Spuffyficathon, Part 9
Sep. 18th, 2004 12:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookTake two. Note that this is not the actual end, although it is the end to the road trip segment. However, there will be a rather extensive epilogue. Previous chapters here.
Dirty Back Road, Part Nine
----------
The ride back to Sunnydale didn't take anywhere near as long as Buffy had remembered it taking on the way there. Granted, they'd already traveled part of the way before setting off, but it seemed like only minutes after she'd reluctantly wrapped her hands around Spike's waist before they were pulling into her own driveway, the time in between a barely remembered blur of hurtling through dark forest roads. It was much like a Disneyland trip she remembered from childhood--she'd thrown up on Space Mountain, dizzy and disoriented in the dark.
Spike cut the engine, threw the kickstand on the bike, leaned forward to give Buffy room to step off. She quickly removed her arms from around his waist and wiped her sweating hands on her skirt as if they'd touched something nasty. Pulled the helmet from her head and sucked in the cool night air, just breathed, shaking the sweat from her wind-tangled hair.
The house loomed up in front of them like something out of a fairy tale.
The driveway was dark, unlit. Across the lawn, though, Casa de Summers was golden with lights, a slight blue-white flicker from the TV showing through the front window curtains. The rest of the neighborhood around them was bright with lights too, little islands of glowing habitation along a dark ribbon of street. Over the river and through the woods.
But sitting on the bike, staring at her mother's house--her house now--Buffy felt a chill.
It was probably about nine o'clock in the evening. Willow and Dawn would no doubt be home, probably studying or watching TV. She could picture them sitting on the couch together, surrounded by pizza slices and coffee cups, books open and spread out. She could hear the same low hum of laughter and applause from the television that she remembered hearing the evening that she'd left. Last night.
A whole day longer than she'd originally told them she'd be gone.... and it hadn't even occurred to her to call home. Not once. She hadn't thought of Dawn, or Willow, or Sunnydale. Not at all.
"Home sweet home," Spike said then dryly, and Buffy gave a little startled jump. As if prodded by his voice, she slid off the bike, landing on her feet with a thump. She could still feel the vibration of the road in her butt, even though they'd stopped moving, the way the ground still seems to be moving when you step off a ship. He glanced at her, then looked away.
"Probably want to go inside now, I'd expect, back to your friends and all," he said matter-of-factly, pointedly keeping his face turned aside. "Run along then, Slayer. Don't mind me."
Buffy hesitated. His bitterness was so obvious that she could barely hold back a sarcastic laugh--he was nearly begging for her to tell him how disgusting he was, then march off in a huff. And really, he deserved it--he deserved nothing else. Killer of Slayers and a century-plus-old vampire, who was he to get all upset at the idea that she would send him away?
"Yeah, okay," she heard herself saying then, and how inane was that? "They're probably, you know, worried about me." Since I didn't call or anything. She fidgeted a little. Spike just nodded stiffly in response. Neither of them moved.
The helmet was still in her hands. Buffy studied the pale blue battered plastic in place of looking at him, and realized with some surprise that didn't want to go back inside the house. It almost scared her, the force of that feeling, once she recognized it. She really didn't want to see her friends or get back to her life, already in progress. She didn't want this... interlude to be over.
Because it was an interlude, wasn't it? A getaway from her reality. As long as they were on the road, Buffy had felt... not content, maybe, but...
Free.
It doesn't have to be over, she thought to herself suddenly, a giddy voice of dissent in the back of her mind. We could just go. She'd put the helmet back on and get back on the bike, tell Spike to keep going. Keep going. They'd leave Sunnydale and not look back. Go someplace else, somewhere with no bills to be paid or sisters that needed looking after, or best friends who couldn't look at candles without shaking, or demons to be slayed, someplace...
Over the rainbow.
And if it ended badly, what did that even matter? How could it, when home didn't feel like home anymore, and she didn't even feel like Buffy--if they left Sunnydale, she wouldn't be the Slayer anymore, not really... and he wouldn't be Spike either, not the one vampires looked up to, anyway. He'd be someone else. Hers. And if it ended with her stake in his chest and his fangs in her throat, well, at least that would be a death worthy of a Slayer. Better than some.
"You alright?" Spike asked her then, and she lifted her head, startled. Found him staring at her, eyes shuttered but soft. Her own gaze fastened hopelessly onto his face, the face that could look so beautiful at times, even though god knew she'd seen it look ugly, snarling and bestial and vicious... only not right now.
When he finally dropped his eyes from hers, she felt as if something had been snatched out of her hands.
"This is probably the part where you tell me not to come around anymore, isn't it?" He spoke as if to a point in the distance, facing away from her in near-profile. Reflected lamplight from the house painted his skin pale gold.
She swallowed, registered his every movement, every flicker of his mouth and eye and the angle of his throat, as if storing the pictures away in some dark closet in her mind.
"I don't--" She couldn't quite find her voice.
"It's alright, you don't have to say it," he interrupted. He shifted in the seat, began to fiddle with the ignition key. "I'll just--"
"I do want to see you," she blurted then. She'd startled herself. What made me say that?
He blinked then, looked at her. "You do."
Something in her softened. "Yeah," she said. "I do."
He smiled then, a slowly blooming expression that warmed his whole face. "Why's that then?"
Relieved, Buffy let out a little laugh, nearly a hiccup. "Uh, do you care why?"
"Well, not really, no." He was grinning now. He looked genuinely happy, like a little kid. "So, you want I should just drop by the house sometime, or should I wait by the phone?"
"You don't have a phone." She rolled her eyes. God, he's so hopeless. "Just... don't hold your breath or anything. And don't come creeping around here, either. I'll... come by to see you."
"Right," he agreed, then fired up his bike, still smiling. Revved the engine. "Goodnight and farewell, Buffy," he hollered over the roaring engine, cocking his head just so, tongue between his teeth. "Sweet dreams."
"After this trip?" Buffy snorted, her own voice pitching loud enough to be heard over the roar. "Not likely."
"Well, think about me, then." He threw her a wink, then took off, rumbling off into the distance without even giving her a chance to answer. The tailights of his bike had nearly faded into the darkness before Buffy found an answer.
"You wish!" she yelled. Lame comeback, Buffy, she grumbled to herself, then turned to the house, glum clouds gathering over her mood as she realized that no one had come out of the house, even with the motorcycle making noise in the driveway. Huh. Guess they weren't too worried.
She trudged up the front walk, paused at the door.
Sweet dreams. Think about me.
Yeah, right.
She opened the door, and went in.
Dirty Back Road, Part Nine
----------
The ride back to Sunnydale didn't take anywhere near as long as Buffy had remembered it taking on the way there. Granted, they'd already traveled part of the way before setting off, but it seemed like only minutes after she'd reluctantly wrapped her hands around Spike's waist before they were pulling into her own driveway, the time in between a barely remembered blur of hurtling through dark forest roads. It was much like a Disneyland trip she remembered from childhood--she'd thrown up on Space Mountain, dizzy and disoriented in the dark.
Spike cut the engine, threw the kickstand on the bike, leaned forward to give Buffy room to step off. She quickly removed her arms from around his waist and wiped her sweating hands on her skirt as if they'd touched something nasty. Pulled the helmet from her head and sucked in the cool night air, just breathed, shaking the sweat from her wind-tangled hair.
The house loomed up in front of them like something out of a fairy tale.
The driveway was dark, unlit. Across the lawn, though, Casa de Summers was golden with lights, a slight blue-white flicker from the TV showing through the front window curtains. The rest of the neighborhood around them was bright with lights too, little islands of glowing habitation along a dark ribbon of street. Over the river and through the woods.
But sitting on the bike, staring at her mother's house--her house now--Buffy felt a chill.
It was probably about nine o'clock in the evening. Willow and Dawn would no doubt be home, probably studying or watching TV. She could picture them sitting on the couch together, surrounded by pizza slices and coffee cups, books open and spread out. She could hear the same low hum of laughter and applause from the television that she remembered hearing the evening that she'd left. Last night.
A whole day longer than she'd originally told them she'd be gone.... and it hadn't even occurred to her to call home. Not once. She hadn't thought of Dawn, or Willow, or Sunnydale. Not at all.
"Home sweet home," Spike said then dryly, and Buffy gave a little startled jump. As if prodded by his voice, she slid off the bike, landing on her feet with a thump. She could still feel the vibration of the road in her butt, even though they'd stopped moving, the way the ground still seems to be moving when you step off a ship. He glanced at her, then looked away.
"Probably want to go inside now, I'd expect, back to your friends and all," he said matter-of-factly, pointedly keeping his face turned aside. "Run along then, Slayer. Don't mind me."
Buffy hesitated. His bitterness was so obvious that she could barely hold back a sarcastic laugh--he was nearly begging for her to tell him how disgusting he was, then march off in a huff. And really, he deserved it--he deserved nothing else. Killer of Slayers and a century-plus-old vampire, who was he to get all upset at the idea that she would send him away?
"Yeah, okay," she heard herself saying then, and how inane was that? "They're probably, you know, worried about me." Since I didn't call or anything. She fidgeted a little. Spike just nodded stiffly in response. Neither of them moved.
The helmet was still in her hands. Buffy studied the pale blue battered plastic in place of looking at him, and realized with some surprise that didn't want to go back inside the house. It almost scared her, the force of that feeling, once she recognized it. She really didn't want to see her friends or get back to her life, already in progress. She didn't want this... interlude to be over.
Because it was an interlude, wasn't it? A getaway from her reality. As long as they were on the road, Buffy had felt... not content, maybe, but...
Free.
It doesn't have to be over, she thought to herself suddenly, a giddy voice of dissent in the back of her mind. We could just go. She'd put the helmet back on and get back on the bike, tell Spike to keep going. Keep going. They'd leave Sunnydale and not look back. Go someplace else, somewhere with no bills to be paid or sisters that needed looking after, or best friends who couldn't look at candles without shaking, or demons to be slayed, someplace...
Over the rainbow.
And if it ended badly, what did that even matter? How could it, when home didn't feel like home anymore, and she didn't even feel like Buffy--if they left Sunnydale, she wouldn't be the Slayer anymore, not really... and he wouldn't be Spike either, not the one vampires looked up to, anyway. He'd be someone else. Hers. And if it ended with her stake in his chest and his fangs in her throat, well, at least that would be a death worthy of a Slayer. Better than some.
"You alright?" Spike asked her then, and she lifted her head, startled. Found him staring at her, eyes shuttered but soft. Her own gaze fastened hopelessly onto his face, the face that could look so beautiful at times, even though god knew she'd seen it look ugly, snarling and bestial and vicious... only not right now.
When he finally dropped his eyes from hers, she felt as if something had been snatched out of her hands.
"This is probably the part where you tell me not to come around anymore, isn't it?" He spoke as if to a point in the distance, facing away from her in near-profile. Reflected lamplight from the house painted his skin pale gold.
She swallowed, registered his every movement, every flicker of his mouth and eye and the angle of his throat, as if storing the pictures away in some dark closet in her mind.
"I don't--" She couldn't quite find her voice.
"It's alright, you don't have to say it," he interrupted. He shifted in the seat, began to fiddle with the ignition key. "I'll just--"
"I do want to see you," she blurted then. She'd startled herself. What made me say that?
He blinked then, looked at her. "You do."
Something in her softened. "Yeah," she said. "I do."
He smiled then, a slowly blooming expression that warmed his whole face. "Why's that then?"
Relieved, Buffy let out a little laugh, nearly a hiccup. "Uh, do you care why?"
"Well, not really, no." He was grinning now. He looked genuinely happy, like a little kid. "So, you want I should just drop by the house sometime, or should I wait by the phone?"
"You don't have a phone." She rolled her eyes. God, he's so hopeless. "Just... don't hold your breath or anything. And don't come creeping around here, either. I'll... come by to see you."
"Right," he agreed, then fired up his bike, still smiling. Revved the engine. "Goodnight and farewell, Buffy," he hollered over the roaring engine, cocking his head just so, tongue between his teeth. "Sweet dreams."
"After this trip?" Buffy snorted, her own voice pitching loud enough to be heard over the roar. "Not likely."
"Well, think about me, then." He threw her a wink, then took off, rumbling off into the distance without even giving her a chance to answer. The tailights of his bike had nearly faded into the darkness before Buffy found an answer.
"You wish!" she yelled. Lame comeback, Buffy, she grumbled to herself, then turned to the house, glum clouds gathering over her mood as she realized that no one had come out of the house, even with the motorcycle making noise in the driveway. Huh. Guess they weren't too worried.
She trudged up the front walk, paused at the door.
Sweet dreams. Think about me.
Yeah, right.
She opened the door, and went in.