Sequel to my other story: 'Just For Tonight'
After The Fall.
CHAPTER ONE:
He didn't know why he came back here. But then again it always came back to the same thing.
Her.
And here she was, lying beneath him.
Six bloody feet beneath him.
He had stumbled upon her after completing six drunken trudges around the leanest of the towns many cemeteries only to find her grave secreted behind some trees and some curtain spell or other. Clever girl, that witch. Didn't want any old demon discovering the fact they all worked so hard to protect. One little maggot gets wind the Slayer's dead then suddenly Sunnydale's a free-for-all banquet of death and destruction. A shudder of discomfort accompanied the ignited memories and imagery that stuttered through his mind. Good times indeed.
But that was then.
Now a sudden sobriety gripped him and he fell, sinking to his knees from the impacting weight of reality. 'Saved the world. A lot.' Daft bint. She should have known that the world's not much good without her. Not worth saving if she's not there to come to its rescue next time Good falters against Evil as it ineveitably does. It's a perpetual struggle, but it was her struggle. What she was made for. Wasn't any one that could take that place... no matter how hard a bunch of zealous sidekicks try. The world was made for her and she'd abandoned it. Abandoned him.
"Should be used to it by now." He fingered at the consecrated earth before him, recognising all too well the warning tingle of imminent pain. He dug out a clump of loose soil and squeezed it in his fist relishing the scorch with manic laughter that choked itself with a sob of defeat. And defeated the lunged, fell upon her and howled.
He emptied the bottle tending to his burns and lobbed the glass blindly into the night, allowing a slither of satisfaction as glass shattered against stone. But the silence resumed, looming around his head, inverting his senses and awakening the irritable hunger he had long neglected. He was saved by madness from a scuffle. Another. An echoing shuffle of earth. His gaze scanned the cemetery, finally alighting upon the culprit and he stalked up to a grave where a certain reincarnation was occurring.
"You'd think--town like this--they'd make cremation standard practise." Sure enough, he knew the drill by now.
A fisted hand punched through to air and seized upon newly consecrated ground. Fizzles of steam arose and the hand recoiled. But only for a moment, the task is too great. The need for escape, the ache for air you no longer need, the craving you can't yet put a name too.
Brings back memories, does this.
He watched and waited. Two things he never much cared for. Scanning the wrist where a watch would be if time meant anything to him, his foot began to pitter-patter out a vague snippet of a rhythm. He knew a close inspection of his fingernails would complete the cliché but he'd had enough melodrama for one evening.
The earth billowed with effort. Bit slow this one. Another arm appeared and flailed about as if sensing a presence and pleading for help. Sorry mate: wrong time, wrong presence. A bit of leverage, a final push and he was there: gasping and gushing. Newborn, bleary-eyed and wailing for his mother.
.... Brings back memories does this.
The neck snapped easily and the fledging collapsed into a spectacular concoction of impossible angles. He sighed and shuffled back to her grave, a sheepish apology shrugging at his shoulders.
"I know. Should've killed him." He glanced at the head stone as if gauging her reaction. "Truth is: he kinda reminded me of someone."
"Hey, mister"
"You want your head ripping off altogether?"
"Uh, no mister—sir."
"Then stay the hell away from me." He stalked past, intent on his purpose. His mission: more alcohol.
"Uh, I would do, sir. I really don't want to bother you, sir. Pleasedon'tripmyheadoffsir. It's just that... I... uh... please, I don't know what's happening to me."
He turned towards the figure of irritation and yielded at the sight of it: staggering sideways to cater for a head that was still badly skewed to the right. He paused and took a step forward which the new vampire mirrored backwards to maintain a safe distance.
"It's all right" He placated with a surrendering gesture of upturned palms. "I ain't gonna hurt you again. What's your name?"
The fledglings eye's glazed as if he was struggling to recall. "Uh, Eric, mister—sir."
"Eric, well OK then. Here's what we'll do: Get your head put back the right way and go for a drink..." He paused, remembering the urgency of his craving. "Or maybe the drink first."
"Uh, well..." Eric took a faltering step forward and tried to nod, squirming against the pain. "Sure, that's very nice of you mister, but you should know I'm underage."
They fell into step. "Oh?"
"I'm nineteen. I mean my mom lets me have a drink of beer at Thanksgiving, but—"
"That's... you were very young." He grimaced at the implication. "Well we'll go by English law then – not that the law matters much where we'll be going."
"Uh, well OK sir. If you say so."
"And while we're at it – no more of this 'sir this, sir that' business. The name's Spike."
Eric tried to grin only to fail again from the pain. "Sure si—Spike. Spike it is. Spike, sir."
Spike forced a tight smile, sarcasm choking up his throat. "Right. Well I can just tell we're going to get along famously. 'Start of a beautiful friendship' and all that bollocks."
Eric frowned as much as he could. "Huh?"
"You see now, that's much better."
A relieved Eric fingered at his neck brace. "Yeah, and you know it's like I can feel the bones mending already. Is this... is this what it's always like?"
"What what's like?"
Eric shrugged. "I can't remember what the guys called it, some hip pseudonym or other. But I'm thinking it was acid."
Spike stalled, soles squealing against hospital flooring. He winced.
"You think when I come to I should write some trip-enhanced-sixties-reminiscent music and make myself a rock legend?"
"Uh, Eric... lad," Spike patted his pockets, less in the search for smokes than for inspiration. "I think you need some education—no matter what Pink Floyd have to say." His head shot to the left and a signpost for the blood bank directed his next lesson. "Come on, I think you could do with something to eat."
"Uh, boy?"
Silence.
"Eric?"
Silence.
"Snap out of it will you."
Silence, snap, a fractured patience cracking against the strain.
"Look, I know everything's all a bit much, but it's that. The facts of un-life. And I told you damn straight – you should thank me for that much at least."
"Thank you." Her voice, a soft whisper against his cheek and his spine tingled with foreboding. This is it. This is the end of this madness between them. Should never have happened and it takes a homeless supernatural hell bitch to remind them of the futility of their 'relationship'. Would have never admitted it herself, never was strong enough to admit she was wrong. But now there was no denying that 'they' were, and could only ever be wrong for each other.
But it was in parting came the clarity, the moment ringing with omens. This was her destiny. This was his. Strands of fate that wound into the same thread. She knew Death and Glory were not-so patiently awaiting her return, as did he. Understood in an echo that he wasn't the master of her doom, she was. What did it matter about wrong and right when, with one click of fingers, Fate can move her to such an extent that she would willingly sacrifice herself at the alter of Hope and Destruction?
In the end she had wanted it.
Right from the beginning he had wanted her.
In the end he loved her.
Fade to black.
He strode through the fog, cut off from perception of distance and direction until a voice called out to him.
"Spike, sir?"
He groaned, opened his eyes and slowly Vampiric features collected into focus. He tensed, an icy shiver of self-recognition seizing him until he remembered the mirror bit.
"Wh-what happened?"
"I think... I think you fainted, sir."
Eric held out offering of upturned palms, but Spike dismissed them, crawling up to his feet unaided.
"Nonsense."
"Well you kinda went, 'ooh', clutched your chest and collapsed. I panicked about—you know—heart attack!" Eric went quiet. "But then I remembered. But at least with you to look after I didn't have time to feel sad again."
Spike felt his lips curling as if to emulate Eric's small smile – and then he remembered. "Well, there you go. That was my plan – and it worked."
"Plan?"
"Yeah, divert you from your puerile melancholy and infinite sadness. So you talking to me now?"
Eric shrugged and found something interesting on the floor to look at.
"Good. Now daw—the sun'll be up soon, so let's go find somewhere to wait out the day." He patted Eric on the arm and began moving away.
"Well there was one thing?"
"Yeah."
"I think I'm allergic to blood."
Spike paused, looked back, too astounded for anything more than: "What?"
"Well, look," Eric fingered at the raised ridges on his game face. "My face has all swelled up. That used to happen when I ate sea-food, see."
Spike sighed, motioned Eric forward a little. "OK, so maybe there was one thing I didn't cover."
"You've never read Stoker? Watched cheap, tacky horror films?"
Eric shook his head, empathic with his confession. "No."
"So you've never heard of Vampires?"
"Oh, 'heard of' – sure. Just never seen them in action. So... have you been in any of these films you talk of?"
Spike groaned and experienced a pang of drink craving exacerbated by frustration.
"So why do we have such sharp teeth?"
"All the better to eat you with." Her eyes flashed with surprise but were soon drowned by desire and it took all his nerve to resist, give her an out. Crazy little Slayer never did think much about consequences before hopping into bed with Vampires. Not that he cared about hurting her – he sneered at the notion. No he was just selfishly concerned with the consequences for himself should she go all Black-Widow Spider and stake him in the afterglow.
He would have loved that.
She had always been the one to kill him. He'd known that the first time he saw her, dancing with her chums, her internal fire spotlighting her movements. He'd felt the change, known she was the one who'd turn the tables on his life. The one he couldn't kill, the one beat him at every turn. The one he loved.
Teeth.
Sinking through flesh. Her flesh. She gave herself to him. She was his, inside him forever. She had invaded and deserted him and now there were only memories so dream-like that he found himself questioning every detail until uncertainty haunted the aching vacuum of her presence.
"Well... they're for getting through them plastic bags that the blood comes in aren't they. 'Cos unless you're in the Swiss army or a very happy camper you don't always have a pair of scissors to hand."
Eric nodded, impressed. "Nifty."
His last word. Flash, wide eyed in shock Eric imploded before Spike's eyes.
He registered pain before he witnessed movement, fell onto his back and took a second of recovery to search in vain for the source of the chaos. He moved to stand only to be pushed back down in the earth by a weight straddling him. A stake was at his chest and he knew, felt the hope flood him. Looked up, saw her staring back down at him, eyes wide with shock.
TBC - if anyone is interested what happens next, that is.