Dirty Back Road Sequel, Part 7
Nov. 14th, 2004 10:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookI really hadn't planned on this segment going on so long. Sheesh. Next chapter, things get far more uplifting, I promise. Previous chapters here.
Chapter Seven
She ran through the sleepy residential neighborhood at top speed, doing her best to keep to the back streets. It was still far too early for most people yet, but there were a few delivery vans, early rising joggers, and people walking their dogs about. She really couldn't afford to draw any attention. After all, it was all too obvious from the shape under the canvas that she was carrying a body around. Really didn't need to have to answer questions about that on top of everything else.
The homes around her were maddeningly neat and well-kept. Perfectly manicured gardens, fenced yards, winking lights to warn the curious or sticky-fingered of installed alarms. Even places that were dark and quiet were still obviously alive with habitation. No safe haven there.
Under the drooping branches of a large pine tree, Buffy stopped for a moment to catch her breath. She wasn't totally exhausted yet, but getting there--worn out from stress, sweating from exertion in the early morning sun, and it wasn't that Spike was heavy, not to her anyway, but the marathon aspect certainly wasn't helping. Her feet were aching inside her pointy-toed boots and her hair was plastered to her forehead in sweaty trails.
No time to rest. Keep going. She allowed herself a few gulps of air, and moved on again, keeping to the shadows.
When Buffy finally spotted a house under renovation, draped in scaffolding and plastic sheeting, she was almost too tired to dare hope.
She crept closer, inspected the place. The house was dark. She worked her way around to the back garden, slipping silently through the thick shrubbery, praying there were no motion sensors installed. All it would take was one alarm to ruin everything--she could fight her way through a crowd of cops if that was what it took, but the odds of getting Spike away safe in that scenario were slim. She just needed somewhere, a place to rest, keep him out of the sun, was that so much to ask?
Around the back, the construction work was even more in evidence--piles of lumber and brick, stacks of marble tiles. The kitchen entrance was merely an open doorway. She peered in. Empty. The countertops where shrouded in plastic sheeting and plaster dust. If there were any residents still living in the house, they certainly didn't cook. She edged inside.
It was a grand old townhouse, of a kind she'd seen all over Rome. Two-storey brick covered in stucco, framed in climbing ivy. Balconies over the windows, all baroque plaster detail and wrought-iron rails, lots of leaded glass. Gorgeous places from the outside. Inside, however, you could really see the age of the place--Buffy noted cracks and stains in the plaster on both the walls and the ceiling as she tiptoed cautiously toward the front of the house. No wonder the place was being restored.
The floor of the grand front parlor was draped in canvas. There was scaffolding all around the edges of the room. A disassembled chandelier lay in the corner, and the curving marble staircase leading up to the second floor was piled with paint buckets.
The house was deserted. Buffy let out a held breath, a huge sigh of relief.
They would be safe here. If there was no alarm--and there didn't seem to be--they'd be safe. It was possible that workingmen might show up later in the day, but if they were quiet and careful, this would be a good place. She readjusted her grip on Spike, carried him back into the kitchen, and looked around for a cellar door.
Yes. She thumbed the catch open, found the light, and hurried down the cracked cement steps.
Typical storage basement. Plain, unfinished. Piled boxes covered with dust. A few cases of wine. Old sports equipment. It would do.
She chose a corner under the stairs, well out of line of sight from the doorway, and set Spike down. Arranged the canvas around him into something like a cozy nest as she unwrapped him. He was either asleep or had passed out again, oddly enough still in vampire face. Blood still on his mouth.
She pressed a kiss to his bumpy forehead. "I'll be back," she whispered, smoothing the unruly sandy hair. "Just rest here. I'll be back." Then she was back up the stairs and gone, reaching back to turn off the light as she left.
__________
The butcher was easy to convince. Buffy rolled out the usual old story about making blood sausage, a little primitively told in her limited Italian, but with enough hand gestures it still worked. The butcher, a big beefy guy who looked exactly like he might have been the model for Mario in the video game except taller, chuckled as her handed her an overstuffed paper bag filled with plastic quart bottles. He'd thrown in a package of intestines for sausage casings too--she just smiled and took it, unsure if she was paying for them or if he'd given them to her for free. Didn't matter. She'd either chuck the guts in the trash first chance she got, or see if Dawn would be interested in trying sausage-making to go along with all that pasta.
When she arrived back at the house, there were workingmen there.
Buffy hugged the bag to her chest, huddled up against a streetlamp, and watched the place, assessing. A big painter's truck was parked right in front, and there was plenty of loud activity going on, banging and hammering, men walking back and forth puffing cigarettes and carrying lumber. A radio blared Europop music out onto the street.
She weighed her options. She could try to make a run for it, slip into the house without being seen, but if she was caught... right. Again with the police. She'd either be clapped in jail or held up talking to the American embassy for hours, and Spike would be left behind on his own. Or worse, discovered hiding in the basement and thrown out in the street. Not good. Spectacularly bad, actually. Next.
Option two. Beat the crap out of the workers and keep them unconscious until dark. Okay, maybe that wasn't such an option. Start a fire? Um, no.
It was starting to look like she'd have to wait.
Sour with disappointment, Buffy plunked herself down on the curb, paper bag clutched between her knees.
She waited for four hours.
Finding a way to spend the time was the worst part. At first, Buffy tried just sitting, like she was waiting for a bus or a ride, but that got too much attention. Buon Giorno from passersby. She started pacing instead, from one end of the block to the other, then around the block and back. She did her best not to look too obvious, not to obviously lurk. Even if she was, technically, doing exactly that.
The workingmen took lunch around noon, out in front of the building. They spotted her on one of her strolling walks, hooted and whistled and catcalled. Buffy gritted her teeth and grimly beat down an internal urge to reconsider option two.
She was really starting to worry about the freshness of the blood.
Around one o'clock, the workingmen finally left. Piled into their big truck, and drove off. Watching from her stakeout spot across the street, hidden behind a particularly bushy flowering shrub, Buffy got to her feet casually. She tried not to look too eager, strolled across the street, painfully aware that it was broad daylight and people might be watching. Not that anything could have stopped her from going back into the house at this point--her nerves were stretched so taut that she was ready to erupt into violence at even the slightest suggestion of one more surprise.
At the kitchen door, she paused and listened, heart in her throat. The way her luck was going, she half-expected to find another obstacle there--a solitary painter, someone who'd stayed behind. She waited, senses all on full alert.
The house was silent. Buffy rushed to throw open the cellar door and turn on the light.
The light didn't work.
She frowned, flicked the switch off and on again. Still nothing. The workingmen must have done something electrical. Buffy sighed in irritation, then descended the stairs anyway, feeling her way in the dark. The light from the kitchen faded quickly. The darkness surrounded her like a thick blanket.
"Hello, Buffy."
Buffy froze, mid-step. The voice was Spike's. Thin and raspy, with that bit of a lisp that told her he was speaking through fangs.
Relief flooded her. He can talk. Oh, that's so much better. "Spike?" she called out into the darkness. "Oh, thank god you're all right."
"All right," he repeated. There was a low sound, almost like a laugh.
She pushed her feet faster down the stairs, sliding her soles along the concrete. "I-I came as fast as I could. I brought you some blood--"
Another laughing sound. "Can smell it. So sweet." His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. "Bring it here, will you?"
"I'm coming." She felt her way further down the steps. "I'm coming, Spike. Just hang on, I'll be--"
"Starving here," he said, and now the sound was thin, weak. "Need... I need..."
"I'm here, Spike, I'm right here." She stumbled, slid on her feet, recovered. "I just can't see, I'll--" Can't afford to trip, drop the blood...
"Straight ahead," he said, and his words slow now and precise. "Thaaaat's it, little Goldilocks. Come down into the dark."
Buffy halted. She'd reached the bottom of the stairs. A trickle of apprehension ran through her. No. Oh no.
"Are you okay?" she asked. Stupid question. Of course he's not. The memory came back to her of the dog, his feral fangs and glowing eyes. The growling and snapping.
"Okay," he echoed. "Little girl's in the woods. No woodsman here. Just the Big. Bad. Wolf."
Now the hackles were standing up on the back of her neck. Oh, god. Okay, so he wasn't so lucid. No, actually, he was out of his mind, but she'd been through this with him before. She just had to...
She just had to talk to him. Remind him who he was.
"Spike. Listen to me," she said patiently. "I'm Buffy, remember? Do you remember me?"
"Remember," he echoed. "Slayer."
"Right. I'm the Slayer. Buffy. And do you.. do you know who you are?"
"Who I am?" he laughed again, a scratchy hiss. "Don't think I've forgot. Maybe you have. "
She took another shuffling step, stretched out the fingers of her free hand, looking for him.
"Got caught up, didn't I?" he rambled on, rasping. "Not paying attention. Leg stuck in a trap. Happens every time."
Buffy's gasped then. He was right in front of her. All she could see of him were his eyes, burning yellow in the darkness, like a cat's.
He chuckled, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. She could hear the fangs crowding his mouth, distorting it.
"Dark. Basement. Another ruddy basement. Right where you left me, Buffy."
Sympathy welled up in her then, hurting for him. And on top of that, oh, an overwhelming wash of guilt. It was dark, when he woke, and I left him all alone. After... oh god, poor Spike.
She sank to her knees, felt for him in the dark, her hand making contact with his hair. His yellow eyes blinked, glowered at her.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that had to happen to you," she whispered, and stroked his hair. "But you're okay now. You're safe. I'm here. You're not alone anymore." Buffy felt with her fingers to the line of his cheek, smoothed her fingers across the ridges, stroking. "Please, you just have to remember who you are."
He didn't answer her. There was a tugging sensation on her fingers instead. Spike trying to take the bag of blood. "Give it, give it here," he hissed.
Oh. The blood. Buffy pushed the bag at him, let it go. Spike tore into it, into the bottles. The smell of blood was suddenly thick in the air and she could hear him drinking, throaty swallowing sounds, near-orgasmic moans of relief. His glowing eyes had closed, leaving her marooned in total darkness.
Those sounds again. She tried not to think of them. Tried not to think how familiar all this was, even her fear. His hands on her body, and his insane ramblings, and those sounds...
"Can hear you," he said suddenly, and she gave a little jump. "Heartbeat. Blood pumping." He inhaled deeply. "Other things... pumping." His cold fingers touched her arm. "Need more, Buffy," he hissed. "Need more... need..."
Both hands on her body now, crawling up her arms, cold, sharp, like claws. She could feel his breath on her face, and he laughed again, a bubbling growl. The hairs on the back her neck stood up. This was a little too close to what she'd been thinking of. That and--
Angel's fangs in her throat.
She shoved back against him. "Stop it," she said firmly, and he halted his advance on her body. His fingers retreated, sliding away from her in reverse like a receding tide.
Buffy took a deep breath then, tried to calm her hammering heart. He can hear me. Hear my heart. She wasn't scared. She wasn't. He was just hurting and lost. He needed her help.
She groped again in the darkness, felt for him, found his hands. Pressed them between hers, and kept her voice calm. "You need more, Spike?" she asked him carefully, making sure he understood the words. "More blood? Do you need me to go get you more?"
"No!" He twitched, violently, nearly jerking from her grasp. "No, please. Please," he whispered, and he leaned into her, face into her shoulder. "Don't... don't leave me. Please don't leave me alone. No more. Not... alone." His hands struggled a little against hers, and she changed her grip, weaved her fingers through his. It seemed to calm him.
"I won't," she insisted. "I'm right here," she told him. "I'm right here."
Chapter Seven
She ran through the sleepy residential neighborhood at top speed, doing her best to keep to the back streets. It was still far too early for most people yet, but there were a few delivery vans, early rising joggers, and people walking their dogs about. She really couldn't afford to draw any attention. After all, it was all too obvious from the shape under the canvas that she was carrying a body around. Really didn't need to have to answer questions about that on top of everything else.
The homes around her were maddeningly neat and well-kept. Perfectly manicured gardens, fenced yards, winking lights to warn the curious or sticky-fingered of installed alarms. Even places that were dark and quiet were still obviously alive with habitation. No safe haven there.
Under the drooping branches of a large pine tree, Buffy stopped for a moment to catch her breath. She wasn't totally exhausted yet, but getting there--worn out from stress, sweating from exertion in the early morning sun, and it wasn't that Spike was heavy, not to her anyway, but the marathon aspect certainly wasn't helping. Her feet were aching inside her pointy-toed boots and her hair was plastered to her forehead in sweaty trails.
No time to rest. Keep going. She allowed herself a few gulps of air, and moved on again, keeping to the shadows.
When Buffy finally spotted a house under renovation, draped in scaffolding and plastic sheeting, she was almost too tired to dare hope.
She crept closer, inspected the place. The house was dark. She worked her way around to the back garden, slipping silently through the thick shrubbery, praying there were no motion sensors installed. All it would take was one alarm to ruin everything--she could fight her way through a crowd of cops if that was what it took, but the odds of getting Spike away safe in that scenario were slim. She just needed somewhere, a place to rest, keep him out of the sun, was that so much to ask?
Around the back, the construction work was even more in evidence--piles of lumber and brick, stacks of marble tiles. The kitchen entrance was merely an open doorway. She peered in. Empty. The countertops where shrouded in plastic sheeting and plaster dust. If there were any residents still living in the house, they certainly didn't cook. She edged inside.
It was a grand old townhouse, of a kind she'd seen all over Rome. Two-storey brick covered in stucco, framed in climbing ivy. Balconies over the windows, all baroque plaster detail and wrought-iron rails, lots of leaded glass. Gorgeous places from the outside. Inside, however, you could really see the age of the place--Buffy noted cracks and stains in the plaster on both the walls and the ceiling as she tiptoed cautiously toward the front of the house. No wonder the place was being restored.
The floor of the grand front parlor was draped in canvas. There was scaffolding all around the edges of the room. A disassembled chandelier lay in the corner, and the curving marble staircase leading up to the second floor was piled with paint buckets.
The house was deserted. Buffy let out a held breath, a huge sigh of relief.
They would be safe here. If there was no alarm--and there didn't seem to be--they'd be safe. It was possible that workingmen might show up later in the day, but if they were quiet and careful, this would be a good place. She readjusted her grip on Spike, carried him back into the kitchen, and looked around for a cellar door.
Yes. She thumbed the catch open, found the light, and hurried down the cracked cement steps.
Typical storage basement. Plain, unfinished. Piled boxes covered with dust. A few cases of wine. Old sports equipment. It would do.
She chose a corner under the stairs, well out of line of sight from the doorway, and set Spike down. Arranged the canvas around him into something like a cozy nest as she unwrapped him. He was either asleep or had passed out again, oddly enough still in vampire face. Blood still on his mouth.
She pressed a kiss to his bumpy forehead. "I'll be back," she whispered, smoothing the unruly sandy hair. "Just rest here. I'll be back." Then she was back up the stairs and gone, reaching back to turn off the light as she left.
__________
The butcher was easy to convince. Buffy rolled out the usual old story about making blood sausage, a little primitively told in her limited Italian, but with enough hand gestures it still worked. The butcher, a big beefy guy who looked exactly like he might have been the model for Mario in the video game except taller, chuckled as her handed her an overstuffed paper bag filled with plastic quart bottles. He'd thrown in a package of intestines for sausage casings too--she just smiled and took it, unsure if she was paying for them or if he'd given them to her for free. Didn't matter. She'd either chuck the guts in the trash first chance she got, or see if Dawn would be interested in trying sausage-making to go along with all that pasta.
When she arrived back at the house, there were workingmen there.
Buffy hugged the bag to her chest, huddled up against a streetlamp, and watched the place, assessing. A big painter's truck was parked right in front, and there was plenty of loud activity going on, banging and hammering, men walking back and forth puffing cigarettes and carrying lumber. A radio blared Europop music out onto the street.
She weighed her options. She could try to make a run for it, slip into the house without being seen, but if she was caught... right. Again with the police. She'd either be clapped in jail or held up talking to the American embassy for hours, and Spike would be left behind on his own. Or worse, discovered hiding in the basement and thrown out in the street. Not good. Spectacularly bad, actually. Next.
Option two. Beat the crap out of the workers and keep them unconscious until dark. Okay, maybe that wasn't such an option. Start a fire? Um, no.
It was starting to look like she'd have to wait.
Sour with disappointment, Buffy plunked herself down on the curb, paper bag clutched between her knees.
She waited for four hours.
Finding a way to spend the time was the worst part. At first, Buffy tried just sitting, like she was waiting for a bus or a ride, but that got too much attention. Buon Giorno from passersby. She started pacing instead, from one end of the block to the other, then around the block and back. She did her best not to look too obvious, not to obviously lurk. Even if she was, technically, doing exactly that.
The workingmen took lunch around noon, out in front of the building. They spotted her on one of her strolling walks, hooted and whistled and catcalled. Buffy gritted her teeth and grimly beat down an internal urge to reconsider option two.
She was really starting to worry about the freshness of the blood.
Around one o'clock, the workingmen finally left. Piled into their big truck, and drove off. Watching from her stakeout spot across the street, hidden behind a particularly bushy flowering shrub, Buffy got to her feet casually. She tried not to look too eager, strolled across the street, painfully aware that it was broad daylight and people might be watching. Not that anything could have stopped her from going back into the house at this point--her nerves were stretched so taut that she was ready to erupt into violence at even the slightest suggestion of one more surprise.
At the kitchen door, she paused and listened, heart in her throat. The way her luck was going, she half-expected to find another obstacle there--a solitary painter, someone who'd stayed behind. She waited, senses all on full alert.
The house was silent. Buffy rushed to throw open the cellar door and turn on the light.
The light didn't work.
She frowned, flicked the switch off and on again. Still nothing. The workingmen must have done something electrical. Buffy sighed in irritation, then descended the stairs anyway, feeling her way in the dark. The light from the kitchen faded quickly. The darkness surrounded her like a thick blanket.
"Hello, Buffy."
Buffy froze, mid-step. The voice was Spike's. Thin and raspy, with that bit of a lisp that told her he was speaking through fangs.
Relief flooded her. He can talk. Oh, that's so much better. "Spike?" she called out into the darkness. "Oh, thank god you're all right."
"All right," he repeated. There was a low sound, almost like a laugh.
She pushed her feet faster down the stairs, sliding her soles along the concrete. "I-I came as fast as I could. I brought you some blood--"
Another laughing sound. "Can smell it. So sweet." His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. "Bring it here, will you?"
"I'm coming." She felt her way further down the steps. "I'm coming, Spike. Just hang on, I'll be--"
"Starving here," he said, and now the sound was thin, weak. "Need... I need..."
"I'm here, Spike, I'm right here." She stumbled, slid on her feet, recovered. "I just can't see, I'll--" Can't afford to trip, drop the blood...
"Straight ahead," he said, and his words slow now and precise. "Thaaaat's it, little Goldilocks. Come down into the dark."
Buffy halted. She'd reached the bottom of the stairs. A trickle of apprehension ran through her. No. Oh no.
"Are you okay?" she asked. Stupid question. Of course he's not. The memory came back to her of the dog, his feral fangs and glowing eyes. The growling and snapping.
"Okay," he echoed. "Little girl's in the woods. No woodsman here. Just the Big. Bad. Wolf."
Now the hackles were standing up on the back of her neck. Oh, god. Okay, so he wasn't so lucid. No, actually, he was out of his mind, but she'd been through this with him before. She just had to...
She just had to talk to him. Remind him who he was.
"Spike. Listen to me," she said patiently. "I'm Buffy, remember? Do you remember me?"
"Remember," he echoed. "Slayer."
"Right. I'm the Slayer. Buffy. And do you.. do you know who you are?"
"Who I am?" he laughed again, a scratchy hiss. "Don't think I've forgot. Maybe you have. "
She took another shuffling step, stretched out the fingers of her free hand, looking for him.
"Got caught up, didn't I?" he rambled on, rasping. "Not paying attention. Leg stuck in a trap. Happens every time."
Buffy's gasped then. He was right in front of her. All she could see of him were his eyes, burning yellow in the darkness, like a cat's.
He chuckled, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. She could hear the fangs crowding his mouth, distorting it.
"Dark. Basement. Another ruddy basement. Right where you left me, Buffy."
Sympathy welled up in her then, hurting for him. And on top of that, oh, an overwhelming wash of guilt. It was dark, when he woke, and I left him all alone. After... oh god, poor Spike.
She sank to her knees, felt for him in the dark, her hand making contact with his hair. His yellow eyes blinked, glowered at her.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that had to happen to you," she whispered, and stroked his hair. "But you're okay now. You're safe. I'm here. You're not alone anymore." Buffy felt with her fingers to the line of his cheek, smoothed her fingers across the ridges, stroking. "Please, you just have to remember who you are."
He didn't answer her. There was a tugging sensation on her fingers instead. Spike trying to take the bag of blood. "Give it, give it here," he hissed.
Oh. The blood. Buffy pushed the bag at him, let it go. Spike tore into it, into the bottles. The smell of blood was suddenly thick in the air and she could hear him drinking, throaty swallowing sounds, near-orgasmic moans of relief. His glowing eyes had closed, leaving her marooned in total darkness.
Those sounds again. She tried not to think of them. Tried not to think how familiar all this was, even her fear. His hands on her body, and his insane ramblings, and those sounds...
"Can hear you," he said suddenly, and she gave a little jump. "Heartbeat. Blood pumping." He inhaled deeply. "Other things... pumping." His cold fingers touched her arm. "Need more, Buffy," he hissed. "Need more... need..."
Both hands on her body now, crawling up her arms, cold, sharp, like claws. She could feel his breath on her face, and he laughed again, a bubbling growl. The hairs on the back her neck stood up. This was a little too close to what she'd been thinking of. That and--
Angel's fangs in her throat.
She shoved back against him. "Stop it," she said firmly, and he halted his advance on her body. His fingers retreated, sliding away from her in reverse like a receding tide.
Buffy took a deep breath then, tried to calm her hammering heart. He can hear me. Hear my heart. She wasn't scared. She wasn't. He was just hurting and lost. He needed her help.
She groped again in the darkness, felt for him, found his hands. Pressed them between hers, and kept her voice calm. "You need more, Spike?" she asked him carefully, making sure he understood the words. "More blood? Do you need me to go get you more?"
"No!" He twitched, violently, nearly jerking from her grasp. "No, please. Please," he whispered, and he leaned into her, face into her shoulder. "Don't... don't leave me. Please don't leave me alone. No more. Not... alone." His hands struggled a little against hers, and she changed her grip, weaved her fingers through his. It seemed to calm him.
"I won't," she insisted. "I'm right here," she told him. "I'm right here."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 07:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 07:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 08:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 08:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 09:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 07:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 07:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 07:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 07:55 pm (UTC)Re: more!
Date: 2004-11-14 08:00 pm (UTC)I hope I'm not reinforcing a stereotype here with the workingmen. Although... wups, I did use Mario already too, didn't I? Heh. Uh, well, if it helps I was sort of thinking about workingmen in general, actually. We've had a scaffolding in front of our building for weeks, and not a peep of work out of anyone. I think there's some unwritten rule that you can't just finish a job and have it done right away that's probably universal...
Re: more!
Date: 2004-11-14 10:00 pm (UTC)Except it's Spike in the carpet. :D
Re: more!
Date: 2004-11-15 05:29 am (UTC)Re: more!
Date: 2004-11-15 12:24 am (UTC)Re: more!
Date: 2004-11-16 03:03 am (UTC)Re: more!
Date: 2004-11-16 06:37 am (UTC)Re: more!
Date: 2004-11-15 12:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 08:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-15 12:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 09:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-15 12:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 09:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-15 12:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-15 09:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 10:02 pm (UTC)I can't imagine what the consequences of all that isolation will have on him. He's going to be kind of comparable to the hostages held in Lebanon.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-15 12:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-14 11:58 pm (UTC)"Straight ahead," he said, and his words slow now and precise. "Thaaaat's it, little Goldilocks. Come down into the dark."
then, just as I was thinking it:
"Dark. Basement. Another ruddy basement. Right where you left me, Buffy."
ooh. You are goood.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-15 12:40 am (UTC)And the agonizing thing about her leaving him in the basement too is that Buffy really didn't have a better practical choice. She had to leave him somewhere out of the sun, couldn't leave the lights on for someone to notice and find him, and she had to leave to get blood. Not that of that helps Spike much...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-15 04:07 am (UTC)Wow. You really stripped away all the layers of civilization from Spike. He goes from being entirely self-reliant to completely helpless in--from Buffy's perspective--a few minutes. Spike's down to the most primitive, essential needs at this point: safety, food and companionship.
Buffy is the only person who can provide these things, and with no incentive other than that Spike's survival depends on them. Clearly she is willing to do whatever she can, but will she really be able to offer what is necessary without the hope of reward (e.g., Spike's gratitude and renewed affections)? Will her actions convince Spike that she's capable of a relationship that's not just about what she wants? Would it matter anymore if she were? (I could ask myself if that's even the point, but I'll assume it's important until I learn otherwise.)
Ironically, Buffy had a chance to offer Spike these same essential things when he needed them in season 7, but she was able to justify her help as a strategy to keep Spike safe where they could watch him (still in a basement as he pointed out in the current tale), to give him human blood to keep him from attacking someone else, and to include him in the group because they needed him to fight. Perhaps this justification was simply a tool to get the Scoobies on board, or perhaps Buffy was trying to avoid admitting to herself that she had a more personal motive for her actions.
[In contrast, almost everything Spike has done for someone else since "The Gift" has been offered freely, IMO. At the same time, everything he's done that's good --or that required him to avoid evil-- has been attributed by the Scoobies to the chip or to his desire for Buffy. But I digress.]
Either way, her help at that time had at least the appearance of coming with strings attached. This time, she must act without expectation of any benefit other than Spike's well-being. It looks to me as if you're giving the "hurt-comfort" genre a long-overdue turn on its ear.
(Keep in mind, I'm writing these comments immediately after reading this chapter and before going on to Chapter 8, so I may be
JossedDeadlyHooked right away. In any case, I'm looking forward to see where you're taking this.)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-15 05:29 am (UTC)Clearly she is willing to do whatever she can, but will she really be able to offer what is necessary without the hope of reward (e.g., Spike's gratitude and renewed affections)? Will her actions convince Spike that she's capable of a relationship that's not just about what she wants? Would it matter anymore if she were?
Good questions all. We'll have to see, won't we? ; )
Either way, her help at that time had at least the appearance of coming with strings attached. This time, she must act without expectation of any benefit other than Spike's well-being. It looks to me as if you're giving the "hurt-comfort" genre a long-overdue turn on its ear.
Hee! Someone's detected one of my little subthemes...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-16 04:01 am (UTC)And Buffy continues to make the best of an awkward situation, but man, she's still wearing those horrible pointy-toed boots? Fashion crime in progress!
Anyways, I guess this covers the Return To The Basement part of the program. I hope our protagonists have enjoyed their little trip down memory lane...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-16 05:14 am (UTC)Yes, poor Spike. His unlife seems to be set on a constant repeat of blood and basements and general craziness. I figured, enough time alone and he'd be experiencing some pretty wicked flashbacks. Also perhaps a bit hallucinatory, a la Angel in the Season 4 opener.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-16 05:20 am (UTC)I just hope Buffy clocks the poor guy before he starts demanding to see everyone's hall passes...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-28 11:17 am (UTC)