'Slayers' Blood' by Quinara (R)
An alternate sequel to drizzlydaze's Waking Up. Or possibly to brutti_ma_buoni's Lovers' Meeting/Journey's End. R for death, self-harm, swearing, nastiness. ~960 words.
Slayers' Blood.
A cautionary tale.
It was Cleveland. That fucking town. Buffy was certain of it - it had ruined her life, and now, very likely, it was about to ruin her death.
They’d come back here after Dru had finally bit the dust, cut a swathe along the way and even had that fuck Spike’s body had been promising for a long time. It had turned kind of griefy-squishy after a couple of goes, but a girl liked to squish every now and then. Letting her feed on him through it, like he still did - that was definitely some sort of vampire-self-harm thing. But she had to figure her sire knew what he was doing. Plus it was tasty.
But, anyway, they’d come to Cleveland for the new slayer and killed her pretty easy. Spike’s heart hadn’t been in it, in the end, but Buffy had finished her for him in seconds, shared to dose them both up with the horn-juice and found a hole to hide in.
She should have realised, when she let him take it slow. The slayer blood hadn’t settled right in her stomach; there’d been too many feelings when she’d opened Spike’s neck that time. Tenderness. The first twinge of sympathy for what he’d lost. Too deep shivers when his hands ran up her back, through her hair, under her legs.
They hadn’t stopped. And before she knew they’d been lying low in Cleveland for a year, found a better place, killed every Council member that had come along. Two nights ago, another slayer - and that fight, after it, Spike had said he loved her. It had taken a little longer than last time, the fight, but that blood, yet more red slayer blood, it had made Buffy feel his feelings back. Almost.
And right now? She was waking up to the sound and scent and feel of flames.
“What the freaking fuck?” Buffy shouted, scrambling out of bed and its furnishings. Spike wasn’t far behind, but she turned on him, hardly able to believe the domestic sentence that fell from her lips. “This is your Lestat-wannabe candle collection! What did I goddamn tell you, Spike?”
But she wasn’t even that angry - not at him. She remembered rage, so much of it, but the slayer blood was still in her system and she couldn’t feel hatred for her sire. He stood there, thin like he always was these days, neck and thighs tender-red from her attention, and his eyes and bones were like sharp knives she wanted to cut herself on, over and over.
“It wasn’t me,” he said, deadly, glancing towards the door.
Immediately her heart closed off in relief, and the anger returned. Cold, blank perception of the gas can lying on her floor, small and half-heartedly thrown into their room.
Buffy let her retinas burn as she looked into the doorway. There it was, her ears realised: the gasp of fear, the running heart. Beyond the flames she could see her, body curled away from the fire in fear, but her eyes narrow with purpose. A young girl - fourteen or so. Dark skin and hair. A crossbow in her hands.
“And who the hell might you be?” Buffy asked, stalking closer to the flames that ran between the doorway and the bed. They were stable enough for the moment, and this was more important.
Spike followed her, slow steps bringing him to her shoulder. His touch on the small of her back made Buffy’s mouth water.
“You killed my sister!” the girl shouted over the roar of flames, eyes averted from their naked bodies. “Kendra Clarke, you killed her! And you killed Faith! You’ve destroyed everything.”
Buffy looked up to Spike; he looked back at her. She’d never been one for conversation; he didn’t talk to people who weren’t her.
One leap, and Buffy was diving over the flames, through the doorway and knocking one terrified, vengeful girl to the ground. She screamed as Buffy’s teeth went in, but they always did. Always.
It was only when Buffy started draining the girl that she realised who her sister had been - the first slayer, of course. Her blood, after all, it tasted of slayer blood, chocolate-rich and whiskey-hot. She meant to call Spike over, but actually, this blood, it was better than that, too good. It was slayer blood concentrate, alive with energy even as the girl stopped shaking in her arms, spinning down to her stomach with all the years that had ever been.
Buffy should have stopped, remembered what slayer blood had done to her before. But she didn’t until the girl had drained, when the body fell away from Buffy’s arms and lay on the landing carpet like she must have lain on the Master’s warehouse floor.
One young girl, lost too much. A crossbow to her name but not enough ability. Dying. Dead. Gone.
Now Buffy’s stomach felt hot, churning. The side of her was hot from the nearness of the flames. She’d burnt her breasts on the dive. But that was nothing compared to the cold, sweeping feeling of loss and fear running through her. Nor as she started to cry.
Spike came and he held her, curled around her on the landing floor. As he bit her, the world spun, and everything was blurry and distant and different until his fangs withdrew. But it wasn’t enough, and he knew it. Silenced, she knew it too.
“It’s the slayers,” she said, regaining speech, losing it. “I don’t…”
And he replied, cutting their sharp bodies close, “It’s always something, in the end.”
She closed her eyes as the warm blood kept flowing through her, strong and terrifying.
Was this what happened to dead slayers? What even was it, happening?
She didn't know. The flames flickered like laughter.
.
Slayers' Blood.
A cautionary tale.
It was Cleveland. That fucking town. Buffy was certain of it - it had ruined her life, and now, very likely, it was about to ruin her death.
They’d come back here after Dru had finally bit the dust, cut a swathe along the way and even had that fuck Spike’s body had been promising for a long time. It had turned kind of griefy-squishy after a couple of goes, but a girl liked to squish every now and then. Letting her feed on him through it, like he still did - that was definitely some sort of vampire-self-harm thing. But she had to figure her sire knew what he was doing. Plus it was tasty.
But, anyway, they’d come to Cleveland for the new slayer and killed her pretty easy. Spike’s heart hadn’t been in it, in the end, but Buffy had finished her for him in seconds, shared to dose them both up with the horn-juice and found a hole to hide in.
She should have realised, when she let him take it slow. The slayer blood hadn’t settled right in her stomach; there’d been too many feelings when she’d opened Spike’s neck that time. Tenderness. The first twinge of sympathy for what he’d lost. Too deep shivers when his hands ran up her back, through her hair, under her legs.
They hadn’t stopped. And before she knew they’d been lying low in Cleveland for a year, found a better place, killed every Council member that had come along. Two nights ago, another slayer - and that fight, after it, Spike had said he loved her. It had taken a little longer than last time, the fight, but that blood, yet more red slayer blood, it had made Buffy feel his feelings back. Almost.
And right now? She was waking up to the sound and scent and feel of flames.
“What the freaking fuck?” Buffy shouted, scrambling out of bed and its furnishings. Spike wasn’t far behind, but she turned on him, hardly able to believe the domestic sentence that fell from her lips. “This is your Lestat-wannabe candle collection! What did I goddamn tell you, Spike?”
But she wasn’t even that angry - not at him. She remembered rage, so much of it, but the slayer blood was still in her system and she couldn’t feel hatred for her sire. He stood there, thin like he always was these days, neck and thighs tender-red from her attention, and his eyes and bones were like sharp knives she wanted to cut herself on, over and over.
“It wasn’t me,” he said, deadly, glancing towards the door.
Immediately her heart closed off in relief, and the anger returned. Cold, blank perception of the gas can lying on her floor, small and half-heartedly thrown into their room.
Buffy let her retinas burn as she looked into the doorway. There it was, her ears realised: the gasp of fear, the running heart. Beyond the flames she could see her, body curled away from the fire in fear, but her eyes narrow with purpose. A young girl - fourteen or so. Dark skin and hair. A crossbow in her hands.
“And who the hell might you be?” Buffy asked, stalking closer to the flames that ran between the doorway and the bed. They were stable enough for the moment, and this was more important.
Spike followed her, slow steps bringing him to her shoulder. His touch on the small of her back made Buffy’s mouth water.
“You killed my sister!” the girl shouted over the roar of flames, eyes averted from their naked bodies. “Kendra Clarke, you killed her! And you killed Faith! You’ve destroyed everything.”
Buffy looked up to Spike; he looked back at her. She’d never been one for conversation; he didn’t talk to people who weren’t her.
One leap, and Buffy was diving over the flames, through the doorway and knocking one terrified, vengeful girl to the ground. She screamed as Buffy’s teeth went in, but they always did. Always.
It was only when Buffy started draining the girl that she realised who her sister had been - the first slayer, of course. Her blood, after all, it tasted of slayer blood, chocolate-rich and whiskey-hot. She meant to call Spike over, but actually, this blood, it was better than that, too good. It was slayer blood concentrate, alive with energy even as the girl stopped shaking in her arms, spinning down to her stomach with all the years that had ever been.
Buffy should have stopped, remembered what slayer blood had done to her before. But she didn’t until the girl had drained, when the body fell away from Buffy’s arms and lay on the landing carpet like she must have lain on the Master’s warehouse floor.
One young girl, lost too much. A crossbow to her name but not enough ability. Dying. Dead. Gone.
Now Buffy’s stomach felt hot, churning. The side of her was hot from the nearness of the flames. She’d burnt her breasts on the dive. But that was nothing compared to the cold, sweeping feeling of loss and fear running through her. Nor as she started to cry.
Spike came and he held her, curled around her on the landing floor. As he bit her, the world spun, and everything was blurry and distant and different until his fangs withdrew. But it wasn’t enough, and he knew it. Silenced, she knew it too.
“It’s the slayers,” she said, regaining speech, losing it. “I don’t…”
And he replied, cutting their sharp bodies close, “It’s always something, in the end.”
She closed her eyes as the warm blood kept flowing through her, strong and terrifying.
Was this what happened to dead slayers? What even was it, happening?
She didn't know. The flames flickered like laughter.
.