Flooded FitB: Interruption.
This was a challenge for lateseasonlove. B/S, as usual, seriously tame, set just after Buffy arrives back in Sunnydale after visiting Angel. Lots of thanks to bogwitch, who is a perfect sounding board, for the support/beta.
Warnings: Mental health issues
The bus pulled into the Sunnydale station and Buffy was exhausted. Going to see Angel; it was a long trip. For him as well, which was probably why he’d suggested they meet in the middle. It had been a sensible idea. It just meant that she was tired now.
She let the other passengers leave the bus first, tearing herself slowly from the itching warmth of the seat. Without a glance at the driver she made her way down the steps and coming into the lot alone. It wasn’t especially dark nor especially cold, but she felt both, wrapping her arms around herself. Only nervous dregs of energy remained in her legs and she snatched at them, forcing herself between the buses and out onto the street.
Spike was there, and she wasn’t even surprised to see him. He leant against the brick wall, earnest as usual, and was shrouded in dismal lamplight. Her leaden eyes took him in and he looked steadily back.
She walked on after a moment and he fell in at her side. “All right, pet?”
She didn’t reply, though she knew she would. Spike always made her talk, or smile, or react in some way before he let her have her silence. She wasn’t sure why. Angel did things the other way round, always starting with the silence. Their conversations had to be built, which she was sure was probably better. More precise, maybe. More meaningful.
“Can’t have been the easiest trip in the world,” Spike continued impromptu.
She let her words fall out in bursts, unable to make an effort. “It was long,” she said. “Kind of tiring.”
Spike seemed to accept them and she was relieved. She wasn’t going to say anything else even if he did try to make her. She had decided earlier, on the way, that this visit was to be hers alone, to be little bubble of perfect memory that she could always look back to.
It had been so good to see Angel again - long, awkward silence aside. He cared about her so much.
But Spike didn’t ask anything more and they trudged on, comfortably quiet. Her legs weren’t complaining so much now, and she was sure she was buoyed by the memory of care; it seemed almost tangible at that moment. Her eyes, glazed and relaxed, watched in peace the light of the streetlamps as it rolled along the sidewalk, washing smoothly under their feet. It was strange to think she never enjoyed it before.
But then, she found so many things these days she hadn’t noticed before. She’d missed so much before she’d died. The way water gushed through a tap, how the indentations on a napkin kept the plies together - they were engrossing to her now.
It probably wasn’t healthy. Angel had probably been right, she was sure, when he’d distracted her in the restaurant.
Spike kept silent now though, and the light still rolled. It warped their shadows, stretching and shrinking and multiplying them as new pools came. Her scraping heels were the focus of a dance, and for once she felt almost special.
Blocks passed, slowly. It was such a long way to her house. They were going to hit Spike’s cemetery first, but that was almost as far.
He would leave her at the cemetery, she was sure - he would never out and out ‘walk her home’. That would mean too much, even if she was too tired to remember why.
“Why did you come?” she asked, not looking up. It seemed unnecessary, him going all the way to the bus station, suffering with her. She wasn’t good company. He should have just come halfway or something, and let her do the rest. That would have been sensible.
“Thought you might like someone to meet you.” He continued softly, “Knew you wouldn’t want it to be the others.”
She glanced at him gratefully, even though he wasn’t being sensible, and then felt guilty. She shouldn’t want or prize Spike’s company over her friends’ or anyone else’s.
He seemed to notice her guilt, because he shrugged off her gratitude. “’Sides, it’s not as if I’ve got anything better to do with my time.”
She nodded, her gaze wandering. Thinking, she said, “But if you did have something better, you would’ve just come halfway or something?” He couldn’t be devoid of all sensibility. She hoped not, anyway.
“Er…” He however seemed almost repulsed by the question, frowning as he looked down the road to the car that had just driven past. “I might’ve.” He was lying, and for some reason she felt disappointed.
A little further and they came out onto Sunnydale’s main street. They were near its bottom, and at the sight of its length another shuddering wave of depression fell on her muscles.
They made their way up. Everything was shut, and it looked seedier than she remembered. But then, she didn’t really trust her memory. A lot of things, she’d been finding since her resurrection, weren’t as good as she’d thought they were.
“We can take the bike next time,” Spike told her, out of the blue.
“Bike?” She wasn’t paying full attention to him, cataloguing dilapidation with every scrap they passed.
“Motorbike,” his voice continued. “Wasn’t sure you’d want to ride, but - compared to this. Should’ve known you’d be dead on your feet.”
She caught that and her mouth quirked, despite itself. “I’m dead on my feet? That’s kind of funny, coming from a vampire.”
He grinned at her, and they carried on. It became easier, and the stores passed. Not as quickly as they would have on a motorcycle, but they passed.
And then she thought. “Hang on a second - you own a motorcycle?” She let the irony drip from her words. “Does the word ‘flammable’ not mean anything to you?”
He shrugged. “I’m not about to go out for a spin in the midday sun. It’s just something to get about on.”
Another, much more defensive vampire sprang to mind, and she smiled. “You know, Angel said almost the exact same thing about his convertible.”
He looked offended for a moment, but then realisation dawned and he sounded amused. “The… Angel owns a convertible.”
He laughed and she smiled with him, fondly. “He is a doof,” she said, remembering. “It’s like, even though I was there, right in front of him, I had to tell him I was OK at least a dozen times.”
And then Spike stopped. Short.
She paused a few paces on, then turned to face him. The balls of her feet burned; she hadn’t noticed.
His expression was bleak, stark against the light that again fell on him. Looking at him, she was afraid.
“Buffy,” he said. His voice sounded sick. “You’re not OK.”
A moment, and all pretence dropped away. She was what she had always been, lost, broken, and standing in a run-down street.
She remembered now: this exhaustion, so deep her bones ached, could never come from travelling. It came from life, and life’s caring people, whom it seemed she had not been able to escape from.
Spike’s light presence meant more to her now, and at the same time meant nothing, like everything else. Still, she was glad he had come for her.
At last they continued, wearily in stony silence to the cemetery. Soft, he said, “See you, Slayer.”
She nodded. He went.
“Spike, wait!” she called after, but had nothing to say. There was a hole inside her, empty and gaping around a bubble of bitterness. He went again.
Warnings: Mental health issues
The bus pulled into the Sunnydale station and Buffy was exhausted. Going to see Angel; it was a long trip. For him as well, which was probably why he’d suggested they meet in the middle. It had been a sensible idea. It just meant that she was tired now.
She let the other passengers leave the bus first, tearing herself slowly from the itching warmth of the seat. Without a glance at the driver she made her way down the steps and coming into the lot alone. It wasn’t especially dark nor especially cold, but she felt both, wrapping her arms around herself. Only nervous dregs of energy remained in her legs and she snatched at them, forcing herself between the buses and out onto the street.
Spike was there, and she wasn’t even surprised to see him. He leant against the brick wall, earnest as usual, and was shrouded in dismal lamplight. Her leaden eyes took him in and he looked steadily back.
She walked on after a moment and he fell in at her side. “All right, pet?”
She didn’t reply, though she knew she would. Spike always made her talk, or smile, or react in some way before he let her have her silence. She wasn’t sure why. Angel did things the other way round, always starting with the silence. Their conversations had to be built, which she was sure was probably better. More precise, maybe. More meaningful.
“Can’t have been the easiest trip in the world,” Spike continued impromptu.
She let her words fall out in bursts, unable to make an effort. “It was long,” she said. “Kind of tiring.”
Spike seemed to accept them and she was relieved. She wasn’t going to say anything else even if he did try to make her. She had decided earlier, on the way, that this visit was to be hers alone, to be little bubble of perfect memory that she could always look back to.
It had been so good to see Angel again - long, awkward silence aside. He cared about her so much.
But Spike didn’t ask anything more and they trudged on, comfortably quiet. Her legs weren’t complaining so much now, and she was sure she was buoyed by the memory of care; it seemed almost tangible at that moment. Her eyes, glazed and relaxed, watched in peace the light of the streetlamps as it rolled along the sidewalk, washing smoothly under their feet. It was strange to think she never enjoyed it before.
But then, she found so many things these days she hadn’t noticed before. She’d missed so much before she’d died. The way water gushed through a tap, how the indentations on a napkin kept the plies together - they were engrossing to her now.
It probably wasn’t healthy. Angel had probably been right, she was sure, when he’d distracted her in the restaurant.
Spike kept silent now though, and the light still rolled. It warped their shadows, stretching and shrinking and multiplying them as new pools came. Her scraping heels were the focus of a dance, and for once she felt almost special.
Blocks passed, slowly. It was such a long way to her house. They were going to hit Spike’s cemetery first, but that was almost as far.
He would leave her at the cemetery, she was sure - he would never out and out ‘walk her home’. That would mean too much, even if she was too tired to remember why.
“Why did you come?” she asked, not looking up. It seemed unnecessary, him going all the way to the bus station, suffering with her. She wasn’t good company. He should have just come halfway or something, and let her do the rest. That would have been sensible.
“Thought you might like someone to meet you.” He continued softly, “Knew you wouldn’t want it to be the others.”
She glanced at him gratefully, even though he wasn’t being sensible, and then felt guilty. She shouldn’t want or prize Spike’s company over her friends’ or anyone else’s.
He seemed to notice her guilt, because he shrugged off her gratitude. “’Sides, it’s not as if I’ve got anything better to do with my time.”
She nodded, her gaze wandering. Thinking, she said, “But if you did have something better, you would’ve just come halfway or something?” He couldn’t be devoid of all sensibility. She hoped not, anyway.
“Er…” He however seemed almost repulsed by the question, frowning as he looked down the road to the car that had just driven past. “I might’ve.” He was lying, and for some reason she felt disappointed.
A little further and they came out onto Sunnydale’s main street. They were near its bottom, and at the sight of its length another shuddering wave of depression fell on her muscles.
They made their way up. Everything was shut, and it looked seedier than she remembered. But then, she didn’t really trust her memory. A lot of things, she’d been finding since her resurrection, weren’t as good as she’d thought they were.
“We can take the bike next time,” Spike told her, out of the blue.
“Bike?” She wasn’t paying full attention to him, cataloguing dilapidation with every scrap they passed.
“Motorbike,” his voice continued. “Wasn’t sure you’d want to ride, but - compared to this. Should’ve known you’d be dead on your feet.”
She caught that and her mouth quirked, despite itself. “I’m dead on my feet? That’s kind of funny, coming from a vampire.”
He grinned at her, and they carried on. It became easier, and the stores passed. Not as quickly as they would have on a motorcycle, but they passed.
And then she thought. “Hang on a second - you own a motorcycle?” She let the irony drip from her words. “Does the word ‘flammable’ not mean anything to you?”
He shrugged. “I’m not about to go out for a spin in the midday sun. It’s just something to get about on.”
Another, much more defensive vampire sprang to mind, and she smiled. “You know, Angel said almost the exact same thing about his convertible.”
He looked offended for a moment, but then realisation dawned and he sounded amused. “The… Angel owns a convertible.”
He laughed and she smiled with him, fondly. “He is a doof,” she said, remembering. “It’s like, even though I was there, right in front of him, I had to tell him I was OK at least a dozen times.”
And then Spike stopped. Short.
She paused a few paces on, then turned to face him. The balls of her feet burned; she hadn’t noticed.
His expression was bleak, stark against the light that again fell on him. Looking at him, she was afraid.
“Buffy,” he said. His voice sounded sick. “You’re not OK.”
A moment, and all pretence dropped away. She was what she had always been, lost, broken, and standing in a run-down street.
She remembered now: this exhaustion, so deep her bones ached, could never come from travelling. It came from life, and life’s caring people, whom it seemed she had not been able to escape from.
Spike’s light presence meant more to her now, and at the same time meant nothing, like everything else. Still, she was glad he had come for her.
At last they continued, wearily in stony silence to the cemetery. Soft, he said, “See you, Slayer.”
She nodded. He went.
“Spike, wait!” she called after, but had nothing to say. There was a hole inside her, empty and gaping around a bubble of bitterness. He went again.