A Little Persephone
Aug. 20th, 2008 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
botiasI've got bits and pieces that have been sitting on my desktop. I've got a more-or-less outlined Chapter 11. I need to sit down and do something about that. I don't think this bit is spoilery, but it is perhaps a bit cliff-hangery.
As soon as Spike stopped the car Buffy opened the door and got out. She looked around. They were atop one of the foothills east of town. To the north was Sunnydale in all its glory, to the south the pale line of the road bisected the scrub until it vanished into the gloamy unknown.
It was a popular make-out spot. Which—would be why Spike knew about it, of course. Buffy wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. He liked a little sex with his blood.
Buffy turned; Spike had his forearms braced on the roof of the car and was watching her over it with a fond expression. Buffy didn’t have a clue what to say.
She opened her mouth. What came out surprised her as much as it did Spike, “Was it you who killed that teacher on Parent-Teacher Night?”
Spike looked at her like she had thrown a handful of pretzels at him and done the hula. “You want to talk about that now?”
“When do you think would be a good time, Spike?”
He raised his eyebrows and spread a hand, like the answer was obvious. “Never?”
“Was it you that night?” She circled the car toward him.
Spike made an incredulous noise. “What does it matter? People die all the time. Hell, woman, I almost killed you that night.” He seemed genuinely confused.
Buffy grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the side of the car. She brought her stake down over his heart hard enough to bruise.
“Was. It. You.”
For a moment Spike shook his head, his mouth worked, then something in her face made him go still, his jaw slack.
A shift in his expression was her only warning. It should have been enough. As it was, she ended up on the ground several feet away, choking and gasping from the boot to her diaphragm.
Struggling for breath, Buffy watched from the ground as Spike ambled toward her in game face.
“Yeah, I killed him,” Spike said, his voice deadly soft.
Buffy watched him hold out his hands, skull width apart. He flexed his fingers savoringly. And then he whipped them up and apart, miming the snapping of a neck.
Buffy felt herself grow cold; for a moment she thought she was going to be sick.
Spike let his hands fall to his sides. “I killed him because I wanted to. Because I could. I killed him because he was born to die.”
As soon as Spike stopped the car Buffy opened the door and got out. She looked around. They were atop one of the foothills east of town. To the north was Sunnydale in all its glory, to the south the pale line of the road bisected the scrub until it vanished into the gloamy unknown.
It was a popular make-out spot. Which—would be why Spike knew about it, of course. Buffy wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. He liked a little sex with his blood.
Buffy turned; Spike had his forearms braced on the roof of the car and was watching her over it with a fond expression. Buffy didn’t have a clue what to say.
She opened her mouth. What came out surprised her as much as it did Spike, “Was it you who killed that teacher on Parent-Teacher Night?”
Spike looked at her like she had thrown a handful of pretzels at him and done the hula. “You want to talk about that now?”
“When do you think would be a good time, Spike?”
He raised his eyebrows and spread a hand, like the answer was obvious. “Never?”
“Was it you that night?” She circled the car toward him.
Spike made an incredulous noise. “What does it matter? People die all the time. Hell, woman, I almost killed you that night.” He seemed genuinely confused.
Buffy grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the side of the car. She brought her stake down over his heart hard enough to bruise.
“Was. It. You.”
For a moment Spike shook his head, his mouth worked, then something in her face made him go still, his jaw slack.
A shift in his expression was her only warning. It should have been enough. As it was, she ended up on the ground several feet away, choking and gasping from the boot to her diaphragm.
Struggling for breath, Buffy watched from the ground as Spike ambled toward her in game face.
“Yeah, I killed him,” Spike said, his voice deadly soft.
Buffy watched him hold out his hands, skull width apart. He flexed his fingers savoringly. And then he whipped them up and apart, miming the snapping of a neck.
Buffy felt herself grow cold; for a moment she thought she was going to be sick.
Spike let his hands fall to his sides. “I killed him because I wanted to. Because I could. I killed him because he was born to die.”
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no subject
Date: 2008-08-21 11:44 am (UTC)Of course,
Are we to assume that Buffy's blood is enough, and Spike isn't feeding? Or that Buffy is wilfully repressing?
no subject
Date: 2008-08-21 04:44 pm (UTC)