500 word fic: Burnt to the Filter
Burnt to the Filter.
by Quinara
[PG; post NFA; 'fag ends' meets 'burnt out'; implications of PTSD]
Thing about Rome, versus Teflon-coated California, was that people smoked. They weren’t too fussed about street cleanliness either, so the whole place was littered with fag ends - nothing extreme, but a couple on a drain cover, by the curb, under a step? They weren’t out of place.
If he stood on this doorstep all night, chainsmoking until he turned tail with the sunrise, Spike couldn’t imagine they’d even know he’d been there. Buffy and Dawn would go about their day happy as lambs, maybe getting out a broom if they found the butts particularly unsightly, maybe expecting someone else to do it. He wasn’t entirely sure how posh these apartments were.
Spike stared at the buzzer, at the little slatted speaker and the array of buttons. ‘Summers’ it said, next to Apartment 34.
As the heat of his smoke edged closer to his fingers, Spike absentmindedly dropped the end to the ground, reaching inside his coat for another fag. Still he stared at the buzzer, so it wasn’t entirely surprising that he jumped when it buzzed, feeling like someone had shocked him with a defibrillator.
“Spike, get your ass up here,” came the slightly fuzzy voice. “I am not watching you make a mess any longer!”
Buffy? His hand paused in his coat, fingers touching cardboard as he stared, speechless. Buffy?
“Oh, for god’s sake…”
Then the voice was gone and he was left with the horrible sensation that he’d missed his chance. He’d blown it. One year in the making and he’d shot the opportunity all to hell. He knew he should have thought it through harder, he knew…
The door opened and suddenly Buffy was there. She looked very, very unimpressed.
“You’ve been crying,” he said, because it was the first thing he could think. Not that it wasn’t true: her casual outfit was finished with frightening racoon eyes, standing out against her unflushed skin.
“I cried,” she replied shortly, arms crossed. “Like two hours ago. Then my eyes got burny from the mascara and I moved on to rage. And boredom. And… My god you can smoke for a long time...”
“I’m sorry,” he said nervously.
Gradually her posture softened: her arms uncrossed and her eyes widened from slits. “Do you have anything else to say?” she asked at last.
He had several ideas. I’m a very bad vampire who’s seen some very bad things and can I come into your flat now and smell your smell and hold you/kiss you/shag you until everything goes away? I missed you for a whole year, but everything went tits up and we were trying to save the bloody world, dammit, and… In the end he settled on, “Please let me in.”
She looked at him, shrewdly working something out. Conclusions were drawn. “Come on,” she said. “My windows open and I’ve got this great novelty ashtray. You can tell me all about it.”
No greater love hath any woman. That was the upshot. He almost broke down right there.
by Quinara
[PG; post NFA; 'fag ends' meets 'burnt out'; implications of PTSD]
Thing about Rome, versus Teflon-coated California, was that people smoked. They weren’t too fussed about street cleanliness either, so the whole place was littered with fag ends - nothing extreme, but a couple on a drain cover, by the curb, under a step? They weren’t out of place.
If he stood on this doorstep all night, chainsmoking until he turned tail with the sunrise, Spike couldn’t imagine they’d even know he’d been there. Buffy and Dawn would go about their day happy as lambs, maybe getting out a broom if they found the butts particularly unsightly, maybe expecting someone else to do it. He wasn’t entirely sure how posh these apartments were.
Spike stared at the buzzer, at the little slatted speaker and the array of buttons. ‘Summers’ it said, next to Apartment 34.
As the heat of his smoke edged closer to his fingers, Spike absentmindedly dropped the end to the ground, reaching inside his coat for another fag. Still he stared at the buzzer, so it wasn’t entirely surprising that he jumped when it buzzed, feeling like someone had shocked him with a defibrillator.
“Spike, get your ass up here,” came the slightly fuzzy voice. “I am not watching you make a mess any longer!”
Buffy? His hand paused in his coat, fingers touching cardboard as he stared, speechless. Buffy?
“Oh, for god’s sake…”
Then the voice was gone and he was left with the horrible sensation that he’d missed his chance. He’d blown it. One year in the making and he’d shot the opportunity all to hell. He knew he should have thought it through harder, he knew…
The door opened and suddenly Buffy was there. She looked very, very unimpressed.
“You’ve been crying,” he said, because it was the first thing he could think. Not that it wasn’t true: her casual outfit was finished with frightening racoon eyes, standing out against her unflushed skin.
“I cried,” she replied shortly, arms crossed. “Like two hours ago. Then my eyes got burny from the mascara and I moved on to rage. And boredom. And… My god you can smoke for a long time...”
“I’m sorry,” he said nervously.
Gradually her posture softened: her arms uncrossed and her eyes widened from slits. “Do you have anything else to say?” she asked at last.
He had several ideas. I’m a very bad vampire who’s seen some very bad things and can I come into your flat now and smell your smell and hold you/kiss you/shag you until everything goes away? I missed you for a whole year, but everything went tits up and we were trying to save the bloody world, dammit, and… In the end he settled on, “Please let me in.”
She looked at him, shrewdly working something out. Conclusions were drawn. “Come on,” she said. “My windows open and I’ve got this great novelty ashtray. You can tell me all about it.”
No greater love hath any woman. That was the upshot. He almost broke down right there.