Dirty Back Road Sequel, Part 4
Oct. 27th, 2004 06:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookIt's another slightly cliffhangery chapter, please be warned. Sorry about that. Previous chapters here.
Previously, the sun had just risen, interrupting a rousing argument.
Chapter Four
__________
Abruptly, the air was glowing. The early-morning mist caught the first rays of light, made each shimmering bead of suspended moisture gleam. Then bright Italian sunlight washed over the empty street like a flood of golden water.
Buffy gaped, paralyzed, her last angry words still vibrating on her lips. They'd been so busy arguing that she'd totally forgotten the time. She stared in horror, her mind going into slow-motion mode as one improbably thick sunbeam pierced straight through all the ground cover of shrubs and trees and closely packed houses to hit Spike directly in the face.
... and just for an instant, he was vividly illuminated, all intense and golden, almost exactly as he'd been in the Hellmouth.
No you don't.
Then he was throwing himself backward, diving away from the light with a wounded howl, smoke rising in sharp curls from his hair and hands and face. He stumbled over the curb and onto the sidewalk, back coming up hard against a garden wall and stopped there, unable to move further, trapped. There was no shade in immediate area, no trees. No shelter of any kind.
The surge of deja vu that washed over Buffy at the sight was almost crippling.
No you DON'T!
She shot forward on a surge of adrenaline, both hands outstretched. Grabbed him by his jacket lapels and took them both up and over the high stone wall in a single rolling motion.
__________
They landed with a hard thump in the greenery on the other side, the thick old wall momentarily providing blissful covering shade.
Buffy stared down at Spike, panting. Smoke had stopped rising, but she could smell it on him, on his clothes. He was facedown beneath her; she was lying across his back. She registered all this in a single eyeblink before his body bucked sharply, jarring her hard, nearly throwing her off.
"Let me up," he barked. "Let me up!" She could see his burnt hands scrabbling in the undergrowth, trying to find purchase. His back flexed and heaved.
Wordless, Buffy shifted her weight back onto her heels and lifted herself off.
He sat up sharply, crouching on his heels, and shot her a brief, unreadable look. "Bramble bush," he explained, wiping a hand across his forehead. The motion smeared blood across his face in a sticky trail.
Buffy bit her lip. She could see the punctures now, stab wounds dotted across his face from curved and vicious barbed thorns. His hands were similarly marked and bleeding, the skin red and angry from the sun.
She glanced down. They were kneeling in a thick tangle of thornbushes, possibly planted as an extra security to prevent people from doing exactly what they'd done, climbing over the wall. And now that she'd actually noticed them, she could feel the thorns too, digging into her knees and stabbing through her jeans. She rocked back farther on her heels and felt new sharp pressures against her butt instead. Pain pushed her upright, almost standing. Warm sunlight immediately touched the top of her head.
This can't be happening, her mind insisted. Not... not now.
She put a hand against the wall to steady herself, glanced down.
Spike was just below her, seemingly unconcerned, on his knees in the thick mat of thornbushes. He was searching through his pockets for something.
The sun streaming over the wall was barely a foot from the top of his head.
Buffy took a deep breath. Her warring emotions from the last few minutes were hurriedly shoved aside, tucked away for safekeeping somewhere far inside her. This was an old ritual, one she'd performed time and time again as needed in a crisis. Her own feelings, no matter how intense, would have to wait. Save his life now, she told herself grimly. Yell at him for being an asshole later.
"We have to get you inside," she said, voice even, and glanced around, absorbing information. They were in someone's back garden, a large space taken up mostly by low plants and flowers. The trees were all small and bare of leaves, thanks to the autumn season--no help there. The shadow cast by the wall they were crouching behind was narrow, just wide enough for the two of them to kneel in. And the angle of the rising sun told her that it wouldn't last long.
"Working on it," he said shortly. He was still digging through his coat pockets. Trickles of blood ran down his forehead.
"Working on it?"
Spike didn't answer, fumbled at something in his hand instead, a small white object that immediately slipped through his blood-greased fingers and went bouncing into the sunlit undergrowth, outside the shadowed area. "Bugger!" he shouted.
He shot Buffy a pleading look. Without hesitation, she reached into the thorny brambles for it, felt around. "What am I looking for?" she asked. Thorns picked at her skin, tugged at the sleeve of her coat.
"Plastic, about this big." He held two fingers apart, then yanked his hand back as his fingertips began to smoke, grazed by the slanting light. Buffy swallowed hard and leaned over farther, out into the sunlight, got down on her hands and knees. The shrubbery was wet with morning dew. Thorns stabbed through her jeans, cut the skin of her hands. She reached and reached, pushed her face nearly into the thorns, her jeans-clad butt in the air. Minutes of frantic searching passed. Spike was pressed nearly flat against the wall, his cheek turned into the cold stone.
A sight of relief escaped Buffy as her fingers finally encountered the slick plastic. She curled her hand around it firmly, and gingerly withdrew her arm from the thornbush, hissing as the barbs drew deep scratches across the back of her hand.
"Got it!" She held the thing up triumphantly. It was a white cylinder about four inches long, like a penlight someone might keep on a keyring.
Spike reached out, wrapped one of his own bloody hands around hers. Smoke rose immediately and Buffy could feel the heat seeping through her fingers, horribly, frighteningly reminiscent of their last shared moment back in Sunnydale... only this time she was afraid, afraid like she hadn't been then. She felt utterly helpless, terrified that he would burn to death right in front of her, and there was no way she could see for him to get out.
She couldn't take her eyes off his.
The object in their hands glowed, neon-bright, sending its own lurid streaks of green light shooting up from between their joined fingers. Spike brought a thumb up to cover the top of the cylinder, pushed it down.
And then suddenly they were somewhere else.
__________
Blackness.
Total emptiness. Nothing.
Buffy blinked rapidly, struggled to adjust. The sunlit garden was just... gone. She was still in the same position she'd been in, kneeling down, her hand still locked within Spike's, but she couldn't see the floor beneath her or anything else. It was... blackness like a negative space, a black hole, absorbing all light, without form.
She swiveled her head, back and forth, clinging to Spike's hand like an anchor line. Nothingness on all sides. There was light coming from somewhere, though--she and Spike themselves were brightly lit, as if a battery of hidden spotlights were aimed directly at them. Spike's face seemed to fill her vision--set against the empty dark, every tiny detail on his skin stood out, every flaw and infinitesimal crease and stray hair. The sluggish trickles of blood on his cheeks stood out like chips of ice.
It made her think of photographs of jewelry in magazines, sparkling bright gems laid against black velvet. Stars in a weightless void.
"Where...?" Buffy sputtered. Her eyes were drawn helplessly back to their still-joined hands. The red marks on his pale fingers stood out starkly, and she could see the scorch marks, thin streaks of blood.
Spike opened his hand, let her go. "Well," he said, his voice low, intimate. "You did say you wanted to see my place."
__________
"Your place?"
He got to his feet then, brushed his bloody hands on his coat and just stood there, vivid and bright against the empty darkness as if illuminated from within.
Buffy stood herself, levering up on trembling legs, and turned in a half circle. Her original impression of nothingness was still holding. There were no landmarks anywhere. "Your place?" she said again in a trembling voice. "Spike, there's nothing here."
"Pocket dimension," he said then, nonsensically, and gestured to the plastic widget in her hand. She looked at it dumbly. "Only one entrance or exit. Got it rigged for me by a friendly mystic."
"This?" she looked at the white cylinder. Her original impression had been a cheap penlight, and on closer examination she saw that she'd been more or less right. It even had the little hook on the top to hold it in place in a shirt pocket. "This... takes you to another dimension?"
"That's right." He flung his arms wide. "King of my own little kingdom, what there is of it, anyway, which is pretty much nothing."
Buffy gaped. "You... live here?" She couldn't picture it. All those times she'd called him, he'd been... here?
"No," he said softly, letting his arms fall to his sides again. "Nothing lives here, Buffy. It's empty. Dead. I just... visit from time to time. When there's the need."
She let this sink in. "For emergencies. Like being trapped by the sun."
"Right. Sort of an escape hatch. Spend most of my time out in the real world, but if I need a rest or a break, I can go down the rabbit hole."
"You... sleep here?"
He nodded, watching her carefully. "It's a safe place. No one can find me here. Time's different. I step out, I step back, and no one even knows I was gone. Untraceable."
Always awake when I call. That explained it.
But Buffy's mind refused to accept the picture. She just couldn't see him here, sleeping alone in the dark, surrounded by nothingness.
That... so wasn't like him.
Spike always had... things. Wherever he was--even when he'd first arrived in Sunnydale, he'd set up a lavish little nest in that old factory, with furniture and decorations and minions and a car. He seemed like he belonged. He made himself at home.
He liked the world. That's what he'd said, years and years ago, and you could see it just by looking at the way he lived. His crypt had been decorated for gossakes, all soft pillows and electrical appliances and expensive carpets. He'd even had a bar. Aside from being in a cemetery and not aboveground, it could've competed with any ol' bachelor's crash pad. Favorably, in some respects--it certainly beat the hell out of Xander's old basement.
He was still watching her carefully. "Told you things were a bit dangerous," he said.
"Guess you weren't kidding," Buffy replied, then looked around like there was anything there to look at. Dangerous enough that you have to live like this?
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, forced her mind back to business. "So we just... wait here for the sun to go down, is that it?"
He turned away from her slowly, spoke over his shoulder. "No, actually. That... won't work. It's... I've been here lots of times, Buffy, hours on end. But I've always come back the same instant I left. Time doesn't exist here--this isn't even a real place. Just empty space that has the potential be one, if that makes sense. Things could happen here someday, but they haven't yet. Or did already, but everything's gone now. Over." He fell silent.
"What do you mean there's no--you do know you're not making any sense," she insisted, suddenly feeling the need to get back to some form of communication between them she understood. Even arguing was better than this--this... weird blankness. "This is a place. I mean it's a--" She searched for the right words. "--totally minimalist and boring place, but it's--it's real. I mean, what is this we're standing on?"
"Had Mr. Magic put some solid ground in. Didn't much love the idea of floating around in here like Major Tom. Too Altered States. Otherwise, just one undead tenant." He tapped his chest.
Her eyes widened. "What about air?"
His expression copied hers, a look of sheer horror. "Oh, shit. I don't... can you breathe?"
She sucked in a breath experimentally, let it out. "Yeah, I'm--" She breathed a few more times, waiting for her pounding heart to calm. "I think it's okay."
Spike looked honestly relieved. He scrubbed his hands across his face, unwittingly smearing the streaks of blood even worse. "Didn't even think of that... I'm... I'm so sorry, love. Could've just gotten you killed."
"I'm glad you took the chance," she told him, and made sure the relief she felt came through in her voice. "Not like I ever want to see you burn."
An odd expression crossed his face as she said this, and he turned slightly away from her again, hands on his hips.
"Question is," he said then slowly, "What do we do now?"
Buffy thought. "Can you... come back to a different place?" The sunny garden had been a deathtrap, obviously, but if they could move, reappear somewhere in the shade...
"Gadget just puts you right back where you left."
"Okay, then I go out, find you something to cover up with, and then we go."
Spike nodded, his expression unreadable. "Sounds like the only way."
"Right. Then I'm on it," Buffy said. A plan made her feel better. A rescue mission. That was something she could do. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, lifted her chin. "So how do I work this?" she said, studying the gadget. "Just push on the--"
"One thing, pet," Spike interrupted her. His voice was strangely hoarse. "I've, ah, never tried this, comparing times inside and out. Could be that... a few minutes in the real world might be a long time in here. A very long time."
There was a moment of silence.
Buffy stepped forward, device clutched tight in her hand. Walked up to Spike, her footsteps making no sound. She didn't bother to wonder at the physics of it. Magic.
She extended a trembling finger to his cheek, wiped away one of the remaining trickles of blood that had left a trail running down his face like a ruby tear.
"I'll be quick," she whispered. "I promise."
And then she pushed the button, and was gone.
Previously, the sun had just risen, interrupting a rousing argument.
Chapter Four
__________
Abruptly, the air was glowing. The early-morning mist caught the first rays of light, made each shimmering bead of suspended moisture gleam. Then bright Italian sunlight washed over the empty street like a flood of golden water.
Buffy gaped, paralyzed, her last angry words still vibrating on her lips. They'd been so busy arguing that she'd totally forgotten the time. She stared in horror, her mind going into slow-motion mode as one improbably thick sunbeam pierced straight through all the ground cover of shrubs and trees and closely packed houses to hit Spike directly in the face.
... and just for an instant, he was vividly illuminated, all intense and golden, almost exactly as he'd been in the Hellmouth.
No you don't.
Then he was throwing himself backward, diving away from the light with a wounded howl, smoke rising in sharp curls from his hair and hands and face. He stumbled over the curb and onto the sidewalk, back coming up hard against a garden wall and stopped there, unable to move further, trapped. There was no shade in immediate area, no trees. No shelter of any kind.
The surge of deja vu that washed over Buffy at the sight was almost crippling.
No you DON'T!
She shot forward on a surge of adrenaline, both hands outstretched. Grabbed him by his jacket lapels and took them both up and over the high stone wall in a single rolling motion.
__________
They landed with a hard thump in the greenery on the other side, the thick old wall momentarily providing blissful covering shade.
Buffy stared down at Spike, panting. Smoke had stopped rising, but she could smell it on him, on his clothes. He was facedown beneath her; she was lying across his back. She registered all this in a single eyeblink before his body bucked sharply, jarring her hard, nearly throwing her off.
"Let me up," he barked. "Let me up!" She could see his burnt hands scrabbling in the undergrowth, trying to find purchase. His back flexed and heaved.
Wordless, Buffy shifted her weight back onto her heels and lifted herself off.
He sat up sharply, crouching on his heels, and shot her a brief, unreadable look. "Bramble bush," he explained, wiping a hand across his forehead. The motion smeared blood across his face in a sticky trail.
Buffy bit her lip. She could see the punctures now, stab wounds dotted across his face from curved and vicious barbed thorns. His hands were similarly marked and bleeding, the skin red and angry from the sun.
She glanced down. They were kneeling in a thick tangle of thornbushes, possibly planted as an extra security to prevent people from doing exactly what they'd done, climbing over the wall. And now that she'd actually noticed them, she could feel the thorns too, digging into her knees and stabbing through her jeans. She rocked back farther on her heels and felt new sharp pressures against her butt instead. Pain pushed her upright, almost standing. Warm sunlight immediately touched the top of her head.
This can't be happening, her mind insisted. Not... not now.
She put a hand against the wall to steady herself, glanced down.
Spike was just below her, seemingly unconcerned, on his knees in the thick mat of thornbushes. He was searching through his pockets for something.
The sun streaming over the wall was barely a foot from the top of his head.
Buffy took a deep breath. Her warring emotions from the last few minutes were hurriedly shoved aside, tucked away for safekeeping somewhere far inside her. This was an old ritual, one she'd performed time and time again as needed in a crisis. Her own feelings, no matter how intense, would have to wait. Save his life now, she told herself grimly. Yell at him for being an asshole later.
"We have to get you inside," she said, voice even, and glanced around, absorbing information. They were in someone's back garden, a large space taken up mostly by low plants and flowers. The trees were all small and bare of leaves, thanks to the autumn season--no help there. The shadow cast by the wall they were crouching behind was narrow, just wide enough for the two of them to kneel in. And the angle of the rising sun told her that it wouldn't last long.
"Working on it," he said shortly. He was still digging through his coat pockets. Trickles of blood ran down his forehead.
"Working on it?"
Spike didn't answer, fumbled at something in his hand instead, a small white object that immediately slipped through his blood-greased fingers and went bouncing into the sunlit undergrowth, outside the shadowed area. "Bugger!" he shouted.
He shot Buffy a pleading look. Without hesitation, she reached into the thorny brambles for it, felt around. "What am I looking for?" she asked. Thorns picked at her skin, tugged at the sleeve of her coat.
"Plastic, about this big." He held two fingers apart, then yanked his hand back as his fingertips began to smoke, grazed by the slanting light. Buffy swallowed hard and leaned over farther, out into the sunlight, got down on her hands and knees. The shrubbery was wet with morning dew. Thorns stabbed through her jeans, cut the skin of her hands. She reached and reached, pushed her face nearly into the thorns, her jeans-clad butt in the air. Minutes of frantic searching passed. Spike was pressed nearly flat against the wall, his cheek turned into the cold stone.
A sight of relief escaped Buffy as her fingers finally encountered the slick plastic. She curled her hand around it firmly, and gingerly withdrew her arm from the thornbush, hissing as the barbs drew deep scratches across the back of her hand.
"Got it!" She held the thing up triumphantly. It was a white cylinder about four inches long, like a penlight someone might keep on a keyring.
Spike reached out, wrapped one of his own bloody hands around hers. Smoke rose immediately and Buffy could feel the heat seeping through her fingers, horribly, frighteningly reminiscent of their last shared moment back in Sunnydale... only this time she was afraid, afraid like she hadn't been then. She felt utterly helpless, terrified that he would burn to death right in front of her, and there was no way she could see for him to get out.
She couldn't take her eyes off his.
The object in their hands glowed, neon-bright, sending its own lurid streaks of green light shooting up from between their joined fingers. Spike brought a thumb up to cover the top of the cylinder, pushed it down.
And then suddenly they were somewhere else.
__________
Blackness.
Total emptiness. Nothing.
Buffy blinked rapidly, struggled to adjust. The sunlit garden was just... gone. She was still in the same position she'd been in, kneeling down, her hand still locked within Spike's, but she couldn't see the floor beneath her or anything else. It was... blackness like a negative space, a black hole, absorbing all light, without form.
She swiveled her head, back and forth, clinging to Spike's hand like an anchor line. Nothingness on all sides. There was light coming from somewhere, though--she and Spike themselves were brightly lit, as if a battery of hidden spotlights were aimed directly at them. Spike's face seemed to fill her vision--set against the empty dark, every tiny detail on his skin stood out, every flaw and infinitesimal crease and stray hair. The sluggish trickles of blood on his cheeks stood out like chips of ice.
It made her think of photographs of jewelry in magazines, sparkling bright gems laid against black velvet. Stars in a weightless void.
"Where...?" Buffy sputtered. Her eyes were drawn helplessly back to their still-joined hands. The red marks on his pale fingers stood out starkly, and she could see the scorch marks, thin streaks of blood.
Spike opened his hand, let her go. "Well," he said, his voice low, intimate. "You did say you wanted to see my place."
__________
"Your place?"
He got to his feet then, brushed his bloody hands on his coat and just stood there, vivid and bright against the empty darkness as if illuminated from within.
Buffy stood herself, levering up on trembling legs, and turned in a half circle. Her original impression of nothingness was still holding. There were no landmarks anywhere. "Your place?" she said again in a trembling voice. "Spike, there's nothing here."
"Pocket dimension," he said then, nonsensically, and gestured to the plastic widget in her hand. She looked at it dumbly. "Only one entrance or exit. Got it rigged for me by a friendly mystic."
"This?" she looked at the white cylinder. Her original impression had been a cheap penlight, and on closer examination she saw that she'd been more or less right. It even had the little hook on the top to hold it in place in a shirt pocket. "This... takes you to another dimension?"
"That's right." He flung his arms wide. "King of my own little kingdom, what there is of it, anyway, which is pretty much nothing."
Buffy gaped. "You... live here?" She couldn't picture it. All those times she'd called him, he'd been... here?
"No," he said softly, letting his arms fall to his sides again. "Nothing lives here, Buffy. It's empty. Dead. I just... visit from time to time. When there's the need."
She let this sink in. "For emergencies. Like being trapped by the sun."
"Right. Sort of an escape hatch. Spend most of my time out in the real world, but if I need a rest or a break, I can go down the rabbit hole."
"You... sleep here?"
He nodded, watching her carefully. "It's a safe place. No one can find me here. Time's different. I step out, I step back, and no one even knows I was gone. Untraceable."
Always awake when I call. That explained it.
But Buffy's mind refused to accept the picture. She just couldn't see him here, sleeping alone in the dark, surrounded by nothingness.
That... so wasn't like him.
Spike always had... things. Wherever he was--even when he'd first arrived in Sunnydale, he'd set up a lavish little nest in that old factory, with furniture and decorations and minions and a car. He seemed like he belonged. He made himself at home.
He liked the world. That's what he'd said, years and years ago, and you could see it just by looking at the way he lived. His crypt had been decorated for gossakes, all soft pillows and electrical appliances and expensive carpets. He'd even had a bar. Aside from being in a cemetery and not aboveground, it could've competed with any ol' bachelor's crash pad. Favorably, in some respects--it certainly beat the hell out of Xander's old basement.
He was still watching her carefully. "Told you things were a bit dangerous," he said.
"Guess you weren't kidding," Buffy replied, then looked around like there was anything there to look at. Dangerous enough that you have to live like this?
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, forced her mind back to business. "So we just... wait here for the sun to go down, is that it?"
He turned away from her slowly, spoke over his shoulder. "No, actually. That... won't work. It's... I've been here lots of times, Buffy, hours on end. But I've always come back the same instant I left. Time doesn't exist here--this isn't even a real place. Just empty space that has the potential be one, if that makes sense. Things could happen here someday, but they haven't yet. Or did already, but everything's gone now. Over." He fell silent.
"What do you mean there's no--you do know you're not making any sense," she insisted, suddenly feeling the need to get back to some form of communication between them she understood. Even arguing was better than this--this... weird blankness. "This is a place. I mean it's a--" She searched for the right words. "--totally minimalist and boring place, but it's--it's real. I mean, what is this we're standing on?"
"Had Mr. Magic put some solid ground in. Didn't much love the idea of floating around in here like Major Tom. Too Altered States. Otherwise, just one undead tenant." He tapped his chest.
Her eyes widened. "What about air?"
His expression copied hers, a look of sheer horror. "Oh, shit. I don't... can you breathe?"
She sucked in a breath experimentally, let it out. "Yeah, I'm--" She breathed a few more times, waiting for her pounding heart to calm. "I think it's okay."
Spike looked honestly relieved. He scrubbed his hands across his face, unwittingly smearing the streaks of blood even worse. "Didn't even think of that... I'm... I'm so sorry, love. Could've just gotten you killed."
"I'm glad you took the chance," she told him, and made sure the relief she felt came through in her voice. "Not like I ever want to see you burn."
An odd expression crossed his face as she said this, and he turned slightly away from her again, hands on his hips.
"Question is," he said then slowly, "What do we do now?"
Buffy thought. "Can you... come back to a different place?" The sunny garden had been a deathtrap, obviously, but if they could move, reappear somewhere in the shade...
"Gadget just puts you right back where you left."
"Okay, then I go out, find you something to cover up with, and then we go."
Spike nodded, his expression unreadable. "Sounds like the only way."
"Right. Then I'm on it," Buffy said. A plan made her feel better. A rescue mission. That was something she could do. She tossed her hair over her shoulders, lifted her chin. "So how do I work this?" she said, studying the gadget. "Just push on the--"
"One thing, pet," Spike interrupted her. His voice was strangely hoarse. "I've, ah, never tried this, comparing times inside and out. Could be that... a few minutes in the real world might be a long time in here. A very long time."
There was a moment of silence.
Buffy stepped forward, device clutched tight in her hand. Walked up to Spike, her footsteps making no sound. She didn't bother to wonder at the physics of it. Magic.
She extended a trembling finger to his cheek, wiped away one of the remaining trickles of blood that had left a trail running down his face like a ruby tear.
"I'll be quick," she whispered. "I promise."
And then she pushed the button, and was gone.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 01:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 04:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 01:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 04:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 02:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 04:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 02:23 am (UTC)(Or possibly the language used by that pixie guy in the old Superman comics...the language with no vowels)
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 04:37 am (UTC)I really need to finish "The Dead Walk." I mean, there's a reason why he has the dimension gadget, but I probably shouldn't get into that here before I cover the sort of origin part there... gah, I had no idea when I started writing this stuff that it would turn into such a multiverse...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 04:00 am (UTC)I'm more worried about Spike's bizarre caginess than I am about the sun, though. What's eating that guy?
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 04:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 04:59 am (UTC)Otherwise, a surprisingly action-packed installment. I notice you still found a way to sneak in a couple more character insights, and a nicely subtle reference to the infamous Hellmouth Handclasp, and there are some bits where you're waxing downright poetic. The latter are particularly nice - purely from the standpoint of a regular reader, I'm pleased to see you taking the time to play around with the imagery, explore the sensory aspects, capture a particular scene or image in vivid detail. Your writing seems to be getting steadily more... playful, I guess. It feels like the author is really enjoying herself, rather than slogging through the prose to get to the next scene.
And the thornbushes are a great touch! Good stuff.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:35 pm (UTC)Playful, huh? I suppose that's fair - I mean, I am having more fun with the writing process these days, whereas at times writing "Eurotrip" or "Dirty Back Road," I was really banging my head against a wall in a way that I'm not finding myself doing here, thankfully. If that comes across in the prose without it becoming too precious, then yay for the power of practice!
On the null dimension... sorry, can't give out any hints as to what comes next, but all your guesses are pretty much what I wanted you to be thinking about at this juncture, so that's all on target. And glad you liked the thornbushes. You know me - I'm just a sucker for interesting visual detail...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 06:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 07:36 am (UTC)I can't wait for the next installment. Hurry before I turn into the Great Pumpkin.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:43 pm (UTC)I may not have the next chapter up before Halloween, unfortunately. We're throwing a party on Friday. Poor Spike might just have to hang out in null space until the weekend...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-29 04:54 pm (UTC)See, this is fun - I originally put in those thornbushes just because I thought it would give me more visual interest to talk about, but here you are tying them thematically into the relationship issues!
Hee hee! You're right, of course. Not only does it give it visual interest, but adds a tactile element that has been, by Buffy/Spike standards, largely missing. I imagine that is intentional, as it's (to me) a very clear sign of holding back, especially on Spike's part.
Falling into the thorn bushes also makes an interesting contrast to the void of Spike's "pocket universe", especially since the only way back out of the void is back into the thorn bushes. If this was unintentional on your part, then I must credit that bit of intuitive writing to your kind and generous Muse.
My remark linking thorn bushes to the S/B relationship was meant to force a metaphor in a humorous way, so I was pleased to have also stumbled upon a kind of insight about those two. Now that I think of it, Spike did at one point gripe bitterly about Buffy being a "thorn in [his] side" so your choice of obstacles is entirely appropriate for his character. (Not to mention the "spikey" quality of thorn bushes. Heh.)
Thank you again for all kinds of food for thought.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 08:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 09:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 12:13 pm (UTC)I'm now really looking forward to more of 'The Dead Walk', since it ties in with this story directly (I thought it might, but wasn't sure) and also since Angel obviously reappears at some point.
And have I said how much I love your writing? You manage to describe things beautifully without making it overly long.
Another thing I admired was how you managed to get Buffy to begin to understand how much Spike has changed. All her thoughts about his crypt etc - very, very good.
I'm running out of superlatives here, so I better stop. Looking forward to what ever comes next! :)
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:55 pm (UTC)Thanks too for the generous praise - you've got me pegged on the Narnia reference, as I loved those books as a kid, and one of the things I love about the Buffyverse is the way it can incorporate pretty much any sci-fi or fantasy element, as long as you deploy it in a way that makes sense for the characters. A pocket dimension is just as acceptable as witchcraft and raising the dead, I figure...
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Date: 2004-10-28 12:30 pm (UTC)Can't wait to see what happens next.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 02:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 04:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 05:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-29 12:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-28 11:14 pm (UTC)You've managed to get me totally hooked on the story you're telling and you've seamlessly worked the emotional elements into it so that nothing feels in the least contrived. I'm loving this.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-10-29 12:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-08 07:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-08 09:24 pm (UTC)