only, I’ve lived with this feeling in my chest for so long it’s not like I can undo it. Had a bit of experience with that yeah? Know what’s what on that score. Gallons and gallons of alcohol later and things still are the same. So, yeah, what’s left for me, when the whole fucking centre is ripped and all that’s left is an excruciating, eddying void and I’m pulled this way and that? I mean, I’ve changed, haven’t I?

And I may be battered and broken by love, it may rip me to pieces, but somehow I never forget the sodding how of it, do I?

Or the why. Why I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer with everything I’m not supposed to have – a beating heart, an innocent past and a shiny soul.

And still, after all that, the loveliest sight on this dark earth is you, sweetheart, you that I desire.

Finis

Many thanks to kathyh for the banner.

Fic: In Walked Luck (Spike/Other)

2006-01-31T11:24:26Z

Title: In Walked Luck
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: Pre-Series
Rating: R
Genre: Character Study
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys. Nor do I own Steel Magnolias.
A/N: Many thanks to yourlibrarian for the beta.
Originally submitted to moviequoteminis and based on the quote: "I’d rather have 30 minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” Shelby in Steel Magnolias
Originally posted 30th September 2005

In Walked Luck

You notice a lot of things working the late shift. It’s only ever the younger tourists that come in, they’re usually German and very loud, full of the joys of this untapped part of Europe. Opening our doors to the Westerners with gullible greed at the ready.

You’ve been told by your boss that you have to be polite to these morons who don’t even have the decency to say prosím tě and děkuji vám. They’re bringing in money, much needed power and influence to our virgin capitalist market, he says. You don’t feel particularly political yourself, because you’ve never been allowed to before the winds of change started blowing through Europe. Yeah, stupid song, isn’t it? And, after all, what did the bloody Communist Party do for you except cause you pain? Besides, the former contraband television from America is much more interesting.

Sometimes for kicks you pretend you can’t speak the customers’ language. But then you stop yourself because of your own dreams of the West and getting there, somehow.

There aren’t many regulars because as you were reflecting as you tried to ignore the guffaws from the teenagers from München, this seat, this café, this city are all about flux, the rapid movement from old to new. There is one guy, though, who comes in too many times to be a tourist passing through, and while he’s not here often, you think probably it’s because of the way he looks, like a neon sign for rebel, that catches the eye. He walks in tonight and takes a seat near the bar.

You sidle up to the table he’s taken and ask in your most sarcastic German, “Would you like some coffee?”

He raises his eyebrow, and you notice there’s a very shiny ring through his eyebrow which glints from the reflected light off the Formica table. He replies in perfect Czech that he’d prefer something stronger. Please. Then his long, elegant, pure white black tipped fingers draw out a cigarette from his pack of Marlboros (Marlboros!) and he flicks a chunky lighter to illuminate his face. You can see he’s laughing at you because your jaw’s dropped to the ground.

“You look like Johnny Strabler,” you manage to whisper.

“Only the hair, and the coat, and the accent are different, pet,” he counters, flicking off his lighter and taking a long, hard puff from his cigarette.

You walk away and return with a Pils and a shot of vodka.

“Are you American?” you ask, trying to keep the reverence from your voice.

“Not bloody likely,” he erupts.

“Sorry,” you whisper, afraid you’ve displeased him because somehow you’re drawn to him, his beauty, his dark, delicious power.

“’S alright,” he says, offering you a cigarette which you accept with ready abandon. He nods to the seat opposite him, and you slide in nervously.

“Like the late shift then, do you?” he asks, as he extends the flame for you.

You take a long, delectable pull of the nicotine, savouring the bite as it cuts into your tongue, then the back of your mouth to your throat, before causing a coughing attack that threatens to overwhelm you.

He tilts his head again and you mutter, “Pay’s good but still can’t afford these.” You shake the packet to underline the point.

“Have ‘em then,” he says, sliding the pack toward you. You look at him in shock, until a smile extends from his mouth to his eyes, and you take them off him, mirroring his smile. His fingers pass over yours in the exchange. You feel your heartbeat double time.

“You from around here, then?” he asks, settling back in the chair, spreading his arms in comfort.

You nod, suddenly shy to speak, because when he moved, his coat rustled open, and you can see how his black T-shirt hugs close to his lithe body.

“What’re you doing, then, when you’re not working that is?” he asks, his blue eyes seeking yours as if asking more than the question his mouth delivered.

“I’m studying English at the University. One day, I want to go to America,” you say, proud to share your dream with someone who might finally appreciate it.

He nods, then smirks. “Might have some tips for you then. Been all over America. Might go there after I’ve tired of Prague, should the mood take me.”

“Really?” you whisper, your voice cracking with emotion.

“Tell me,” he says, leaning forward, resting his chin on his palms, “what do you like about America?”

He nods, as you tell him all about Dallas, and the books you’ve got out of the library, the James Dean films your brother smuggled on the black market, your Elvis Presley albums.

The Munich teenagers interrupt you as you’re finishing, but he barks something very rapidly in German at them in your defence. They get all huffy, but a little frightened, and leave a few minutes later.

“All alone now, pet,” he says, as he takes one of your hands in his. “You’ve nice hands, you know.”

Your knees knock a bit but you try to stay cool. After all, you can’t just give in immediately to him. He may be a rebel, and he may be one of the most beautiful people you’ve ever seen, but you’re still not easy.

He looks at you from beneath his lashes, a shy smile at his lips and says, “Mind if I kiss you?”

Apparently, your brain doesn’t function with the rest of your body, because your head nods indistinctly, and he swoops in. His lips are like ice, it must be the beer, but he knows how to kiss, and soon his tongue is probing for entry, and in the sensual moment, you’re overwhelmed and let him in.

Once you’ve done that, his hands are reaching across the table, spreading themselves from your face, to your neck, your chest and he’s making delicious moaning noises as if your lips are the best he’s ever tasted and this is the only place he wants to be. Well, the feeling’s definitely mutual.

He breaks away from you, abruptly, and you nearly keel over from the loss. His blue eyes are painted black with desire, and as he reaches for your hand and coarsely says, “Come on,” you notice his voice has gone sexily husky too.

He half drags you into the alley behind the café, the one where the streetlight flickers like it’s dancing. He attacks your mouth again, this time his hands roaming everywhere, and you try to reciprocate as best you can.

You attempt to drag the coat off his back, but instead he snarls, spins you around so you’re facing the wall. “Watch the coat,” he grinds out and you can hear his zipper lowering.

You look at the wall, feeling anticipation, fear, lust and wonderful freeing adrenaline as he rips off your trousers. It’s all a maelstrom of whispered words, scraping fingernails, sweet and stinging kisses, ice cold heat spreading everywhere. You’ve never met anyone like him before and even if this is a one-off you don’t care because –

He enters you and all thoughts are sucked into the void of pleasure and you’re drowning, you’re drowning, you’re drowning, you’re drowning…

He gets a bit kinky when he bites your neck, which you suppose you should have guessed given the leather coat and the ownership of cool. You hardly notice you're bleeding copiously into his mouth, and that’s about the last thought your brain tells you as your body drops to the ground, your heart fluttering to a close.

The last sound you hear is him licking his lips and those elegant fingers, and then he murmurs, “Just delicious, pet.”

Finis

Just a few things: I didn’t want to give away the setting too quickly but it takes place in Prague, early 1990s after the Velvet Revolution.
prosím tě and děkuji vám mean please and thank you in Czech.
Johnny Strabler was played by Marlon Brando in the 1956 film The Wild One.

Many thanks to lmbossy for the banner.

Fic: Uncertain Victory (Spike/Darla) NC-17

2006-01-29T21:45:48Z

Title: Uncertain Victory
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: pre-Series, 1880/1881
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Darla
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys.
A/N: Thanks very much to yourlibrarian for the helpful beta.
Written for frimfram’s First Time Challenge at darker_spike.
Originally posted 11th September 2005

Uncertain Victory

The Exstasie doth unperplex/ (We said) and tell us what we love
John Donne 'The Exstasie'

Unfortunately, there seemed to be an imminent problem with chafing. This wasn’t quite the way his mind expressed the sensation from the chains secured around his ankles and wrists. He was suspended bodily from the ornate chandelier, completing the centrepiece of the room (well, Angelus had mentioned words to that effect) only the chains were about to grind off parts of his body he’d rather hang on to. No, his inner monologue was made up of a fair few more colourful turns of phrase that had ingratiated themselves into his speech ever since he’d arisen some months ago. The pulverizing pain was doing a bang-up job of blocking thought processes too.

Newly honed vampiric senses caught a sound that caused his eyes to spread open in wonder. The front door of the Russell Square flat was being pushed open followed by footsteps alighting the landing. Then followed a feminine, “Angelus?” causing a querulous fear to pass through him. Not Drusilla returning to free him from the incarceration created by her Sire, then.

Darla entered the room, running her fingers down her gloves, and then pulling them off. A faint smile played at her lips before she continued, directing her voice a little louder than before, “Angelus, come out you ungrateful wretch and see what I’ve brought you.”

She cast her eyes toward him, and continued, “And what are you doing up there?”

It was most displeasing that the cotton gag rendered him unable to answer her. Which also meant he remained hanging while she left him and amused herself in her room. He could hear a faint laughter as she rustled boxes and clothes, and then a rhythmic swish, swish as she passed a brush through her hair.

Finally, her footfall descended down the stairs that she had ascended an hour or so before.

She stood directly underneath the chandelier, so she could see him, though his vision of her was impaired, and asked, “No doubt this is a punishment for some unnatural indiscretion. But it doesn’t answer where Angelus has gone. I’m going to remove the gag from you, fledgling, and do see fit to answer my questions.” She pulled a brocade footstool and stood on top of it. Surprisingly, she removed the gag fast and sure, her fingers moving with dainty dexterity.

The first thing he did when she released the gag was to take a large and ultimately unnecessary gasp of air. It was one of the reasons he was hanging, to learn he must put away human things. He wasn’t about to tell her that the breath passed a steadying influence through him. She just rolled her eyes and stood down on the carpet.

“Now,” she directed, “where is Angelus?”

His voice, of course, came out croaky and dry. And he wondered just how slowly it would take a vampire to recover from all he’d been through today. “Angelus took Drusilla and they left.”

“That’s all?”

“If I knew where they’d departed to, do you think I’d be here?”

Darla scoffed and turned her head. “Seems as if you can’t go much of anywhere, William.”

“Please, Mistress Darla, I would be ever so grateful if you saw fit to allow me to be released.”

She considered this for about the millisecond of its worth. “Angelus obviously found it a just enough punishment. I don’t wish to interfere. It’s up to him to release you. We shall just have to wait.”

And she stood back up on the chair and, with the same alarming adroitness, retied the gag.

***

The next evening he heard her departure, no doubt to go hunting, for Angelus or food he wasn’t quite sure. His body ached from the cruel contortion it was going through, but he feared this would have been worse had he still possessed life-giving circulation.

When she returned, (how many hours later he couldn’t be sure, he had been unsuccessfully trying to snooze) she stepped once more into the morning-room, removing the pretty, off-white chantille lace hat that adorned her head. “Still no Angelus then?” she asked, a hard tension enveloping her words.

William could but shake his head slowly.

She seem to study him, her eyes drifting languorously over his prone form, as if considering a thought privy only to her. When her head snapped back, he could sense she’d reached a decision, which was confirmed by her reaching for the same footstool. Once more she stood up on it, removing the gag.

“Would you like to be released, Sweet William?” The honey in her voice should have made him tense, but quite inevitably he trusted it.

He nodded once more, imploring with his eyes. She caught his gaze and something flared within her green depths.

“Very well then,” was all she said. He had learned rather swiftly that a paucity of words often worked best on her. Which was probably why he used so many when he had the upper hand. She stared at the chains, before leaning upward for the ones around his ankle. He felt her frozen fingers pass over the inflamed skin, causing a hiss to emit from his lips. Then he felt those same fingers grip around the chains, and with an almost alien Darla grunt, one leg was free. She worked swiftly on the second ankle so that soon he was swinging by his wrists, feet rustling over the carpet. Without much hesitation, one wrist followed another and with a most ungraceful “woompf,” he fell to the floor.

“Poor dear,” she tsked derisively, standing above him on the stool. Stepping off, she strode further into the house and on into the kitchen, her voice calling to him as she left, “I did bring something home, thinking Angelus might like it. His loss, dear boy, appears to be your opportune gain.”

Crawling on his knees, the parts of his body not crippled by pain, he followed her bit by bit and found a plump girl, dressed in a parlour maid’s costume, sprawled beneath one of the kitchen cupboards. Her eyes told that consciousness was lost, but the pedestrian slow thump of her heart indicated she still clung to life. With a demonic surge, he leapt toward the girl, not caring for how pretty he could sup, and sucked the life-essence from her, blood spilling down his chin as rapidly as it fell down his throat. It wasn’t until no more blood could be salvaged from the girl’s veins that he noticed Darla had been standing above him throughout, stroking the curls on his head.

“Angelus tells me you have an attractive mouth. Or at least, he does so in his dreams. Perhaps it might be time for me to find out why you steal so much of his attention?”

William slumped dejectedly, as she extended her hand to his and heaved him to his feet. Slowly they made their way to her boudoir. His body was only just appreciating the blood flowing through him and now he had to perform again? When they entered the room, he glared at her, barely containing his anger. “In a while, yeah? Need to catch some sleep.”

“But of course,” replied Darla, smoothing the sheets, “I’d rather you were at peak condition.”

And with an all-consuming sigh he lay down on the bed, barely noticing as she settled herself behind him, a graceful hand inching over him as he fell into slumber.

***

So it was with a start that he woke hours later and found himself in Darla’s private room. What was even more compelling to his senses, and more specifically his leaping cock, was the press of her cold breasts behind him, imprinting his back with their power.

He felt most certain that this was a dream, and yet he didn’t want to turn over for fear of shattering it. Not that this had been a particular fantasy of his, he had barely got past his human naïveté to accustom himself to Angelus fucking him senseless daily, but it was rather odd and more suspicious that this could be anywhere near to real.

“Are you awake, dear boy?” she whispered softly against his neck. He nodded turning over to imprint the full beauty of her beside him, breasts languid in her horizontal position but nipples engaged and erect nevertheless. “Shall we begin then?”

He nodded again, but this time felt certain he must await instruction. She looked at him warily. “Well, begin then.”

His right eyebrow curved upward in bewilderment, and he did the only thing he knew from this act. Leapt on top of her and forced his weight downwards.

She bucked him off, barely controlling a screech of disappointment. “No, no. That won’t do. Have you never taken Drusilla?”

The sadness inescapable in his expression probably answered her question thoroughly enough.

“Well, well. It’s much worse than I thought, isn’t it?” she considered. Then a cruel smile rose from her lips to her eyes and she continued, “But what a lovely trick it would be on Angelus for me to teach you the finer art of a fucking a woman.”

Hypnotically she began to stroke her fingers from left to right across his chest, letting her sharpened nails scrape his nipples with each digression. “Poor boy, all alone with only Angelus for a tutor. He’s had his wicked way with you, hasn’t he? Used and abused you to within an inch of your life, and never thought to allow you a broader glimpse at the power and the fury.”

Her hands drifted lower to gently tug at the skin over his stomach and hips, then smoothly passed further downward when she grasped his cock. “And my, what an apt pupil you will make.” His cock soared into her fingers, fuelled by her praise, but his brain disconnected ever so slightly. Even in a few months of knowing her, blind faith was never an issue he associated readily with Darla.

“Now, William, just follow everything I say and we’ll enjoy ourselves, won’t we?” She waited for his bewildered nod, before instructing, “Put your left hand to my lips.” He did so warily, placing them at the entrance to her mouth, and then she said, voice remote like a dissection, “Take your right hand and begin to gently tweak my nipples. Gently, now.”

He did so too, and then was startled by her taking his fingers, one by one, into her mouth, twirling her tongue around each finger and laving it with abundant saliva. As she did, she looked up at him, her dark green eyes sparkling with wicked incandescence.

Completing his pinky with a sound pop, she grasped his hand in hers and moved it slowly down her own body. “That’s good, I’ve enjoyed your right hand’s ministrations, now your left hand must learn new tricks.”

She took one of his wettened fingers and guided it slowly past her glistening curls and allowed it to probe her inner space. He made an unnecessary gasping noise as his fingers encountered a sublime wetness.

“Good boy,” she cooed, “now start to stroke it. Use your nail, if you wish. Sometimes the extra friction adds a – ah – well done, yes. Add another finger soon, but let me enjoy this one for a moment longer.”

He did as she bid him, sensation by sensation allowing understanding of the game she was training him in. He noticed with callous joy the way her body bucked at the third and fourth fingers, and how stretching the walls of her cunny allowed a tiny gasp to meander from her lips.

“Alter the touch,” she whispered as her head began twitching from side to side, and he did so allowing rough and smooth movements, a scrape, a pinch, a tickle, a tender caress until he felt the tight space where his fingers were entranced and entrancing clamp down and more wetness proceeded.

Darla’s expression was beatific and she smiled serenely at him. “Something of Angelus must have rubbed off on you, then.”

Because he was young, and slightly in love with Angelus, a sheepish grin overcame his face.

“But poor William,” she clucked, reaching down for his raging member, “something needs to be done about this. Now, you see, dear boy, I’m prepared and ready but the moment will soon pass. If you wait too long I will no longer be in the mood, or if you wish to draw out the sensations, sometimes slow is all the better, but sometimes it’s faster, and faster, and harder that’s much more effective. For now, as this is a learning session, we will attend to you, but just remember a woman’s body is a fine instrument that needs to be plucked to perfection. A man’s is nothing but a stick. Put a little pressure, here,” she stopped tweaking a nipple, “and here,” then jerked his cock upright, “and they bend under the weight of their own delight.

There are many positions to take between a man and a woman. Some of them are similar to what a man does to a man. Should there be another time, we may try something more experimental. But for the moment, let’s recline on our sides. Now, kiss me William.”

He arranged himself as she wanted, then licked his lips in determination, before placing his mouth to hers. He knew she would take over the moment they connected, but his mind stayed focussed when she sighed or didn’t. A quick flick of his tongue, a nip at her cheeks caused imprinted reactions he stored for later.

She broke apart, and he noticed he was breathing. “Now take a finger, test me again. Am I still wet?”

“Yes,” he breathed, when he found she was.

“That indicates we still have time. How is your cock?”

“It’s hard, Mistress Darla, painfully hard. And – and - weeping my own wetness.”

“That’s perfect then. Now place the tip of your cock where your finger just was. See how I shift my weight to allow access? This means I want it. A woman that doesn’t will struggle her mightiest against this one small movement.”

“Do you like it?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

“Like or not like, William, never comes into it. It’s always about the power. Now, I want you to understand. There are two ways I want this, slow and sinuous and hard and fast. That’s why you should-”

With an audacity he wasn’t quite in control of, his body interrupted and took over. Merging a feral grunt, he rushed his cock all the way inside her, so that the curls at the base tickled her own, and his balls slapped with ferocity and rapidity against her legs. When she cried out, he removed it just as quick, before she clutched at him, eyes bulging with desire, and she hauled him back in.

“In and out, William, in and and and ohhhhhhh!”

And he did so just as she asked. Then he noticed that a twitch of his hips had her scrabbling at the sheets, and adding a finger to pluck like before made her violently thrum with something he was vaguely aware of. Too soon though he lost his grip on attentiveness and he was coming and coming and coming.

Darla sprawled across him after they’d finished, allowing her blonde tresses to caress his chest. “Well, now, that was a delightful surprise. I can see I might have some fun with you yet.”

And as his brain reconnected its motor capacity, taking in her supine form, graceful and boneless in front of him, a sly expression spread across his face. He was an apt pupil, after all.

Finis

Many thanks to lmbossy for the banner.

Fic: "The Misty Isle" (Spike, Illyria, Lorne)

2006-01-28T10:27:18Z

Title: The Misty Isle
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: post-Not Fade Away
Genre: Comedy (which swiftly turns to) Angst; Spike, Illyria and Lorne
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I don't own Joss' and ME's toys.
A/N: Originally written for the We Will Not Fade Away: An AtS Post-Finale Ficathon for agilebrit who requested a gen fic with the three characters who appear, a mention of fallen heroes and that the story takes place someplace other than LA.
Thanks so much to yourlibrarian for the ever-helpful beta job.
Originally posted August 25th, 2005

The Misty Isle

Two in the morning was a fine time to be sitting on a hill overlooking the sea at the end of civilization.

Or that’s what it felt like. They’d walked a few good miles to find this spot surveying the harbour. There was only one bloody ferry a day and hiding a Hell God back at the Youth Hostel in Uig, as they’d waited for the nine a.m. departure, had proved calamitous and degrading.

“What are these beasts?” Said Hell God was swatting at herself intermittently.

“Locals call ‘em midgies. Bit like vampires. Suck the blood right out of you if you’re not careful.”

“Yet I possess no blood and the little things continue.” She paused and tilted her head almost ninety degrees. “I feel….irritation and…confusion.”

“Wahay!” Spike cheered, making a little rah-rah motion with his fist, “a new emotion. We’ll chalk that up to what? Five now?”

“It is proper that you keep count of these details, half-breed,” Illyria replied. “If My Wesley were around he would do so. But you must now take up that role.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Seems to be a lot of that going around,” he muttered. He wasn’t happy. The dreary early Scottish winter bit into him, with a vengeance pure and simple, despite his best attempts at wrapping himself up in his coat. Too many moons spent in California where the heat seemed to hang in the air, no matter what the season, had dulled his tolerance to the cold. And this long grass was wet and freezing and miserable – and why was he here again?

“Explain this monument to me, Pet.” Illyria’s imperious voice cut through his inner monologue of complaints. She was directing her gaze to the stone obelisk casting an eerie moon-tinged shadow over the two of them.

Spike stood up and squinted at what was written on the base of it. “Her name will be mentioned in history, if courage and fidelity be virtues, mentioned with honour,” he read aloud.

“Who is this woman that is spoken of so well?” Illyria stood up to challenge the obelisk into a staring competition.

“Freedom fighter by the name of Flora McDonald, pet. Loved around these parts, bit of a female hero who-”

“Winifredburkle has memories of a female hero. This causes some warmth in me.”

“Really,” Spike replied, dryly, “do tell.”

“It is the one you did not meet, the girl who worked with Angel, became a demon and sacrificed herself for Angel’s advancement.”

“Oh, the cheerleader? Er…yes,” he continued, “I met her a few times.”

“Winifredburkle thought her a hero, not a cheerleader.” Illyria turned to look out to sea, as if to contemplate anything but Spike.

“I’ve a few of my own,” he whispered to himself.

***

The ferry ride over to the Isle of North Uist had been rough, but then again Spike had never been a good seafarer. Whilst Illyria transformed into something passing more for a human, and watched the spray of the sea as it hit the back of the boat, Spike found a convenient cupboard in which to hide. If Angel’d been around he would have commented on the remarkable cloud cover that would have enabled them all to stand outside, but luckily he wasn’t, so Spike could hide his distempered feelings in peace.

Illyria found him as the boat docked into Lochmaddy, woollen blanket in hand. He smiled at her, ruefully, but she remained impassive.

“Nice thought, pet,” he said.

She did nothing but hold out the blanket to him, which judging by the winter skies might not be needed. They made a dash for the first building they saw – a bright red steel edifice, covered with an equally blinding grey roof, perched on the road with the sea at its doorstep.

An old, jovial woman greeted them with a “Failte gu Taigh Chearsabhagh!” as Spike charged through the door, and Illyria strode in behind him. Her cheerfulness seemed to waver as she took in Spike’s appearance, probably the first time she’d seen hair dye other than blue or purple, he’d wager, but warmed slightly at the woman behind him. Spike turned swiftly to see Fred standing where he thought Illyria had been.

“I don’t understand,” Fred’s voice said, smiling through her treacly Texan accent.

“It means welcome, my dear. Welcome to the Museum and Arts Centre of Lochmaddy.” The burr in her accent was as strong and rough and protective as if she were stroking them with her voice.

“You speak funny,” she giggled again.

“That I do. But you speak funny to me too. Would you like a tour of the centre or prefer to wander about on your own?”

“That’s fine,” Spike interjected before Illyria’s manipulations got too wearisome, and just wishing for a place to stay and rest whilst the day was young, “we first need to get something to eat.”

“Well, dinna fear, laddie, there’s a coffee shop right through there,” and she followed her extended arm with a warm smile.

They sat down at a table away from the windows, too conspicuous amongst the elderly tourists for Spike’s liking, and sat out the day.

***

It wasn’t hard to find the pub, given there was only one in town. The large sign below the pub’s name, The Jolly Green Giant, emblazoned the words “Thursday Night is Karaoke Night!” in bright pink neon. Seemed slightly out of place amidst the grey and browns of the weather-beaten stone buildings around them.

They walked through the pub’s green doors and saw him straight away. Despite the tweed trilby hat that covered most of his face, the loud and proud red velour suit was more than a little striking. He was arguing mildly with an elderly gentleman, and Spike ventured it wasn’t about the price of hops.

“Now there’s no use, son,” the old man was saying, “when the boy’s got to gae out to sea, he’s got to gae out to sea. There’s no denying that.”

“But he was my one true amigo, my dashing boy in blue. How am I going to cope without him? It’s karaoke night, the busiest night of the week, sweet cheeks. He could mix the cosmopolitans with the best of them, and I’m not disputing his Sea Breeze prowess. Sugar pie, please tell me you’ve got a back-up?”

“Well,” he said, thinking long over the point, “perhaps Morag could give you a hand?”

“Morag’s the loveliest belle this side of the Costa del not so Sol, but I think she might be a bit too old to mix a cocktail?”

It was at this moment that Illyria-as-Fred chose to interrupt their proceedings with a sickly-sweet, “Kaya-no-m'tek.”

And Lorne turned around, his mouth performing a perfect ‘o’, before his legs collapsed beneath him and he fainted to the floor.

The elderly man looked at them in shock before Spike dashed forward, lifting Lorne up to one of the couches. “Went out cold,” he muttered.

“We should do something,” said the old man, before realising he didn’t know them. “If you twa are here for the singing, you’ll no be getting much of it.”

“Nah,” replied Spike, “we’re old friends of Lorne. Come to pay a visit, like.”

The man stiffened at his accent, then continued, irritably, “Didna know Lorne had any stinkin’ Sassenach friends.”

“Girl’s not,” Spike said, gruffly, “she’s from the U.S. Besides, don’t you think you should be directing your barbed comments toward the guy who’s green?”

“Lorne canna help his problem.”

“His problem?” Spike reiterated.

“The poor laddie suffers from terrible sea-sickness. Just the smell of the briny air makes him come over all green,” the man said solemnly.

Spike very much wanted to laugh out loud but was interrupted from that thought by Illyria-as-Fred suggesting, “Shouldn’t we help Lorne?”

The old man nodded. “I’ve got some ice out back, I’ll fetch that. Oh, shouldna we do some introductions? I’m Duncan MacLeod,” he said extending his hand.

“Spike,” Spike replied, ignoring the hand. “Girl’s…Winifred.”

He looked at the two of them, warily. “I’ll gae for the ice-pack.”

He returned moments later and Illyria-as-Fred did her best mothering impersonation, trying to coo in her implacable tones over Lorne and his dead-to-the-world body. Spike stood aside, flicking out a cigarette while the old man considered him heatedly. Lorne came to eventually, and nearly fell off the seat when he saw who was bending over him.

“Fred?” he managed to stutter out. Then blinked a few times and turned to look at Spike. He finally directed his comment to Mr. MacLeod, “Looks like we might have to cancel the evening.”

“Well, what about your friends here? Maybe they can lend a hand?”

“Maybe,” Lorne gritted out through his teeth. “Tell you what, Dunc, how’s about rustling me up some of that sweet potato broth I like so much, huh? That’ll have me up and at ‘em in no time. Then I can do some very important catching up with my friends here.”

Mr MacLeod nodded a few times, then shuffled off toward the back of the pub.

Lorne ignored Illyria-as-Fred and stood up to Spike. “Make her change back.”

Spike shrugged and said, speaking around his cigarette, “You know as well as I, it’s difficult to control the strange ways of a Hell God. Illyria wants to be--”

But he was interrupted by Lorne grabbing his collar in a stronger-than-expected hold, knocking the cigarette from his lips, and growling low and hard, “Make. Her. Change. Back.”

“Oi! No use havin’ a go at me, mate, I’m not the one you’re in a tizzy over. Could break you in two, you know, if I wanted, so I wouldn’t attempt any more funny business.”

“Oh Slim Jeans,” said Lorne, sarcastically, “I know full well why you’re here. Breaking me in two wouldn’t be part of the Angel-plan, now would it? So I’m not letting go, ‘til she changes back.”

“Illyria,” Spike said, clenching his teeth and glowering at Lorne, “we seem to be at stalemate. And Lorne would prefer if you didn’t wear the shell. Please be so kind to appear to us in your complete gloriousness.”

“I do not understand,” said Illyria, swiftly reverting to her blue armour, “the green demon should have pleasant thoughts of the shell. I was only trying to aid our mission of reclaiming him.”

Spike sighed, thoroughly put upon, “Yeah, thanks, so now you know why we’re here.”

Lorne looked between the two of them, then answered wearily, “This can’t be done without a drink in hand. Duncan’s son, Alistair, was a stellar barman, took me back to my Ramon days with his sweet disposition, but he got a call up to the North Sea oil rig. I’m a boy down and need a hand. Fancy the job you two?”

“Job? Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” Spike shrugged, “On the condition though, that we talk a bit first. Lay of the land and all that.” He sniffed loudly looking around the pub, then jerked his gaze back to Lorne. “And no bloody name tags.”

Lorne nodded but moved behind the bar, pulling out three glasses. “No fancy froo-froo stuff either,” declared Spike, walking over to stand by Lorne. “I’ll get my own thanks. And Big Blue and alcohol never mixes well. Make hers a Virgin Mary.”

Spike pulled a pint, Lorne mixed a tomato juice for Illyria and a galactic blue drink for himself and they sat at one of the tables.

“So,” Spike began, “the Outer Hebrides? Didn’t feel like getting found, eh?”

“No,” Lorne replied, shaking his head, “but that’s not the whole story, morning glory. This place is my haven, my relaxation and peace. Need a bit of that good stuff nowadays.”

“Still on the soup, though,” suggested Spike, nodding his head toward the noxious looking drink.

“Nuh-uh,” denied Lorne, “it’s non-alcoholic. Special mixture that my good friend Alistair prepared for me. All part of the regime, the new and improved Lorne.” And he smoothed down his suit for good measure.

Spike sniffed the drink and made a disgruntled face. Lorne looked at him leniently, before asking, “Now tell me, Wonder Boy, how’d he find me?”

“Angel’s a bit clued up these days. What with the lack of brainpower in the operation since Wes departed, he’s looking to outsource in the magickal community, in return for demon-fighting favours. All sorts cross our doorstep. And then he called in a debt with a fairly powerful mage and had him search out your fine self.”

“That the full story?” Lorne asked.

“Pretty much,” Spike asserted.

“So then,” Lorne began, slowly and slyly, directing a penetrating gaze at Spike, “Wes is dead?”

Spike coughed roughly on his drink, trying to pretend that he wasn’t impersonating a startled rabbit and avoiding Lorne’s eyes. “Bloody poofter and his plans,” Spike said under his breath, before continuing louder, “Yeah, sorry, Lorne. I mean, I thought you knew about the…er…final days in L.A.…”

Lorne watched Spike squirm uncomfortably before he relented by continuing, “Actually I already knew that piece of very sad news. Yeah, there are still things I hear about, even here. Global village, remember? You can never be that far out of touch, even when you want to be. I mean I’ve obviously been way out of Angelcakes’ orbit, except that now, for some reason, I’m back in it.”

Illyria tipped the entire contents of the drink down her throat then considered intently the patterns that the juice made on the glass. Both demons stared at her as she stared at the glass unwilling to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them. It was over fifteen minutes before Spike ventured hopefully, “So, Lorne. You coming back then?”

Lorne finished his drink, stood up and walked over to the bar. Combining more of the liquid that made up his previous drink, he added ice and a cherry on a swizzle stick to the mixture. He walked back and slipped in beside Spike.

“Do you know when I first met Angel I had a bit of a crush on him?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Spike rejoined.

“It’s true. All tall, dark and handsome and give me some of that. And, baby, I don’t need to say anymore about the coat, because you’ve got that whole look going on too. I know you hate the broody thing, but that was what made him. All mysterious and gooey.

“But, Slim Jeans, our boy has issues, with a capital I, so I quickly overturned that whole idea. Instead, I supported him in the best way I could, offering good council and some sound listening power, not to mention a few stellar whiskey on the rocks. But do you know why I did it?”

Lorne paused with his story and looked at Illyria, as if in a daze. She fixed her eyes on him in response, and said, “You have my permission to continue, underling.”

“Yeah, that would be some of it,” he submitted. “Angel was a hero. To me and to all the people around him. Riding in to save the day, swirling his big, black, manly coat around him just as the baddies were getting their mojo going. He could be as selfish as my horns are red, but he was a hero nonetheless and I adored him.

“But the more I got to know him, the more I realised he sucked people in. He used and abused all their good qualities until there was nothing left. Until…there was nothing but…a shell of the person.” His voice continued on cracking in sorrow. “People I care about too are gone, Slim Jeans, and I’m not just talking about Fred, Wes and my princess Cordy. We all made a whole heap of sacrifices for him, but I lost a part of myself when I fired that gun. And Angel knew that. He knew it. So he’s not a hero anymore. He’s fallen way below that.

“So you can help me tonight, if that’s what you want. But I’m not coming with you. I washed my hands of that whole situation when Angel turned his back on me. He’s still the puppet-master, swinging those controls, but I made the break, I stepped out from the limelight and into the sun.”

Spike looked toward the bar, considering what to say, but in the end, stood up, brushed his jeans off and simply replied, “I know Angel’s not going to like it, and to be frank, I dunno if I do either. But I understand, Lorne, I understand.”

****

Lorne chose not to see them off before the ferry ride back to the mainland early the next morning before the sun had fully risen, and as Spike hovered under the shelter provided by the shadow of the terminal building, he got to thinking.

Illyria was doing her communing with nature thing – standing before the waves, her blue hair streaming behind her, caught on the frantic winds rolling off the sea, as if her mere presence, the power of her gaze would control the waxing and waning of the sea’s motion. As if her power was ubiquitous and not merely superfluous. It helped too that there wasn’t a curious audience of locals crowding around Her Magnificence. The bitter winter winds saw to that.

Spike struck up a cigarette and puffed on it solemnly. Angel would have the hissy fit to end all hissy fits when they returned to Vancouver without Lorne. It wasn’t immediately apparent to Spike why he was needed, but it was obviously all part of the Angel-master-plan. Maybe he really should have clarified the point before being talked into coming all the way over here because it was what Angel needed him to do.

Seemed to be a significant difference these days between what Spike used to think a champion meant and Angel’s current definition. Even Illyria seemed to have a grasp on the idea of heroes, given her recollection of memories that the monument of the girl in Skye brought back. And perhaps Lorne was the stronger one, because he was the guy who could well and truly turn his back when he knew he wasn’t up to the job.

Still, Spike considered, as the ferry pulled in and he walked over to Illyria, gently taking her by the hand and bringing her down from her spiritual union, he had never and would never give up on those he cared about. He wasn’t about to back away from a promise now. Just, that sometimes, seeing a plan through to its conclusion took unexpected twists and turns, you just had to bend with the road.

That’d make a nice idea for a poem, he thought, as he found a seat out of the way, beginning the journey back to whatever awaited them. A journey taking him and Illyria away from broken dreams and disillusioned demons.

Finis

Many thanks to myfeetshowit for the banner.

Fic: I Am Not Yours (Wesley, Lilah, Angelus)

2006-01-27T03:54:48Z

Title: I Am Not Yours
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: Calvary AtS 4
Rating: PG-13
Genre: General (though mention of Wesley/Lilah and hints at Wesley/Angel)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys. Not sure who owns the film, though it ain’t me. Probably some exorbitantly wealthy movie mogul, chewing on a cigar somewhere in Hollywood.
A/N: This fic starts mid-Calvary though goes AU from there.
Thanks to yourlibrarian for the very quick beta job.
Originally submitted to moviequoteminis and based on the quote: "He isn't dead, and do you know why? Because I haven't killed him yet."- Major Konig in Enemy at the Gates.
Originally posted 19th September 2005.

I Am Not Yours

It wasn’t quite the usual spell, she could sure make that out, but the histrionic shove Twinkie gave Angelus was really unexpected. So was the way he ran around his cell, ducking and diving to avoid the soul-eater’s magicks, screaming “No! No! I’m not getting sucked in!” until the mist swirled around the group searching for a release.

Lilah kept a firm grip on her talisman, despite the putrid smell it was giving off, but Miss Science Queen staggered, and before her knight in shining armour could come to her rescue, she’d dropped her protector. There was a woomph, and the mist dove straight into her body. Lilah noticed too that Gunn, despite the danger, reached across the circle for Fred, trying to catch her on the fall, but had only succeeded in knocking both his own talisman out of his hand and Lorne over in the process. All three went down like a stack of bowling pins – quick, easy and effective. Huh, if she’d known ineptitude was the way to their hearts she would have won years ago. Cordelia was caught talisman-less too, in Lorne’s descent, and it looked as if the spell, now incorporated into their life-forces, had done a first-class job of putting the whammy on them. The four of them lay on the floor, stock-still, seemingly dead were it not for their chests heaving in post-spell exhilaration.

Belatedly Wes screamed to her and the boy, “Keep hold of your talismans!”. Throughout the whole shambles Angelus had stood laughing maniacally like a good psycho should. Sure put the heebie jeebies into her, which a quick glance in his direction had probably told him.

“Great job on that one Wes,” he cheered from behind the bars, clapping as slowly as his excitement would allow.

“Cordelia,” said the boy, rushing toward his fallen, Lilah paused to use the word, but they had been getting pretty cozy, princess. He looked pretty bereft too. Just about the same as Wes as he peered over the slumbering bodies of his fallen friends.

“I don’t know what happened,” he stuttered, hanging onto Science Girl’s shirt.

“Sure you do, Wes. They dropped the ball and left you with an inning and a half on the board,” Angelus interpreted. “Or sorry. You don’t get many things American do you, Wes? Except maybe the women.” A leer in her direction told Lilah all she needed to know.

She tapped her talisman against her thigh. God, these heroes were annoying. Always screwing things up, but instead she said, “Now, now Angelus. Play nice. You could at least admit to some of the responsibility.”

“Tut, tut. Lilah. On the job. Didn’t notice you doing anything but staring at everyone else like a petrified school-girl. If anyone should be shying from the blame game, it should be you. And hey, look, you’ve got Wes all to yourself.”

Wesley chose to ignore him. “Connor. Lilah. Let’s get them upstairs. Settled. So that when they wake up, they won’t have to listen to his incessant needling.”

“If they wake up,” she cautioned, only to receive Wes' stare of steel for her pains.

The boy was strong, so it was moderately easy for them to carry the two women up into a room dusty and decrepit but with two large beds, in a part of the Hyperion where the bedrooms were located. Lilah stayed with them in the room, and arranged blankets over them, as they lay peacefully sleeping, dead to the world, side by side on the enormous bed. Wes and Connor, staggering under the weight of first Lorne, then Gunn, placed the man and the demon on the other bed. Lilah could only smirk inwardly that Fred wasn’t lying with her erstwhile lover.

“Downstairs,” muttered Wesley as he turned for the door.

The boy looked like he’d just been injected with lemon juice, and he pleaded, “I wanna stay with Cordy.”

Wesley's face was imprinted with irritation, but when he turned to look at him, he put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I understand Connor, I do. But they’re safe here. And we need to figure out what’s going on. What’s more important is that. And to keep an eye on Angelus. We can’t do that from up here.”

The boy looked like he was about to object to even that rationale when Wes continued, “You can come back up here, in a while. First let’s get things sorted downstairs.”

The boy turned on his heel and ran down the stairs. Lilah looked at Wes and he motioned her out. Ever the gentleman, she thought as she went, and maybe that was one of the things she liked about him, way deep inside in the places she kept hidden.

Instead, as they were going down the stairs, she said, “Spell didn’t work huh?”

“Lilah,” Wes sighed, “You’re far too intelligent to just state the simple truth. Let’s not play games.” He seemed weary in that moment, and she tried to think of a time when they were together when he was like that. Vitality was a word she always associated with him more. Exuberance. Talent. Insatiability.

She smiled coyly at him, wrapped in the memory, but he continued on assured of her consent. “It seems most unfortunate, in hindsight, that the spell was almost wholly conceived by Cordelia. I have books and information on the soul-eater and the Chumash tribe, but without the specifics of the spell, it may take some time.”

“Someone needs to be there with Angelus,” said the boy, standing centurion over the monitor. Angelus was humming some kind of ditty and amusing himself by cleaning his nails.

“I’ll go,” she surprised herself by saying. “You need to be all about the research. And I know that turns you on.”

Connor was about to interrupt, and Wes looked like he was caught between the particular rock and hard place that he was. The boy would probably kill Angelus; Lilah just wanted to play.

“Fine,” Wes edged in first, “if you really have nothing else better to do, but take a weapon with you. Here,” he said, handing her a small pick axe, “and I know you can hold your own, Lilah, but,” he paused as his hand brushed over hers, “take care. Be on your guard. Angelus is adept at searching out your weak points and flagellating them to death.”

Lilah, made uneasy by the tenderness of the moment, and Wes’ vacillating tone, instead stayed aloof. “You all forget what working for Wolfram and Hart does. I have no weak points.” And she grinned maliciously and left the room.

“Ooooh, look what a pretty treat Wes has sent me,” cooed Angel as she walked down the stairs, hefting the axe from hand to hand.

“Relax big guy. I’m not getting anywhere close enough for you to indulge in that particular pleasure.”

“Lilah,” he said, moving forward from the back of the cell and fixing her with a delicious stare, “you wound me.” And he dramatically clutched at his chest. “Are you my warden?”

She nodded, pulling up a chair. “You make a prettier warden than the other girls you know. What happened to ‘em?”

“You didn’t catch the big show Angelus?” she said ironically, leaning back in the chair. “Both girls are down for the count. Plus your songful green demon and the black guy.”

“Well, that spell was sure more than we expected, wasn’t it? Always told the children not to go messing around in the cookie jar, but would they listen to me? No.” He shook his head sorrowfully, as if he really meant it.

“So how’s that all working out for you now Lilah? You get to spend some alone time with your beau. He treating you ok? Being the perfect gentleman and all?” Angelus asked, as he rested his hands on the bar.

Lilah flinched at his choice of words, but continued to stare at him. “He’s researching. Can’t you see him up there? Being all studious?”

“Oh yeah,” replied Angel, “just how I like him. Bent over the books and eager to please. He ever read to you when you two were going at it? He’s sure got a raspy, sexy voice does our Wes. Ever noticed how it goes low and deep, like a silk caress, when he’s being serious? Bet he was often serious with you Lilah. Stern and putting you in your place.”

“You don’t know that much about us if you think like that Angel,” she retorted.

“Ah, so there was an ‘us’ was there? For a while? It wasn’t just all about the sex. Or rather all about me?”

“Touché.” She tried not to let her smile falter.

“He was probably thinking about me every time he put it to you, Lilah. Knew he was always frustrated. Always too tied up inside to ever come out and just tell me,” and he clamped his fists around the bars for extra emphasis, “that he wanted me. I might’ve you know. For Wes. He’s one hell of a stud.”

Lilah snuck a peek at the monitor and saw Wesley intensely reading his books. Connor was at his side, feet on the table, rifling through another old tome.

“You said it, Angel. Though, I gotta admit, speaking from experience adds a bit more clarity to your point.”

“You saying I never had the experience?” he asked, running his tongue over his lips.

Lilah balked, hoping that wasn’t true. “You big tease, you.”

He paused and then moved toward the apex of the cell. “Had you thinking there didn’t I? Just for a while?” He laughed then, deep, low and rich.

“I’m good at that, aren’t I? Making people think. Have to admit, Lilah, you’re a tough nut to crack. Gunn was simple, get at the girl. For Fred it was all about her need to be loved. But you? Well, it’s not just Wes is it? Though that leads me to it. No, with you dear Lilah,” and he leaned his face right up to the bars and put his hands out to reach her, “it’s all about what’s hidden.”

He started pacing then at the front of the cell, all the while lulling her with his soft voice. “You and Wes you’re so much alike. Keeping things hidden. Under your hat. God knows how you got it together when there was so much distrust. But, see, Wes is all about the daddy-issues. I’ve got a son, you know Lilah. The apple of Angel’s eye. Except the big problem is that I don’t give a monkey’s cuss about the boy. And I bet Wes thought he could have been an even greater daddy when Connor was born into this world. Thought that if I ever came along the boy would need a strong father figure such as him. That’s why he got all jealous and stole him off me. Because he knew he’d never be a dad, because his own dad screwed him up so much.

Sound familiar does it Lilah? Parents screwing you up?” He stopped right in front of her and bent forward, a leer painting his face.

“You don’t know anything Angelus,” was all she could manage.

“Sure I don’t, cos you never told me. But I see it in the way you walk and in the things you say. You got issues, Lilah, and they may be simmering deep inside. But you got ‘em. Now, if I just can wheedle them out of you all the better.”

“Fat chance,” she said flatly.

“Oh ho,” he said, towering above her, “there’s always a chance. Where there’s a will there’s a way. And it appears from the way they’re both so intent on their research,” he lifted his hand to the monitor, “that we’ve got all night. No-one seems to care what we get up to down here.”

Lilah tilted her head, but refused to answer. She needed to collect herself and fast. It was unnerving being in the room with him, all the time battering away barbed attacks that struck far too close to home.

“So you mentioned being all alone, right? No more Wolfram and Hart, the bane of Angel’s existence. And all you got from that super experience was a rather nasty stomach wound. Bet you’re nervous about that. The big, bad beastie’s comin’ out to get you and all you’ve got is me to protect you. Must have been real tough to come begging on your knees before, eh Lilah?”

“Figured, it’d kill two birds. Besides, isn’t killing and maiming your thing?” she said.

“Only when it pleases me,” he stated tediously, and then switched to a humourous tone. “And hey that’s an intriguing question. Why is it you never killed one of Angel’s crew? Never got around to slicing them open, whacking their heads off, poisoning their tea?”

“Didn’t suit the main goal.”

“Wasn’t in the Wolfram and Hart plan eh? Better to keep us all alive? Knew you were all about me, though, not Angel, but me. But what about the others, surely keeping them alive was pretty dumb. If you’d whacked them off one by one then Angel’d have nowhere else to go. He’d be forced into your arms, Lilah, like Wesley was forced into yours.”

“Cunning plan, Angelus, but that’s not how it went,” she countered, the wood grain of the axe biting into her hands as her grip increased in tenseness.

“Was it ever in the plan to kill Wes then? When he was getting his macho thing on and becoming Angel Mark 2? Bet he was a bit of a thorn in your side then? Professionally speaking of course?”

She paused for too long, and he began laughing. “Oh so it was then! How delightful! But you never did it? Bet you scuppered that at the executive level.” He stood on his tiptoes and said with an affected feminine voice, “You can’t kill Wesley, you just can’t. He’s such a tiger in the sack. And where else would I get my extramural kicks?”

He snapped back on his heels and walked toward her again. “Is that how it played out, Lilah?”

Frustrated, she decided to hit back. “Wesley was always expendable, that’s true. But we kept him alive because we needed to. He was our entrance to Angel, after all. Didn’t you know that? When he was alive, it was for a purpose. And when the time came for him to be dead, well Wolfram and Hart would take care of that too. But he isn’t dead, and do you know why? Because I haven’t killed him yet!”

“There’s more than one way to kill a man, Lilah,” said Wesley as he strolled down the stairs. His dulcet voice belied the wounded expression he wore on his face.

“Took the words right out of my mouth, Watcher Boy,” said Angelus, applauding.

“I think you need a break, Lilah. Connor is upstairs checking on the others. Perhaps you could make me some tea, instead of prattling on with Angelus about unnecessaries?” Wesley asked, as he walked straight over to her, yanked the axe from her hand and pulled her to her feet.

“Touching, touching,” sighed Angelus.

“I gotta play the game for myself, Wes. You know that right?” beseeched Lilah, her eyes trying to tell more than her words.

“Too well,” agreed Wes, pushing her toward the stairwell.

“Too damn well,” shouted back Angelus, as he began humming again. Wesley turned his back on her as she ascended the stairs. They never once sought eye contact as they departed ways.

Finis

A/N: There was always supposed to be more of this. Stay tuned, hopefully I do achieve that before I turn 100.

Many thanks to the folks at banner_grab for the banner.

Fic: Foggy Swirls in a Coffee Shop (Lilah, Tara, Dracula)

2006-01-25T23:43:25Z

Title: Foggy Swirls in a Coffee Shop
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: mid-Buffy vs Dracula BtVS Season 5 (Tara and Willow at the Summers’ residence) and Judgement AtS Season 2 (well, sometime after Lilah’s very fleeting appearance)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss’ and ME’s toys. Nor do I own that old author’s toy.
A/N: Thanks so much to yourlibrarian for the read-through and brilliant suggestions.
Written for the good__evil Challenge #1. To include a ‘good’ BtVS character (Tara) and a ‘bad’ AtS character (Lilah), Dracula, mention of All Hallows’ Eve and a chess piece.
Originally posted 29th November 2005.

Foggy Swirls in a Coffee Shop

Lilah drummed her well-manicured fingernails across the table. This had to bite the big-one - stuck in some hick town keeping tabs on a girl Wolfram and Hart were only minimally interested in. Sure, she was the Slayer, but Lilah knew her potential (unlike that other pesky one) could only be redeemed in her relationship with the Caped Crusader. And he was the vamp they were all far more interested in keeping tabs on. Well, at least for the moment.

And, somehow, that goddamned piece of chicken shit, Lindsey MacDonald, knew that too and had engineered some extra special fieldwork for Lilah in this sleepy little burg. A few hours’ reconnaissance on the girl, then a written report due on Holland Manners’ desk by c.o.b. tomorrow. Just the complete lack of necessity in the scenario made her teeth grind.

Even the lowly mail delivery guy with the weird mask knew that there was something far more exciting going on back in the Wolfram and Hart offices and Lindsey was shutting her out of the Darla pie. She had her suspicions as to why, but like all good inspirations, she’d sit on it for a while. Let him think that he’d managed to get away with it. She was only slightly worried that Lindsey had enough clout to get her sent out of the picture, even if it was only for a day. Playing nursemaid to Darla must really be top-notch priority. After all, Holland knew of their battles and liked the play them up, to sit back and enjoy the sport. But Lindsey was so stupid. As if Lilah wouldn’t have another plan up her sleeve. And, as ever, he’d played right into her hands as this little jaunt gave her just the opportunity.

The waitress walked by her table and Lilah grabbed her elbow, taking the opportunity to order another cup of what passed for Italian coffee in this hokey little shop. She’d yet to fall asleep on the job once, and wasn’t about to let standards slip.

**

Tara’s eyes were still bulging after Mrs Summers had left the room. OK and maybe that was because she was pretty tired, having stayed up most of the night both studiously researching and “researching” with Willow. She knew some kinda quirky and creepy things went on in Sunnydale - even if she hadn’t been able to sense the mouth of hell, there were far too many pale people here by Californian standards - but Buffy running into the real Dracula, the vampire from the books, was just … amazing. It was as if all their confrontations with the supernatural were being affirmed; and not that Tara needed her life affirmed by some nineteenth century middle-class male author, but still. Dracula.

Last night, while Tara had watched Buffy’s animated tale-telling, she had begun, as well, to feel a bit of sympathy for Riley. He had clearly looked left out, but a little voice whispered inside her and informed her that she felt sorry for him because that was how she was feeling too. She could see him trying so very hard to look amused by Buffy’s garrulous story but he wore his emotions too well.

Mrs Summers walked back in and said, “Thanks girls. I really appreciate whatever it is that you’ve done here. I mean, we really are safe now, aren’t we?” It wasn’t hard to spot the querulous way her voice cracked at the end of the sentence.

Willow moved forward and tried her best to reassure. “Don’t worry Mrs Summers. Old Vlad won’t be able to get another look in. Besides, the daylight kinda hinders any movement on the Dracula side of things.”

“You’re quire sure?”

Willow was about to speak again when Tara felt she should intervene. Mrs Summers was clearly upset, and Tara felt sympathy for her, a mother lost, just like hers was. “How about Willow and I stay with you here, and keep you company while Buffy is at Xander’s. But first, why don’t I go and get some cake and coffee, or other refreshments that will help the whole wait and see situation?”

“Awww sweetie,” said Willow, nestling her arms protectively around Tara and stifling back a well-placed yawn. “You don’t have to.”

“No, I don’t,” agreed Tara. “But I w-w-want to. And I hope, I mean that’s ok with you Mrs Summers? Right?”

Mrs Summers looked at her and said, “You’re such a thoughtful girl, Tara. And I hate to admit it, but that does sound like a really lovely idea. I hope you girls don’t mind?”

“Nope, no minding. I’ll go call Xander and tell him the sitch,” informed Willow, heading for the telephone.

“It’s very kind of you, Tara,” said Mrs Summers, escorting her to the door. “Return safely,” she whispered, nudging fifteen dollars into her hand.

Tara blushed and hurried from the house.

**

Lilah sat in the café, idly pushing bits of cake around her plate. Maybe this wasn’t the most exciting of places to wait, (no demons for instance) but the information she’d been given pointed to this coffee house being the popular meeting point. Once she’d nabbed one of them, it was off to find the ‘Dark Master’. She chuckled at the name, but she was so bored she was seriously considering pulling out her cellphone and prank-calling Lindsey. Fate must have been on his side (for this time) because seconds barely passed when one of the Slayer’s hangers-on walked through the door. Well, sighed Lilah, better late than never.

The girl placed her order at the counter, polite niceties streaming from her mouth, and then turned to leave. Lilah timed her disruption perfectly, moving from her chair, cake in hand and managing to make it seem as if the girl had walked into her. Coffee, cake and other sundry items flew into the air, some landing on the girl, Lilah making sure to side step all of them.

The girl yelped in surprise, hopping about and fanning her top away from her body. “S-s-sorry,” stuttered the girl, even though the unfortunate incident was entirely Lilah’s fault.

“Likewise,” Lilah muttered, before she noticed that the girl’s black mesh blouse had half of Lilah’s cappuccino over it. “Oh shit. Does that hurt?”

The girl looked down and then appeared startled to see the stain. “Yes, I think I’m burnt. I mean, it really hurts. And oh… and it was my favourite.”

A tiny bit of Lilah’s heart went out to the girl as she stood there alternating her gaze between Lilah and the milky stain, pulling the shirt away from her body. Lilah huffed and common sense did not win out.

“God! What an idiot I am. I’m so so sorry. Come on,” she encouraged, clutching onto the girl’s arm. “There’s a restroom out back.”

Once inside, Lilah ran the cold water over the dishcloth, that the staff had provided, and handed it to the girl. “Should I buy you a new one?”

“What?” said the girl, shocked again as if by the sound of Lilah’s voice. Then continuing to dab generous amounts of water over her shirt, she said tightly, “I didn’t get it in Sunnydale.”

“The money then?” Lilah offered.

The girl’s mouth turned down. “It was kinda ... irreplaceable?”

Lilah knew she was coming close to blushing, the girl’s quiet, polite rage being far too sincere to be a hoax for more money, but still she said, “Well, not much I can do then is there?”

The girl opened her mouth to argue but instead let out a loud, drilling scream.

**

She hadn’t meant to scream, really she hadn’t. But the problem was she’d been looking in the mirror to gauge the stain removal and when she turned back to tell the annoying woman just what exactly she thought of her, she’d seen him.

She’d known instantly that it was Dracula, although probably her mind’s feverish workings ever since Buffy’s story had helped with the recognition. He gave the impression of being forever in motion, swirling in between reality and dream. He was tall, with flowing black clothes and long dark hair, and was looking at them like they were two ripe apples.

The woman turned around and began laughing. “Oh please!” she exclaimed. “I knew this town was Demon-Hicksville, U.S.A. but do you guys really have to frolic about in Halloween costumes all year round?”

Tara gasped at her audacity and the woman contemplated her. “What?”

“Tha-tha-tha-tha…” Her nerves were really getting the better of her.

“Allow me, little one. I am Vlad, Prince of Wallachia, also known as Vlad Tepes, Vlad the Impaler.” He paused as if summoning up the correct amount of histrionics for his final word and rolling it around his mouth before caressing it out between his lips, “… Dracula.”

The woman’s laughter turned to high-pitched giggling and Dracula pulled himself up to his full, imposing height.

“You choose to mock me with your attempt at All Hallows’ Eve humour? I had thought that you might make intriguing paramours and grant you the gift of eternal life. But, perhaps, instead I will just kill you.” And he moved swiftly forward swooping in on the woman, grabbing her neck between two boney white fingers. He lifted her off the ground and she began fighting his embrace, kicking at his knees. “Be at peace, little one,” he continued, passing his other hand across Tara’s face putting her body into paralysis. The shock took a while to register, and then she noticed that she could move her arms and legs, only it took so long for the thought to run from her brain to her leg that it really didn’t seem worth the effort. And, she was feeling quite sleepy.

“Let go!” the woman screamed, which came out as a pathetic screech because of the pressure to her windpipe. “Or you’ll have the entire legal force of Wolfram and Hart on your back.”

Dracula sniffed. “A fair warning. But I have not lived this long without developing the necessary wiles to forestall such a threat. If I were not to kill you, tell me, what might the Wolf, Ram and Hart have to offer instead?”

“The girl,” the woman said, indicating toward Tara. “She looks like she’d have pretty scrumptious blood, doesn’t she? Mmmm mmmmm.”

Dracula looked Tara up and down, savouring every ounce of her body. Tara felt the weight of his stare consume her in a spreading, blushing heat. Ok and now she was finally getting the tall, dark and penetrating good looks message.

“She is a cohort of the Slayer’s. It may not be practicable. And it is not yet time. Besides,” Dracula mused, turning the woman toward him, “I have other ways and means to her.”

He looked at the older woman for elongated minutes, drawn out through time like taffy on a stick, before suddenly letting her go. She hunched over on her knees, spluttering continuously.

“But,” he pronounced, “it would be advisable to keep all possibilities open and within easy reach.”

Lightning fast, he seized the two of them by their wrists in an unshakeable hold and pulled them down the hall. As they were moving, (well, Dracula and the other woman were moving, Tara was more drag-shuffling) Tara summoned all her powers of concentration and fumbled desperately at her charm bracelet with her free hand.

Dracula swung open the door to a storeroom and Tara attempted to lunge at him with her bracelet. The plan had been to brand him with her charm of the Celtic cross, but she ended up dispiritingly flinging the one of the dark queen at him instead.

“Little one,” Dracula chided, before slamming the door in her face.

Tara slumped against the wall in the dimly lit room, the stasis relieved from her body, just as the sound of his feet diminished, with Dracula’s every retreating step. This really had to bite the big one. So much for trying to help out. She shook her head but reassured herself with the thought that it could be worse. She shuddered to think what might happen to the other woman. Although she had sorta got Tara into this whole mess in the first place, she couldn’t help to feel a bit of sympathy, possibly aided by the fact that Tara had noticed that she had really, really great legs. She sighed, and maybe she could let her thoughts wander a bit. Not too far from Willow, but maybe just a bit.

Perhaps this was a side effect of Dracula’s spell, but she really didn’t feel like moving. She stroked her charm bracelet, feeling for the links, wondering what it was she should remember. Her fingers fell repeatedly over the black queen, and this made her think of ... Willow! Would Willow come to her help? Would she even notice that she was gone? Maybe, in time. But first, perhaps, she’d just close her eyes, for a brief moment, just to let the stasis wear off and then…

**

“I have a car waiting for us, and don’t you worry it comes complete with necrotempered glass to trounce that darned sunlight issue for you.” They stood together in the plentiful afternoon shade that the back of the coffee house provided them. Once the Wolfram and Hart trump card had been revealed, Lilah had noticed that Dracula was a lot more amenable to her situation.

He blinked at her slowly as if running through his mind what she had just said and she stifled another giggle. It really was hard to take him seriously when he played so hard at being Dracula.

Lilah spoke slowly and clearly this time. “There’s a car outside waiting for us. I can drive you home, and you don’t have to worry about the sun. I think I have something that might interest you?”

“Your choice of welcoming gift left something to be desired. And while you have some panache, your delivery was a little underwhelming. As I remarked earlier, I have my own effective ways and means to the Slayer.” He peered at her down his nose, running his eyes over her body before flicking them away like a dismissal.

“Slayer Schmayer, Wolfram and Hart have bigger plans for you.” And Lilah flipped out her cellphone. “Petersen, we’re ready.”

The SUV with darkened windows pulled up right beside them, and she made sure that no sunlight caught any of Dracula’s person as they alighted. He looked around the car, passing his hands over the seat, as Petersen pulled out of the driveway. “This is ... notable.”

“Yeah, we’ve had some dealings with vampires to get in practice. And I’m really glad you like it but hey, let’s move on to the main game. Liked your little demo back there, very inspiring. See you’ve got it working really well on humans.”

“I too have had practice.” His voice was distant as he looked out at the passing surroundings, raising his hand in and around the softened sunlight.

“That’s just great, champ! But how would you feel about a little downtime in L.A. after your rendezvous with the Slayer? I’ve a little problem I’d like you to deal with. And, what’s better, I believe you know her. Even, maybe, a score to settle?”

“It is true that I know of most people.”

“Yeah but you know her, as in Darla, sired by that other Master. And what I’d like you to do is work your mojo on her.”

Dracula turned to face her. “I was informed that she is dead.”

Lilah’s face broke out into a broad grin. “Not any more, raised by the significant power of Wolfram and Hart from the dead. She’s alive and breathing and walking around our offices. So how do you feel about a little reunion with her for old time’s sake?”

“I never did care much for that side of the family.”

“But I bet you care for other things - like shiny new cars with special windows that don’t let in the sunlight, right? We’ve a whole team of experts working on how to make a vamp’s life easier in the twenty-first century. Bet you’re keen to know some of that?”

Dracula turned to look out the window once more. He upturned his face and let the sun gently caress his features. “I am known for my love of the old ways, but a vampire must continue to exist. After so long, I thought I would not remember what it feels like. But this pleases me, and so.” He paused, Lilah assumed, knowing full well the experience of negotiation. “I agree to your plan to meet with Darla.”

“I knew it! I knew you liked your luxuries, you old devil -”

“But first, to which you already alluded, I must experience the Slayer. In person. We have a date with destiny and I wish to fulfil that.”

“Whatever you say. Petersen!” She clicked her fingers together and he reached inside the glove compartment for her business cards, which he then passed back to her. She took the first one from the top and passed it to Dracula. “You meet and greet the Slayer and then we’ll be in touch.” And Lindsey’s plans for Darla will be down the drain, and Lilah will make a beeline for executive control.

She smiled then, and looked out at the streets as they drove through them. Well, the sleepy little burg had something going for it after all.

**

“Sweetie?” Willow’s voice was distant and subdued, as if she were caught in a storm.

Tara peeled an eye open and saw Willow standing above her, with two of the Espresso Pump’s staff standing behind.

“Oh,” was all Tara could manage.

Willow nodded her head. “Thanks so much, you guys. We’re gonna have to get some kind of restraining order on this guy. He can’t just go around locking people up in cupboards. Really!”

Willow carefully clasped Tara’s elbow to her. “You came for me?” Tara whispered.

“Of course, I always will baby. To the ends of the earth.”

As they walked out of the storage room, Willow and Tara again thanking the staff, Tara managed a further whispered question. “How did you know? Was it ... l-l-like our bond?”

Willow stiffened slightly and then continued, “Strangest thing. We got a call from an anonymous woman, telling us that you’d been locked up. Dunno how she got the phone number or how she even knew, but I thought I’d better check just to be safe. Would be so awful if you were locked away all through the night.”

Tara felt relieved at her mystery benefactress, perhaps somehow she had managed to escape too. Maybe her dark queen had saved the day. And then a slight chill ran through her body. A good turn did deserve another, even if she had a tiny inclination that she was being manipulated. She leaned into Willow’s embrace, and let her shuffle them outside.

Finis

Many thanks to selene_2 for the banner.