Beta: theladymerlin and proofread by hulettwyo
Status: Complete - 5 very small parts - a total of 6,500 words all in all.
Disclaimer: The characters belong solely to Joss Whedon et co. This is purely written for fun.
NB This is my attempt at a slightly fluffy/silly story with nearly no angst and without M/M. Expect het CANON!Spike.
Begins after 'Never Fade Away.' Angel season 5.
He landed hard on his back and was stunned for a minute as all his borrowed air whoomphed out of his lungs.
After a minute or so, he was able to take in the surroundings. The surface was soft. One less cracked skull to worry about. Gingerly, he flexed his limbs. They didn’t feel broken, either. Good. He opened his eyes. Stars were shining from a black night sky.
Sudden sounds from nearby fighting stirred him into motion, making him do an instant kip up born out of sheer reflex. It was a bit too soon after the heavy drop he’d just taken however, and he had to reach out and brace himself against the nearby wall, panting a bit. Slowly he caught his breath and balance, and glanced around.
It was certainly not the fight scene he’d been in earlier on because he wasn’t standing in an alley in LA anymore. Below his shining boots was grass and around him were uneven rows of tombstones. Back in a bloody cemetery, and dressed as an obvious target. Perfect.
And what about his mission? One minute he was talking to Wes and the next he was back on Earth. At least, he thought he was. But he didn’t know what his assignment was. That hardly seemed wise? Had he been sacked before he’d even gotten started? Bloody hell!
No, if that were the case, he’d probably be roasting in said Hell right now. This place didn’t feel like any Hell, he’d seen and felt. This place felt like home.
More fighting could be heard. He was standing close to a vicious scrap, judging from the sounds of blows and pained exclamations, behind the crypt he was leaning up against.
Above him, the moon shone through a few thin scattered clouds. From what he could see of the stars he was back in good old America. Could be Sunnydale, if that place hadn’t been sucked down into the Hellmouth. Cautiously, he moved a bit closer to the corner of the crypt to see who was fighting and how many they were. And what they were.
“That’ll teach ya!”
A bright female voice sang out strong and clear before he’d gotten a good look. And the sounds of fighting momentarily ceased and so did Spike’s ability to think.
“Oh, don’t be shy, fellas. I know he was the biggest and the baddest of you, but there’s still plenty of room for more vampire dust in this town. Why don’t you let me show you?”
Spike pulled back and had to lean up against the crypt to keep from toppling over.
That voice! It was her!
He could hear her harrumph impatiently on the other side of the mausoleum and then the commotion resumed.
Each utterance, each oomph, and argh was like music to his ears. He could picture her, swirling about, hair dancing around her beautiful face as she dealt out death after death with her stake or her hands.
He wanted to watch her, wanted to help her, but he couldn’t get his bloody feet to move. Slowly, he slid down until he sat on the grass, trying to process what was happening.
He didn’t realize that he was crying until he felt cold tears running down his cheeks. He used the back of his hand to wipe them off and sniffed hard.
He couldn’t just sit here. Ever since they’d left Rome, he’d regretted that he hadn’t gotten to see her. Hadn’t talked to her. Truth be told, he’d regretted that ever since he’d been resurrected. He knew she was better off without him and yet there was that nagging sense of betrayal on his part for not contacting her. If it had been the other way around and he’d been the one thinking she’d died and later found out that she had in fact come back to life again without telling him, he’d have walked right out into the first sunrise.
But then, Buffy never needed him as much as he needed her. Never loved him the way he loved her.
It had been very sweet of her to tell him she loved him there in the end. To grant him such a gift. And still, he hadn’t been able to accept it. Because she shouldn’t, should she? Soul or not, he was still wrong, wrong, wrong. He knew it and she knew it.
Sod it! As much as he wanted to go out there and show himself to her, he just had to scramble away and let her be. He’d had this discussion with himself a thousand times already and he’d always come to the same conclusion. Nothing new about it, really. Except of course, this time, she was only a few feet away.
Perhaps this was his special mission. To prove to the heavenly wankers once and for all that he could be a good little demon, and could resist the temptation and stay off their Chosen One even though she was practically right in front of him.
Yeah, that was probably it. It would break his sodding heart, of course, but when was it ever whole?
He pushed himself off the wall and walked determinedly away from the melee and the love of his life.
As he walked, he frantically clapped his new duster’s empty pockets for a fag and a lighter that obviously weren’t there. A smoke would have been bloody nice just now. He’d sussed out what to do and he was bloody well doing it, but couldn’t they at least have given him a sodding cigarette for comfort? Bastards!
Final part can be found here :)
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