Fic-ish - one year on from 'Brand New Day'
As part (/quite possibly all) of the time-stamp meme rahirah asked to see what’s happening one year on from Brand New Day, a fic in which Spike finds himself resurrected after Chosen in a happier situation than he can quite believe.
Since I failed at being brief, it's probably best to classify this like real fic: Spuffy - PG-13 - 1047 words - a tad confusing if you haven't read the fic it's sequelling.
Warnings: Consent/agency issues
.
The night was warm and things were good. Leaving his right arm slung across Buffy's shoulder Spike stretched his left high above this head. “Now that was a pleasant evening.”
“Was?” Buffy turned into him, looking up through her lashes and bringing him to a stand-still. The night flattered her, worked with her smoky make-up to effortlessly seduce him. It wasn't as if it took much. “You calling an end to the 'go-us' festivities already?”
He kissed her, unable to do anything else, spinning them into shadows and smiling as he did so. “Only the evening's portion. I believe we're in the night-time now.”
“Good to know.” Her arms went around his neck, cuing him to start the snogging in earnest. Somehow the wall ended up behind his back and his leg thrust flush between her thighs. If there'd been music they would have been dancing, but as it was there was only rhythm, rising and falling and quickening between them.
And then a sensation. Not exactly unfamiliar, but not something he'd been expecting.
They both froze. “Uh, Spike, why is your, um, thing vibrating?” Even as realisation dawned (“Crap, that's my phone!”) the mood was broken. They came apart, both reaching for their pockets - her for her mobile, him for his cigarettes.
She put the phone to her ear as he pulled a fag from the packet, then pouted at the snick of the lighter. “Oh, but I was enjoying the coffee... Hello?” She frowned, distracted. He smoked on, walking back to the light of the moon. “Oh, no, I was talking to - How did you get my number, anyway? Huh? You want to speak to Spike? Do you even - OK, OK, I'll ask...” He turned back to Buffy's outstretched arm, hand closed around the bottom end of the phone. “Wesley wants to talk to you.”
“Who?” he asked, taking another drag. Did he know a Wesley? The name was mildly familiar, enough to make him think he'd maybe known one back in school. Someone he'd respected just a tad, someone he'd shared an experience with. Of course, he'd be damned that little bit more if he could remember the face.
Not that that was relevant in any way. “Wyndham-Price,” Buffy continued. “He was Faith's watcher for a while.” She rolled her eyes. “And technically mine, I guess.”
“Bit of a wanker?”
“You could say. He works for Angel.”
He tossed the cigarette and took the phone, smirking reflexively at the words that bled from it. “I can hear you. Honestly...”
“Yeah?”
“And Angel works for me, I'll have you know.” There was a strain in his voice, just below the surface. Something was cracking.
Spike really didn't want to be there when it happened. He growled, “Get on with it, Watcher.”
A breath. “My apologies. I'm rather wasting this phone call, aren't I?” He laughed shortly, seemingly for effect more than any real humour. “I wanted to talk to you about your resurrection, ask if there's anything you -” The man's voice broke off, along with his breath. Spike realised he wasn't breathing either and suddenly there was nothing but silence booming down the phone.
It took a couple of seconds, but then Spike could see it, the presence in the back of the room that was cutting off Wesley's speech. Angel was standing over them all.
Buffy took his hand; the man spoke again. “And a Tex-Mex. Have you got that? Do you need me to go over it again?” He paused. The phone crackled. “I'll be out in a minute, Angel.” He'd covered the mouthpiece with a hand, but his voice wasn't muffled quite enough. Another crackle and clarity returned. “Yes. We would like two large, stuffed crust Pepperoni Hot; one regular Hawaiian, Italian-style -”
“What the hell is this about?” Spike felt himself readying for a fight, standing more firmly on the ground. But, no, that wasn't it. He was clutching Buffy harder, not wanting to move at all, clutching the tarmac harder, clutching the air and his life around him harder in the hope that it would hold him in his place.
The man sighed, sounding exhausted. “I have reason to believe that there was an event, approximately a year ago, that changed our perception of this world and of the present time. My research... It isn't going well, but I think it might have affected you and Buffy as well as all of us in Los Angeles. I'm not sure why. Have you heard of Wolfram and Hart?”
Spike looked up. The building across from him was a shop, a Vietnamese grocery shut up for the night, but for a moment it looked like something else. The road was corporate carpet, the building a room leading off from the lobby. There was a man coming out of it, haggard and bitter in the light of the filtered sun. He raised his head and Spike could see a scar, long and angry, cutting across his neck. The more the light hit it the harsher it seemed and Spike wondered why he had never noticed it before. Could scars be hidden that easily? What would happen when his own came so on show?
“Stop looking,” Spike muttered, mostly to himself. This couldn't be happening again. “Stop looking.” He shut his eyes to get the night back and staggered away from the vision, crashing into something on the way. The phone was torn from his hand; he covered his eyes.
“We'll call you back.” That was Buffy's voice, he knew it was. Rich and firm and alive, like it always had been. Her hands came coldly around his wrists and pulled them slowly downwards. He shivered.
For too long there was nothing, until with a gentle kiss she woke him up. He blinked at her smile, limned by moonlight, far too full of déjà-vu. “Hey,” she whispered. “Where'd you go?”
His shook his head. “Doesn't matter.”
She looked at him for a moment, slowly twining their fingers together. Then with a toss of her hair she spoke. “Come on,” she said. “I know an apartment with really thick walls...”
He nodded, though he was mostly agreeing with what she hadn't said, a much more dangerous proposition.
They were going to call Wesley back.
Since I failed at being brief, it's probably best to classify this like real fic: Spuffy - PG-13 - 1047 words - a tad confusing if you haven't read the fic it's sequelling.
Warnings: Consent/agency issues
.
The night was warm and things were good. Leaving his right arm slung across Buffy's shoulder Spike stretched his left high above this head. “Now that was a pleasant evening.”
“Was?” Buffy turned into him, looking up through her lashes and bringing him to a stand-still. The night flattered her, worked with her smoky make-up to effortlessly seduce him. It wasn't as if it took much. “You calling an end to the 'go-us' festivities already?”
He kissed her, unable to do anything else, spinning them into shadows and smiling as he did so. “Only the evening's portion. I believe we're in the night-time now.”
“Good to know.” Her arms went around his neck, cuing him to start the snogging in earnest. Somehow the wall ended up behind his back and his leg thrust flush between her thighs. If there'd been music they would have been dancing, but as it was there was only rhythm, rising and falling and quickening between them.
And then a sensation. Not exactly unfamiliar, but not something he'd been expecting.
They both froze. “Uh, Spike, why is your, um, thing vibrating?” Even as realisation dawned (“Crap, that's my phone!”) the mood was broken. They came apart, both reaching for their pockets - her for her mobile, him for his cigarettes.
She put the phone to her ear as he pulled a fag from the packet, then pouted at the snick of the lighter. “Oh, but I was enjoying the coffee... Hello?” She frowned, distracted. He smoked on, walking back to the light of the moon. “Oh, no, I was talking to - How did you get my number, anyway? Huh? You want to speak to Spike? Do you even - OK, OK, I'll ask...” He turned back to Buffy's outstretched arm, hand closed around the bottom end of the phone. “Wesley wants to talk to you.”
“Who?” he asked, taking another drag. Did he know a Wesley? The name was mildly familiar, enough to make him think he'd maybe known one back in school. Someone he'd respected just a tad, someone he'd shared an experience with. Of course, he'd be damned that little bit more if he could remember the face.
Not that that was relevant in any way. “Wyndham-Price,” Buffy continued. “He was Faith's watcher for a while.” She rolled her eyes. “And technically mine, I guess.”
“Bit of a wanker?”
“You could say. He works for Angel.”
He tossed the cigarette and took the phone, smirking reflexively at the words that bled from it. “I can hear you. Honestly...”
“Yeah?”
“And Angel works for me, I'll have you know.” There was a strain in his voice, just below the surface. Something was cracking.
Spike really didn't want to be there when it happened. He growled, “Get on with it, Watcher.”
A breath. “My apologies. I'm rather wasting this phone call, aren't I?” He laughed shortly, seemingly for effect more than any real humour. “I wanted to talk to you about your resurrection, ask if there's anything you -” The man's voice broke off, along with his breath. Spike realised he wasn't breathing either and suddenly there was nothing but silence booming down the phone.
It took a couple of seconds, but then Spike could see it, the presence in the back of the room that was cutting off Wesley's speech. Angel was standing over them all.
Buffy took his hand; the man spoke again. “And a Tex-Mex. Have you got that? Do you need me to go over it again?” He paused. The phone crackled. “I'll be out in a minute, Angel.” He'd covered the mouthpiece with a hand, but his voice wasn't muffled quite enough. Another crackle and clarity returned. “Yes. We would like two large, stuffed crust Pepperoni Hot; one regular Hawaiian, Italian-style -”
“What the hell is this about?” Spike felt himself readying for a fight, standing more firmly on the ground. But, no, that wasn't it. He was clutching Buffy harder, not wanting to move at all, clutching the tarmac harder, clutching the air and his life around him harder in the hope that it would hold him in his place.
The man sighed, sounding exhausted. “I have reason to believe that there was an event, approximately a year ago, that changed our perception of this world and of the present time. My research... It isn't going well, but I think it might have affected you and Buffy as well as all of us in Los Angeles. I'm not sure why. Have you heard of Wolfram and Hart?”
Spike looked up. The building across from him was a shop, a Vietnamese grocery shut up for the night, but for a moment it looked like something else. The road was corporate carpet, the building a room leading off from the lobby. There was a man coming out of it, haggard and bitter in the light of the filtered sun. He raised his head and Spike could see a scar, long and angry, cutting across his neck. The more the light hit it the harsher it seemed and Spike wondered why he had never noticed it before. Could scars be hidden that easily? What would happen when his own came so on show?
“Stop looking,” Spike muttered, mostly to himself. This couldn't be happening again. “Stop looking.” He shut his eyes to get the night back and staggered away from the vision, crashing into something on the way. The phone was torn from his hand; he covered his eyes.
“We'll call you back.” That was Buffy's voice, he knew it was. Rich and firm and alive, like it always had been. Her hands came coldly around his wrists and pulled them slowly downwards. He shivered.
For too long there was nothing, until with a gentle kiss she woke him up. He blinked at her smile, limned by moonlight, far too full of déjà-vu. “Hey,” she whispered. “Where'd you go?”
His shook his head. “Doesn't matter.”
She looked at him for a moment, slowly twining their fingers together. Then with a toss of her hair she spoke. “Come on,” she said. “I know an apartment with really thick walls...”
He nodded, though he was mostly agreeing with what she hadn't said, a much more dangerous proposition.
They were going to call Wesley back.