Fic: The House
Title: The House
Creator: drizzlydaze
Rating: PG
Setting: NFA battle
Word count: 756
Prompt: The creak of a floorboard
A/N: Part Nine. Parts One ( Chapters), Two ( Like Old Times, But Not), Three ( Help), Four ( Victim), Five ( Property), Six ( Escapee), Seven ( Interrogations), Eight ( The Plan/The Book).
It’s as solid as a door can be. It doesn’t feel fake or metaphysical or… well, Buffy doesn’t know the term, but-it feels real. More real than Slayer dreams, even, so she supposes she’s not headed for a Dali-like surreal mindscape, with twisty trees and melty clocks and...
The Senior Partners will have other measures in place, Helga warned her. They can’t keep her out, but they’ll make it a maze to get to the actual prison. No better place to start than here. She pushes open the door, steps into the house. The door scrapes shut behind her.
Dark. Still. Cavernous. This is Spike’s mind. It roars and echoes in silences. It is choking and cold, vast, unknown. It should be dangerous, a trap like this-but her Slayer sense do not tingle. The house is empty, wanting.
Running her hands over the wall, she fumbles for a light switch to no avail, and her eyes do not adjust to the darkness. “So!” she announces in a strangled voice. “Some lights would be helpful!” Nothing happens, so Buffy decides that the Senior Partners aren’t all that interested in being helpful.
She takes a cautious step forward, heart in her throat. A floorboard creaks beneath her foot, and she immediately stills. Silence reigns once more. Move, she urges herself, her throat dry. Get started. Her legs feel like lead, but she forces herself to take another step forward. And another. And another. She is drenched in cold sweat, goose bumps rising from her skin, and she shivers uncontrollably.
As she advances, she begins to hear the far-away sounds of music. It seems to be coming from above, so-yes, she very nearly trips when she comes to the foot of the staircase.. Now we’re getting somewhere. Slowly, carefully, she begins to climb-creak, creak, under her feet-resting most of her weight on the polished banister. She imagines the music is getting louder. The cheeriness of the tune is at odds with the squeaky floorboards, and the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
The dark turns dim. There are shafts of light ahead, long beams of sunlight that hang from the spaces between the wooden rafters, illuminating the gently falling dust motes. She’s ended up in an attic of sorts, solid wood floor giving way to long sturdy planks with sizeable gaps between, allowing her to glance below.
She doesn’t expect to see the darkness of the floor she’s just left, not with the light still shining down from above, and she is not disappointed. The music is louder and clearer than ever; down below is a bright ballroom, the kind that she’s seen in those old period movies. Dresses and hairstyles are elegant and intricate among the women; the men favour moustaches and penguin suits.
She imagines what will happen next. A quick slaughter, blood painting the walls. If the Senior Partners plan to deter her from rescuing Spike, a show of his evil might be a start.
“Please, it’s not finished…” An oddly familiar voice. The people are too far away for her to see who has spoken, so she leans further down to see if she can see more clearly.
The world-the house-shifts, and she finds herself plunging headfirst into the scene. Air and colours and sounds rush past-
-and everything turns dim and woody, cracking and crashes replacing classical music… and even as she falls past as quickly as ever, she remembers this house. She turns to the side as best she can, hears the gasps and moans coupled with the noises of destruction, catches flashes of gold and skin. She knows this house, but it isn’t the one she first entered-
-she falls with it anyway, and somehow she stops as she would in a dream, except this time the jolt doesn’t wake her up.
“I know I’m a monster.”
And she finally sees him. Not strangers in a ballroom, not glimpses of his flesh and hair, but him. His knowing eyes, the darkest of blue, looking intently up the stairs. His body clad in black, leather coat sweeping around him. His bright hair and pale skin under the light of the house. His deep voice rich with sincerity.
Spike, she tries to whisper, but no sound passes from her lips, and the moment she mouths the words, she finds the scene rushing past her like wind.
And she finds herself in the dark, empty house once more.