Nearly Triumphant
Jun. 23rd, 2009 10:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunPairing: Spike, Xander (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After meeting Xander in a London alley, Spike does some thinking. A sort of continuation of my comics canon future AU A Spot of Trouble.
A/N: Written because![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laazikaat asked very nicely and provided a helpful CoSoRanOb list of prompts: Colour: silver or green, Sound: something creaking (door, gate, bedsprings, lol), Random Object: empty beer bottle or discarded chocolate wrapper. Not very slashy, sweetie, but I hope you enjoy just the same and thanks for helping me continue this little comics canon adventure.
It’s been two days and he still isn’t sure why he’s here. He sighs as he leans back against the padded headboard, the cool bottle settling lightly against his bare abdomen. Harris rightly pointed out the folly of seeing the world through whisky colored glasses, but it’s the only thing real he has to cling to. Dru’s not here now, if she ever was. Just one more ghost he’s tired of chasing and he snorts a little at the irony.
He closes his eyes against the gray-green gloom of London at dusk. He’s supposed to be helping the slayers chase down a Frovalox nest; despite the obvious appeal of spending his night hip deep in regurgitated slime, he only digs himself deeper into the hard mattress. The springs squeak in protest against his restless squirms.
He has to think this through. Too many bloody changes and he’s hardly able to keep pace. London and Scoobie Central are a long way from the sordid life and death and unlife pace of L.A. His mouth curls at the memory.
He pulls the bottle up to his mouth, relishing the heady fumes that get him half-drunk even before the burn hits his belly. The quick dizzy high he gets is another sign of his time in hell. He’s lost his head for booze.
He’s also lost his stomach for change. Even after the ugliness of Angel and the nasty lycanthrope slavery business, L.A. was what he knew. Angel was what he knew. Fuck, he was as much the Poof’s get as the sad-eyed boy who smiled like Darla and killed like Angelus. Nasty combination, that, Spike thinks sourly. He refuses to miss Connor and the silent thrill of being Uncle Spike to an almost lad in a not-quite family.
The whole lot of them are shambling about arse over teakettle. No Watcher in sight and when he asked about the sorry sod, the tiny smile curling the corners of Xander’s mouth fell away.
“Not here,” is the soft reply. “Don’t bring it up with Buff, okay?”
He still doesn’t have the full story on old Rupert’s whereabouts. He’d worry about that if he wasn’t so confused about Buffy. He burnt to ashes and cinder so she could live free and what does he find on his nearly triumphant return? She’s worked herself to a shadow again, and with hundreds of girls besides to do all the heavy lifting. Almost rather she be The Immortal’s bit of fluff in carefree Italia than see her risk life and limb on a world that wants her dead.
One eye peels open and he shakes his head. Bollocks to that nonsense!
“You ever see the damage an angel can do?” he asks idly. The shadow on the wall flickers slightly. Close enough to a no for his purposes. “Not Angel angel; A real angel. ’S nothing like what you think. All feathered wings and destruction, that lot. So many damn dead and all by righteous hands.”
He takes another swallow, but the whiskey’s burn doesn’t thaw the lump of frozen fear in the pit of his belly.
“Thought Hell was bad, you know?” He asks the swaying shadow rhetorically. “Too many people you can’t save, friends lost. Figured once we got back to the real world, it’ll all square up. Angel saves the day and all that. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.”
“Give him credit, though, “ Spike continues softly. “He didn’t fall for their tricks. Angel knows the bad from the good these days, no matter what face they wear.”
“And you?” Xander finally asks. “What face you wearing these days, Spike?”
Spike ignores him. “I followed her here. Thought I did, at any rate. Musta gave me the slip in Heidelberg. She tried to…didn’t o’course. Angel stopped her.”
“Drusilla.” It’s not a question.
“Always comes back to a woman, yeah?” Spike tosses back. “ ‘S why we’re both here, innit?”
“Nah.” Xander shakes his head. “Sure, we may have both started this crazy whirligig of fun and destruction because of Buff. But she’s not why we stay.”
“Oh yeah?” His words aren’t a challenge. Half-pissed and exhausted, he really needs to know why he’s here.
“Yeah,” Xander confirms. “Besides the whole help mankind bit, what the hell else would we do on a Friday night?”
Spike laughs, the sound getting caught in his throat and coming out a half-strangled whoop. It’s not that Harris’s statement is funny. It’s bleedin’ tragic, but in the dark with a bellyfull of booze the mutual tragedy of their lives becomes almost comic. Either that or he’s hysterical.
“Sleep,” Xander tells him and Spike thinks he must be hysterical because the words are warm, almost affectionate. “We’ll do all the talking later.”
“Yeah,” Spike agrees, even though he’s not sure what they’ll talk about. He's done with the savior business. Gone to hell back for the whole help mankind bit. Not interested in revisiting past uglies.
It’s lie and he knows it’s a lie. Xander turns to leave, dropping a quick, gentle hand on to Spike's head; a near benediction that draws an unwilling, shuddery breath from him. He’ll stay, he’ll fight for them and with them, the whole bloody crash and burn all over again.
What else would he do?
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After meeting Xander in a London alley, Spike does some thinking. A sort of continuation of my comics canon future AU A Spot of Trouble.
A/N: Written because
laazikaat asked very nicely and provided a helpful CoSoRanOb list of prompts: Colour: silver or green, Sound: something creaking (door, gate, bedsprings, lol), Random Object: empty beer bottle or discarded chocolate wrapper. Not very slashy, sweetie, but I hope you enjoy just the same and thanks for helping me continue this little comics canon adventure.It’s been two days and he still isn’t sure why he’s here. He sighs as he leans back against the padded headboard, the cool bottle settling lightly against his bare abdomen. Harris rightly pointed out the folly of seeing the world through whisky colored glasses, but it’s the only thing real he has to cling to. Dru’s not here now, if she ever was. Just one more ghost he’s tired of chasing and he snorts a little at the irony.
He closes his eyes against the gray-green gloom of London at dusk. He’s supposed to be helping the slayers chase down a Frovalox nest; despite the obvious appeal of spending his night hip deep in regurgitated slime, he only digs himself deeper into the hard mattress. The springs squeak in protest against his restless squirms.
He has to think this through. Too many bloody changes and he’s hardly able to keep pace. London and Scoobie Central are a long way from the sordid life and death and unlife pace of L.A. His mouth curls at the memory.
He pulls the bottle up to his mouth, relishing the heady fumes that get him half-drunk even before the burn hits his belly. The quick dizzy high he gets is another sign of his time in hell. He’s lost his head for booze.
He’s also lost his stomach for change. Even after the ugliness of Angel and the nasty lycanthrope slavery business, L.A. was what he knew. Angel was what he knew. Fuck, he was as much the Poof’s get as the sad-eyed boy who smiled like Darla and killed like Angelus. Nasty combination, that, Spike thinks sourly. He refuses to miss Connor and the silent thrill of being Uncle Spike to an almost lad in a not-quite family.
The whole lot of them are shambling about arse over teakettle. No Watcher in sight and when he asked about the sorry sod, the tiny smile curling the corners of Xander’s mouth fell away.
“Not here,” is the soft reply. “Don’t bring it up with Buff, okay?”
He still doesn’t have the full story on old Rupert’s whereabouts. He’d worry about that if he wasn’t so confused about Buffy. He burnt to ashes and cinder so she could live free and what does he find on his nearly triumphant return? She’s worked herself to a shadow again, and with hundreds of girls besides to do all the heavy lifting. Almost rather she be The Immortal’s bit of fluff in carefree Italia than see her risk life and limb on a world that wants her dead.
One eye peels open and he shakes his head. Bollocks to that nonsense!
“You ever see the damage an angel can do?” he asks idly. The shadow on the wall flickers slightly. Close enough to a no for his purposes. “Not Angel angel; A real angel. ’S nothing like what you think. All feathered wings and destruction, that lot. So many damn dead and all by righteous hands.”
He takes another swallow, but the whiskey’s burn doesn’t thaw the lump of frozen fear in the pit of his belly.
“Thought Hell was bad, you know?” He asks the swaying shadow rhetorically. “Too many people you can’t save, friends lost. Figured once we got back to the real world, it’ll all square up. Angel saves the day and all that. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.”
“Give him credit, though, “ Spike continues softly. “He didn’t fall for their tricks. Angel knows the bad from the good these days, no matter what face they wear.”
“And you?” Xander finally asks. “What face you wearing these days, Spike?”
Spike ignores him. “I followed her here. Thought I did, at any rate. Musta gave me the slip in Heidelberg. She tried to…didn’t o’course. Angel stopped her.”
“Drusilla.” It’s not a question.
“Always comes back to a woman, yeah?” Spike tosses back. “ ‘S why we’re both here, innit?”
“Nah.” Xander shakes his head. “Sure, we may have both started this crazy whirligig of fun and destruction because of Buff. But she’s not why we stay.”
“Oh yeah?” His words aren’t a challenge. Half-pissed and exhausted, he really needs to know why he’s here.
“Yeah,” Xander confirms. “Besides the whole help mankind bit, what the hell else would we do on a Friday night?”
Spike laughs, the sound getting caught in his throat and coming out a half-strangled whoop. It’s not that Harris’s statement is funny. It’s bleedin’ tragic, but in the dark with a bellyfull of booze the mutual tragedy of their lives becomes almost comic. Either that or he’s hysterical.
“Sleep,” Xander tells him and Spike thinks he must be hysterical because the words are warm, almost affectionate. “We’ll do all the talking later.”
“Yeah,” Spike agrees, even though he’s not sure what they’ll talk about. He's done with the savior business. Gone to hell back for the whole help mankind bit. Not interested in revisiting past uglies.
It’s lie and he knows it’s a lie. Xander turns to leave, dropping a quick, gentle hand on to Spike's head; a near benediction that draws an unwilling, shuddery breath from him. He’ll stay, he’ll fight for them and with them, the whole bloody crash and burn all over again.
What else would he do?
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