Spuffy Ficlet: A Night Song
I've got one last short ficlet to post this month and this time it's spuffy angst all the way. 635 words and G rated. Thanks to enigmaticblues for the beta work.
A Night Song
He noticed her late one night standing in a patch of moonlight. It was the stillness that caught his eye. She had always been so active before; a whirling dervish of motion-high kicks, swinging fists, rapid-fire quips.
Never so utterly still.
He walked cautiously toward her, afraid any sudden movement on his part might give her cause to run deeper into the cemetery. It wasn’t until he reached her and looked into her eyes that he knew fleeing was not going to be a problem tonight. The Slayer wasn’t going anywhere. In her California-speak, been there, done that. Trashed the tee-shirt.
“Slayer? Buffy?” He kept his voice calm and low-detached- and whispered a question that he doubted would receive an answer. “What are you doing out here? It’s too late to patrol.” You’ll get yourself killed. He finished the sentence silently in his head.
Stake lying forgotten at her feet where she’d dropped it, her shoulders suddenly slumped. He watched as she gathered herself together for the monumental task of responding. He’d given up the expectation of any reply when she licked her lips and whispered, “I heard a song on the radio.”
His hand hovered before placing it lightly on her arm. “A song brought you to the cemetery to patrol in the middle of the night?”
She sagged against him and not for the first time he marveled at how such a small body could house so much power. And heat. Pushing that thought far away, he concentrated on coaxing her to leave. “Ready to go?”
Ignoring his query, she ran a finger lightly across the strangers’ names carved on a marble headstone.
Cursing the witch and her stupid do-gooders for the hundredth time, he tried another tack. “Must have struck quite a chord. What song was it Pet?”
“Just a song.” Her voice was still low and Spike winced inwardly at the lack of inflection. She always spoke in a monotone these days. Like Elvis, happy Buffy had left the building.
“Let me walk you home.”
Cocking her head she turned to look at him curiously and for an instant he could almost see the woman she used to be. “Why, Spike?”
Playing for time he searched for a cigarette. Patting his pockets he debated which answer would convince her to accompany him.
Shrugging with a nonchalance he didn’t feel, he replied, “Bored. Goin’ into town anyway.”
“Whatever.” She mimicked his shrug.
Light years ago he would have thought she was mocking him, but now he took her arm again and she didn’t pull away.
Gently steering her out of the cemetery, he racked his brain for something to break the silence, to break through. But everything he thought of he pushed aside as too trite. Too impossible.
Beside him Buffy trudged slowly, placing one foot in front of the other heavily, as though walking through cement instead of on it.
He realized she’d left her stake behind, forgotten in the grass.
They reached Revello without incident. Stopping at the bottom of the steps the Slayer-who-really-wasn’t-anymore turned to face her escort. “Thank you.”
He noticed that although her expression was still haunted, her eyes had gained some clarity. Either it was the return to her home or maybe the walk had actually helped in some way. Or maybe she was just mustering strength for the trip back inside the house to face the others.
Wishing he hadn’t thought that last bit, he nodded toward the door. “Well, here’s home.”
“You wondered about the song.”
It took him a moment to remember her earlier comment. “Oh. The song. Sure.
What was it?”
“Slip Slidin’ Away.” She closed the door.
He stood beneath the oak tree smoking for another hour, the lyrics by Paul Simon running over and over in his head.
The End
A Night Song
He noticed her late one night standing in a patch of moonlight. It was the stillness that caught his eye. She had always been so active before; a whirling dervish of motion-high kicks, swinging fists, rapid-fire quips.
Never so utterly still.
He walked cautiously toward her, afraid any sudden movement on his part might give her cause to run deeper into the cemetery. It wasn’t until he reached her and looked into her eyes that he knew fleeing was not going to be a problem tonight. The Slayer wasn’t going anywhere. In her California-speak, been there, done that. Trashed the tee-shirt.
“Slayer? Buffy?” He kept his voice calm and low-detached- and whispered a question that he doubted would receive an answer. “What are you doing out here? It’s too late to patrol.” You’ll get yourself killed. He finished the sentence silently in his head.
Stake lying forgotten at her feet where she’d dropped it, her shoulders suddenly slumped. He watched as she gathered herself together for the monumental task of responding. He’d given up the expectation of any reply when she licked her lips and whispered, “I heard a song on the radio.”
His hand hovered before placing it lightly on her arm. “A song brought you to the cemetery to patrol in the middle of the night?”
She sagged against him and not for the first time he marveled at how such a small body could house so much power. And heat. Pushing that thought far away, he concentrated on coaxing her to leave. “Ready to go?”
Ignoring his query, she ran a finger lightly across the strangers’ names carved on a marble headstone.
Cursing the witch and her stupid do-gooders for the hundredth time, he tried another tack. “Must have struck quite a chord. What song was it Pet?”
“Just a song.” Her voice was still low and Spike winced inwardly at the lack of inflection. She always spoke in a monotone these days. Like Elvis, happy Buffy had left the building.
“Let me walk you home.”
Cocking her head she turned to look at him curiously and for an instant he could almost see the woman she used to be. “Why, Spike?”
Playing for time he searched for a cigarette. Patting his pockets he debated which answer would convince her to accompany him.
Shrugging with a nonchalance he didn’t feel, he replied, “Bored. Goin’ into town anyway.”
“Whatever.” She mimicked his shrug.
Light years ago he would have thought she was mocking him, but now he took her arm again and she didn’t pull away.
Gently steering her out of the cemetery, he racked his brain for something to break the silence, to break through. But everything he thought of he pushed aside as too trite. Too impossible.
Beside him Buffy trudged slowly, placing one foot in front of the other heavily, as though walking through cement instead of on it.
He realized she’d left her stake behind, forgotten in the grass.
They reached Revello without incident. Stopping at the bottom of the steps the Slayer-who-really-wasn’t-anymore turned to face her escort. “Thank you.”
He noticed that although her expression was still haunted, her eyes had gained some clarity. Either it was the return to her home or maybe the walk had actually helped in some way. Or maybe she was just mustering strength for the trip back inside the house to face the others.
Wishing he hadn’t thought that last bit, he nodded toward the door. “Well, here’s home.”
“You wondered about the song.”
It took him a moment to remember her earlier comment. “Oh. The song. Sure.
What was it?”
“Slip Slidin’ Away.” She closed the door.
He stood beneath the oak tree smoking for another hour, the lyrics by Paul Simon running over and over in his head.
The End