Sleep to Awaken at the Bang
.A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfiction. (Revolving around Spike)
By VaRuka (Sloth to herself, Servant to everyone, Dominatrix to writing)
Author's Note: Yup, the anti-Spuffy fic I said I might do, is here. Well, I have no clue where I'm going with this story, but it's developing quickly and I have many ideas where I'm going to be taking this. Ah, I love this feeling. No Buffy for Spike anymore, no more of her bullshit and bollocks, he can have my original character instead. Okay, okay, I still LOVE the pairing, too--but give my character a chance, and watch my crafty and romantic plot unfold. Oh, Spike's thoughts in, * . . .* Okie, read now.
(need to painfully inflict
to consummate alleviation
need to start a conflict
to redirect my inner turmoil
i'm not sane--or insane
just majestic fusion of both
is all that has lived in me)
- By VaRuka
"Spike . . ."
He gulps. "Buffy?"
She is serious; deadly serious. He can tell by the pinched expression and positively lucid eyes. That is it. The word he has never heard. It was always, "Stay away", or "I never want to see you again", or "Get out". Oh, but it was never just go. Just one syllable could embody all the fears he has accumulated since stepping in the thick quicksand which is his love for Buffy.
This is definitely it. No mistaking. No misconceptions. None whatsoever.
He rigidly wheels his back on her, not desiring to have it be the other way around, for he has had that done way too many times to keep count; the distressful watching of his golden beloved confidently ambling away from his broken form. No. No. Not that again. This time it will be the other way around. One foot. Then another. And he is dauntlessly walking away from her.
Dauntlessly walking away from her . . .
Well, it seems way more like a languished shuffle of sorts for the first quarter of a block, until finally, the ever bad ass, even in the face of utter rejection, starts sucking all the affliction that bombards his every cell, deep inside. His feet actually rise from the ground and stomp back down, powerful legs begin long strides resembling his usual swagger, muscular arms start a peppy swinging, head lifting up from its noose-like hanging, and lastly his electric blue eyes blink back the tears; staring dead on into a future without the presence of Buffy.
Entire pale figure a ghostly picture of a majestic dark angel that has fallen through the cracks of heaven, bounced through the scorching pits of hell, and is drying from despair, also that he has been infected with an onslaught on the disease of humanity, emotions, tears. The whole kit and caboodle.
The night sounds are rushed to the side to produce room for his endless thoughts that all lead him back down memory lane structured by Freddy Kroger.
*The hell with Buffy, the bloody fucking hell with that batty chit, off her head, self-destruction right up 'er alley. Doesn't want me, eh? Well, I don't need HER. If I could go on without my dark princess Drusilla, then I can go on without my golden slayer Buffy . . .*
After a moment of contemplation. He remembers the only true reason he finally could go on without Dru was because he had diversions, i.e. Harmony, the little prostitute of his that never got paid and never knew she was one, then Buffy . . . the forbidden love that made the rebel in him kick open the door to the challenge. Yeah, diversions from Drusilla. But now, there is no love for Drusilla, there is only love for Buffy, and his wicked plum is nothing more to him that a speck of his vampiric remains floating in a breeze, if that were to happen tonight. *Maybe, it might, you never know these impromptu things tha' just come about from thin air, or a broken heart, once again.*
*Wait a bloody minute. I don't even know if I 'ave any more of heart now. Fragmented so fucking much; it must 'ave become a powdery dust. I could most likely snort my heart up my nose, for pete's sake.*
And as he ponders a bit more, he halts at the conclusion that they all were diversions from Cecily, but no, he can not, will not touch above that notion, though it may be quite valid, for what lies beneath the scabby surface of it is more painful that what Glory could ever do to him again.
Spike continues his trek off into nowhere. Which is a place he has gone before and returned from many a times. Still inside his chest lies a crackling spark of hope that Buffy may call him back, urgency dominant in her voice, love giving her wings to run to him faster and faster . . . but nothing of that manifests. There is only silence on her part, but with his keen vampiric ears, he does hear the steady inhale-exhale, then her heels turning, followed by her figure strutting away in the opposite direction of his, sounding forlornly distant by the second.
Not a word, or glance back.
There. He left for her. And she left for her. *Selfish bitch.* From Buffy, in her last moments to sustain herself a devoted Spike, all she did was want just to watch his figure leave to make sure he is exempt from her life and to drive, no, ram the point home. *How bloody lovely of 'er to observe me in my last moments as I do the asshole shuffle out of 'er life, for 'er . . . soddin' always for 'er.*
He stalks the ominous streets of Sunnydale, lost, alone, desperate, suicidal, silently weeping. The streets are foreboding in its dim streetlights, no police patrols, and all there dark corners where the beasties come out to play, people are no where in sight, for this is the industrial district, about a block from the commercial district, which is about another block from the residential district, and all the spacious cemeteries that are everywhere in between, and sometimes in them. *Cor, with all the residents croakin' by the milo-second, right damn they need so many, in so many places.*
Here he does an imitation of his old swagger down the concrete, counseling all the demons to not even dare showing their face right now, or they may not have one in the morning at the rate his depression is rising, fueling his craving for primal violence and cascading blood and lurid death at its Olympic award winning high. An invisible blanket of desolation cloaking him in a asphyxiating force, the claws of abandonment digging to his bones, and latching their hooks with pride.
Again, he winds up atrociously alone, in all his years of vampiric un-life--*since technically I really am dead, you know, the living dead, now there's an oxymoron for you, I am nothin' but a cold, lifeless, unfeeling, apathetic, sarcastic, dead thing, but I did feel, I felt tenfold of what any human could, but now, I frankly don't, I shouldn't. All I ever bloody well feel is pain.*--he is now without the company of others. No diversions. No friends . . . like he ever had any; not even sadistic Angelus or control-freak Darla were his friends, they were his superiors, bossing him around, reminded him of some type of military unit.
Nope. He has never in his life had friends. Maybe Lil Bit could count, no, they weren't friends, he was the protector and she was the protected. That is not really a friendship, just a type of bond with a fragile human girl that he will cherish until his last glimpse of reality. Ah, fragmented down to basic words, he is ineffably alone. So hard to describe a feeling which to him means a void. And how do you describe a void? *It is a concentrated amount of bloody nothin', black, wide, and deep enough that you can not climb out, 'cause you can't see your hand in front your own spooked out face.*
But a few times he could see his way free of this void. A few times he had a stark light that guides you out by his side.
All gone now.
Empty little Spike. No, not necessarily empty, empty. He has this overabundance of a powerful emotion so vigorous, throbbing like an over taxed heart, cogent and always eternal crimson love that keeps his mind and body at its beck and call, has his emotions running at an improbable drive; with this love he feels more in words or glances or any gestures from his beloved than he could possibly explain to anyone else, it makes him feel alive and airborne up in the clouds touching fluffy white pieces of heaven, but then as swift as that blissful feeling erupts into an all consuming flame in which he withers and roars out his joy, it can turn into something vulgarly contorted, manically passionate, and sometimes that drives them away--the quick interchange or melding of the two--but sometimes it keeps them close.
But they always leave, or only in Harmony's case . . . *Well, Harm really wasn't a case at all, she was a toy. Cute bint to boss around, shag with for a bit. Tide me over.*
What could be so wrong with Spike that every female he has given his heart to just throws it right back with a cackle the Wicked Witch of East couldn't even accomplish? It is as if he is somehow inadequate for them. That he is not worth it at all. Not worth anything but their mockery. And his love? His love is always taken for granted, or never utterly believed, or just never accepted, period.
*Wha's the point, anymore? Nothin' but hate in this banjaxed world. Nothin' but sugary lies. And love? True love? Love can't fucking exist amongst all this rubbish of humanity and demons alike. Tha's a joke to tell your husband or wife, your boyfriend or girlfriend, the man or woman in your bed, so can manipulate them, own 'em like a new Barbie or Ken. Nothing but blasted babbling in the afterglow of snoggin'.*
In such a distraught voice, he sobbingly whispers to the windy night air, "I'm nothing without 'er . . . without a companion to give my love."
With fierce wayward precision and extreme animosity, his fist connects with the crusty solid brick wall of the side of a building to his left, the sound of crunching bone and dispelling blood bursting through the night, oily black duster flapping from the spin, azure eyes squinted in unabashed rage, body wound tight, waiting for the pain plop into his consciousness.
There is none.
Now he can feel it, those nerves of his send currents of it to his brain, and when it slides into home he staggers back, breathing rapidly (Who knows why, when he doesn't need to. Habit, maybe.), howling for the un-justification of the world, the beings populating it all, and life gigantic speed bumps coated with grease.
None of them ever loved him, as much as he loved them. *Fuck!! Some of them didn't even bleedin' love me at all!!* He always can feel pain with great accuracy, especially with it comes to emotional. Plops right on him as mail comes to mailboxes every morning, except Spike doesn't get any vacations, or restitution.
Oh, where will he go from here? He can't stay in Sunnydale, not while Buffy is so near, but yet so damn far. What will he do now? He has always lived for the thrill of naked passion and vibrant love and the morbid hunt. All are gone, though. What is he now? Torn between light and dark, nor full vampire; he cares to much, nor is he full human; you know, fangs, no pulse.
He jabs at the wall again with his other unmarred fist. *Just for good measure.* Huffing and puffing he swipes his pink tongue out and licks the crimson fluid emerging from the gashes on both fists, savoring the tangy yet cold metallic taste with his eyes solemnly closed, so indescribably succulent, and almost bordering on orgasmic to vampiric senses.
"Right, then." He steps back, shifts his coat onto his body more comfortably, all the while analyzing his craftsmanship on the wall. "Time to get sloshed until I'm knackered."
His direct course curves to that, when desperation overrides, and all else fails. That is the only thing that enters his mind, parades around provocatively, and never leaves until followed through with. Spike, the vampire alcoholic to the core.
Now with a screaming goal in mind, his steps pick up the pace, and his colossal sorrows, instead of weighing him down, float around his critically weathered mentality, but an outsider would never spot it . . . he camouflages it so slyly with a facade of all balls and swagger. Perfected it down to the last imperfection. *Got the walk, the talk, and everythin' in between to back it up if need be, to make it somewhat real to all these blasted wankers and girls like Cecily and Buffy that crown the world.*
Perplexed from this shitty mess, furious from his crushed heart, thoughts leading him down to a pessimistic mind set, and crestfallen beyond coping, he takes a turn down a alley. Counting the four more blocks till he arrives, and can pick up a few impertinent objects from Richie's Well-Stocked Corner Store. Spike's mind begins checking off these vital objects. *Four packs of fags, ten cold bottles of Jack Daniels, the new 10% bigger bottle of Botanical Dep7, then I'll head on by the local butcher for few Gladware tubs of blood for on the go feeding of the rapturous hunger . . . *
Afterward, as he has executed before but in different places, at a different times, he'll thus stumble over to his crypt vehemently singing "White Wedding" or "Flesh for Fantasy" by Billy Idol, pack his meager belongings and new supplies, rev his Desoto, and high tail it out the vicinity of Buffy and her Scooby Gang, cigarette dangling from his mouth, pale smoke curling out of the car window as a snake slithers from its den.
*S'not just a vacation. It's final. As final as the cancellation of that good show with that skinny blonde bloke, yeah, Just Shoot Me. Ah, my bony ass is no longa 'bout to be a resident of Sunnyhell, or maybe this entire dimension of the living . . . maybe.*
A few more thoughtful strides and his feet, not prepared for something to intercept their path, trip up over a huddled figure in the middle of the dim stereotypical movie alley--rank smells of urine, rotting food, neoteric and old blood, and (compliments of Sunnydale's night life) rotting bodies, debris from battles, dumpsters shoved up against the walls, paper and garbage stirring to life in the strong wind. Yeah, and we can not forget the dim creepy lighting.
"Bloody hell . . ." He grumbles, seeing a few twinkling stars as he peers up at the sky from lying on his back, and not the stars up in the heavens, the stars circling his peroxide head.
Something rustles. The pile of rags he tripped not to elegantly over, rabidly convulsing, then suddenly a literally all black eye peeks from beneath the burgundy rags, or its clothing, or whatever it's using as clothing. *I really do not need this tonight. Whatever tripped me, animate or inanimate, better get ready for some royal kickin' of their ass by William the Bloody.*
*Where's a railroad spike when you need one?*
He rises to his elbows, wincing as aftermath of his head meeting the cement of the ground throbbed with affliction down to the tips of his toes.
*It better give me a minute for me head stop--well, stop whatever the bloody hell it's doin' before the ass kickin' ensues.*
Finally, he takes regard to the abyssal black eyes zeroed on his quickly recuperating body. Spike lets out a gasp of surprise, and frenetically scrambles back like a startled crab from the rags, Doc Martins scraping the dirty ground, hands tramping through the litter and crusts of blood, babbling curses, and looking mightily panic stricken. He stops at a secure distance. Now from a few feet away he tilts his head, silently observes the monster, soaking up its deft movements as it rights itself from the filthy ground. A breath is unnecessarily held.
Attentively, his gorgeous eyes traverse from its long caramel legs in knee high boots, short rustling black skirt encasing curvaceous hips, a Lyra black tank top over an upper half to kill for, an impossibly lengthy, dazzling burgundy cloak with an ample hood like something from medieval times, whole cloak clasped on by leather ties at her upper chest, and to top it off a leather choker beckoning for anyone to aspire and leash this feisty tiger. Her face is abstruse under the cloak's hood, but her eyes are ardent with a hellish blaze, sable, its own nihility, and her mouth is a thin line of kissable temptations.
*How bloody hilarious! Challenge my love for Buffy by sending someone here to yank ol' lil Spike around. You Powers that Be have a very, very sadistic sense of humor. HA! HA! Laugh it up, you ageless twats. I don't give a flying shit anymore. Hope she kicks my ass three ways from Sunday, down the jagged block, and up the corner at the intersection of my balls. Would be even better than getting pissed.*
"Oi! " Spike antagonizes and inquires at the same time, British accent all the more dominant in his voice, scarred eyebrow cocked, arms and legs bending to ascend from the ground--but the feminine figure is hastier than him, shoving her cogent foot in the middle of chest, plummeting him back down to the ground with a thud, cloak streaming behind her, lips blossoming into a confident smile.
He shoots the veiled supernatural woman his trademark smirk of sexy proportions, and casually vocalizes. "Well, bugger me, kitten."