palabravampiress
Bidet of Evil
Title: Stand Up
Author: palabravampiress
Pairing: Buffy and Spike
Rating: PG (some violence)
Summary: Set mid-season six, this short story details the effect that her resurrection has had on Buffy and examines the positive manner in which Spike's somewhat dubious friendship motivates the slayer. It's not really a shipper fic, but it might possibly be considered a friendship fic, so Bangels be warned.
* BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER trademark (TM) and copyright (©) Fox and its related entities. All rights reserved.
This web site, its operators and any content on this site relating to "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" are not authorized by Fox. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its characters are the property of Twentieth Century Fox, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and/or the WB Television Network, UPN. The webmasters are not affiliated in any way with the aforementioned entities. The fiction on this, and adjoining pages is provided solely as an entertaining resource. No copyright infringement is intended nor implied.
Stand Up
By palabravampiress
Buffy held the cheesy, too-large smile on her face and the Joan Cleaver pose by the door until Dawn disappeared from sight. Then, Buffy stepped cautiously back over the threshold. She clicked the lock back into place. She turned the dimmer down. Closing her eyes to the still bright, sunlit world, she listened as the kitchen faucet dripped once and then twice and a fly buzzed around a soggy, half-eaten bowl of bargain breakfast cereal.
Alone, Buffy let the façade "“ along with her heavy, aching pounds of flesh -- crumple into a heap onto the cool, dirty floorboards.
Sometimes, Buffy couldn't bear the force of her own weight. It was all she could do force a directive "“ stand "“ across synapses, down neural pathways, and into the muscles of her toes, feet, legs, and back. Nobody knew the ache. Nobody knew how much effort that single act, simply standing upright, required. Not even Spike.
Especially not Spike, Buffy amended.
For all of his dying, resurrecting, grave-crawling adventures, Spike and every other undead guy she knew had tasted death for, what? One day? One week? Even Angel had taken his body with him to Hell.
Buffy had been free "“ light and free.
Now her skin wrapped around her so tightly. She thought she might suffocate beneath the bulk of it, that beastly, busy organ that never stopped feeling, not even for a millisecond. The dull, finely sanded splinters of wood grain left barely there bumps above double coats of stain and varnish, and yet Buffy felt the prick of them between the ridges on her fingerprints. A tear tickled down the crease of her eye and fell into a wet, chilly pool between her temple and her floor as Buffy blinked "“ laboriously "“ in long, slow flutters. Traveling against the grain of the wood, the fly's droning and the faucet's dripping pounded against her eardrum, each droplet or buzz a resounding bang on a Timpani for all the difference it made to Buffy. She felt the drumming of her own heart, the thrust of her blood pouring in stops and starts through her veins, and the rocking motion of her respiration just as vividly. No dust sparkle swirled past without her observation. No food particle began its decent to dirt within her trash can without her nose noticing it.
"Is this Hell?" she wondered again.
It had become her mantra.
Buffy just wanted it to stop: the world, her heart, the stupid kitchen faucet "“ all of it. It was too loud, too bright, too physical.
Consciously, she attempted to slow her breathing and her pulse. No need for them to be all jostle-y.
"Stupid pulse."
Stupid nose, too. Something was smoldering "“ something fleshy and half rotted and getting closer. And now she'd have to stand up. Reach out. Lift the fire extinguisher, even. Ugh. That thing had to weight two pounds, at least. Stupid, rude nose. Couldn't it let her burn in peace?
Buffy closed her eyes more tightly.
Maybe she could will the fire away without getting up. Maybe she'd just let it burn.
Boom. Boom. Boom!
Thunder and lightning bolts ripped into Buffy's skull in quick, rapid-fire succession as the scent of charred meat stabbed upward into Buffy's brain. Instinctively, she started to salivate. Then, in a bright, white flash that was blinding even beneath her closed eyelids, the door opened and closed again. It thunked "“ none-too-gently "“ against her jeans-clad tailbone and slid her limp, pliant body flailing toward the stairs. After that, the booms sounded even more loudly, each beat now sounding like a clack and shaking the floors with an intensity that rattled Buffy's teeth within her jaw.
"Oi! Slayer! Get up off the bloody floor an' fetch a fella a pint!"
Spike.
"Go away," Buffy muttered.
After a short pause during which Buffy could almost swear she heard him setting his jaw, he replied: "Make me."
This point, he emphasized with a kick of his steel-toed boot against her poor, defenseless, sweater wearing ribs. They cracked on impact, a high-pitched, searing sound that quickened Buffy's pulse and forced her eyes open in spite of her. Adrenaline flooded her veins even before the pain, real pain, zipped up her spine and sent off warning sirens in her skull. Wired, the tips of her fingers tingled. Her body generated a soft whirring sound as it flew up and across the room like a football after a field goal kick.
Her shoulder blades thumped against the brick fireplace with mortar shattering force as knick knacks and photos clattered to the hearth.
Buffy hoped Xander knew a good mason.
Like it or not, her slayer reflexes kicked in and she was on her feet "“ standing "“ and ready to pounce.
Buffy opened her eyes.
Also in a fighting stance, Spike grinned and flashed his wicked blue eyes at her. At the last minute, he let a little yellow shine through.
"That's right, Slayer. You know you wanna dance," he said.
Buffy didn't want to dance. She didn't want to breathe. She didn't want to shower or eat or see Dawn off to school every morning when she was supposed to be dead. She didn't even want to be standing up so that she could punch a stupid, soulless vampire all over her nice, not destroyed living room.
But as Spike careened forward wearing his vampire visage and a devil's grin, it didn't look like she had a choice.
THE END.
Author: palabravampiress
Pairing: Buffy and Spike
Rating: PG (some violence)
Summary: Set mid-season six, this short story details the effect that her resurrection has had on Buffy and examines the positive manner in which Spike's somewhat dubious friendship motivates the slayer. It's not really a shipper fic, but it might possibly be considered a friendship fic, so Bangels be warned.
* BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER trademark (TM) and copyright (©) Fox and its related entities. All rights reserved.
This web site, its operators and any content on this site relating to "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" are not authorized by Fox. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its characters are the property of Twentieth Century Fox, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and/or the WB Television Network, UPN. The webmasters are not affiliated in any way with the aforementioned entities. The fiction on this, and adjoining pages is provided solely as an entertaining resource. No copyright infringement is intended nor implied.
Stand Up
By palabravampiress
Buffy held the cheesy, too-large smile on her face and the Joan Cleaver pose by the door until Dawn disappeared from sight. Then, Buffy stepped cautiously back over the threshold. She clicked the lock back into place. She turned the dimmer down. Closing her eyes to the still bright, sunlit world, she listened as the kitchen faucet dripped once and then twice and a fly buzzed around a soggy, half-eaten bowl of bargain breakfast cereal.
Alone, Buffy let the façade "“ along with her heavy, aching pounds of flesh -- crumple into a heap onto the cool, dirty floorboards.
Sometimes, Buffy couldn't bear the force of her own weight. It was all she could do force a directive "“ stand "“ across synapses, down neural pathways, and into the muscles of her toes, feet, legs, and back. Nobody knew the ache. Nobody knew how much effort that single act, simply standing upright, required. Not even Spike.
Especially not Spike, Buffy amended.
For all of his dying, resurrecting, grave-crawling adventures, Spike and every other undead guy she knew had tasted death for, what? One day? One week? Even Angel had taken his body with him to Hell.
Buffy had been free "“ light and free.
Now her skin wrapped around her so tightly. She thought she might suffocate beneath the bulk of it, that beastly, busy organ that never stopped feeling, not even for a millisecond. The dull, finely sanded splinters of wood grain left barely there bumps above double coats of stain and varnish, and yet Buffy felt the prick of them between the ridges on her fingerprints. A tear tickled down the crease of her eye and fell into a wet, chilly pool between her temple and her floor as Buffy blinked "“ laboriously "“ in long, slow flutters. Traveling against the grain of the wood, the fly's droning and the faucet's dripping pounded against her eardrum, each droplet or buzz a resounding bang on a Timpani for all the difference it made to Buffy. She felt the drumming of her own heart, the thrust of her blood pouring in stops and starts through her veins, and the rocking motion of her respiration just as vividly. No dust sparkle swirled past without her observation. No food particle began its decent to dirt within her trash can without her nose noticing it.
"Is this Hell?" she wondered again.
It had become her mantra.
Buffy just wanted it to stop: the world, her heart, the stupid kitchen faucet "“ all of it. It was too loud, too bright, too physical.
Consciously, she attempted to slow her breathing and her pulse. No need for them to be all jostle-y.
"Stupid pulse."
Stupid nose, too. Something was smoldering "“ something fleshy and half rotted and getting closer. And now she'd have to stand up. Reach out. Lift the fire extinguisher, even. Ugh. That thing had to weight two pounds, at least. Stupid, rude nose. Couldn't it let her burn in peace?
Buffy closed her eyes more tightly.
Maybe she could will the fire away without getting up. Maybe she'd just let it burn.
Boom. Boom. Boom!
Thunder and lightning bolts ripped into Buffy's skull in quick, rapid-fire succession as the scent of charred meat stabbed upward into Buffy's brain. Instinctively, she started to salivate. Then, in a bright, white flash that was blinding even beneath her closed eyelids, the door opened and closed again. It thunked "“ none-too-gently "“ against her jeans-clad tailbone and slid her limp, pliant body flailing toward the stairs. After that, the booms sounded even more loudly, each beat now sounding like a clack and shaking the floors with an intensity that rattled Buffy's teeth within her jaw.
"Oi! Slayer! Get up off the bloody floor an' fetch a fella a pint!"
Spike.
"Go away," Buffy muttered.
After a short pause during which Buffy could almost swear she heard him setting his jaw, he replied: "Make me."
This point, he emphasized with a kick of his steel-toed boot against her poor, defenseless, sweater wearing ribs. They cracked on impact, a high-pitched, searing sound that quickened Buffy's pulse and forced her eyes open in spite of her. Adrenaline flooded her veins even before the pain, real pain, zipped up her spine and sent off warning sirens in her skull. Wired, the tips of her fingers tingled. Her body generated a soft whirring sound as it flew up and across the room like a football after a field goal kick.
Her shoulder blades thumped against the brick fireplace with mortar shattering force as knick knacks and photos clattered to the hearth.
Buffy hoped Xander knew a good mason.
Like it or not, her slayer reflexes kicked in and she was on her feet "“ standing "“ and ready to pounce.
Buffy opened her eyes.
Also in a fighting stance, Spike grinned and flashed his wicked blue eyes at her. At the last minute, he let a little yellow shine through.
"That's right, Slayer. You know you wanna dance," he said.
Buffy didn't want to dance. She didn't want to breathe. She didn't want to shower or eat or see Dawn off to school every morning when she was supposed to be dead. She didn't even want to be standing up so that she could punch a stupid, soulless vampire all over her nice, not destroyed living room.
But as Spike careened forward wearing his vampire visage and a devil's grin, it didn't look like she had a choice.
THE END.
B
Big Damn Hero
I like it :)
