First Stanza - [Action & Voice]

[deadpoet]

[Action, Locked to Willow]
[A few moments before Spike arrived, he and Illyria had just escaped most of the main action and a great big bloody dragon come out of nowhere. He'd lost track of Angel and Gunn. Wesley was dead. So now it was just the two of them. Until Spike suddenly came to the surface of the river, cursing as he suddenly started burning and then swimming back underwater again until he could hide under the shade of the bridge. A bloody tiny bridge. And here he was with only a pair of white pants, now failing to hide much of anything, as he ended up STUCK in this tiny shadow. There was a book in the sunlight that was just out of reach. As the day passed on, it continued to get further away from him as the sun shifted the shadows further and further away.

What bollocks.

He decided he'd just wait until the first person came across the bridge and get their attention. That ought to do it.]

[Action/Voice, Open To All]

[Well, Willow took him 'home'. And he rather decided he liked it. Of course, a vamp can't make himself good and comfy without the proper accouterments. So after taking a nice long shower in House Seven, perusing the kitchen, and no doubt making his new housies terrible uncomfortable, he makes his way out as soon as it's evening. In his New Feather pants at first, because what else was there? But his first stop is the clothing store and he's soon back into slimming back. And then it's off to pick out a fancy weapon, get some blood at Good Spirits, find some smokes, recollect his lighter, and then snoop around town because he knows a certain old flame is around here. Not you, Buffy.

Around midnight, he hits up the journal after finally recollecting it from beside the bridge.]

This is a nice little village you lot have here. Very cozy. Has a certain quality to it, you might say. Very Shyamalan-type setting. Too cheerful. Downright unsettling, if you ask me.

Anyway, who do I talk to for the big plan? I've done my sitting around already. Relaxing, sure. Not too fond of the wings. Too ironic for my taste. But I'm ready to go and find the wankers who locked us up in here and do something about it. Champion of the people, right here. Just point me in the right direction.

Comments

[deadpoet]

"Long enough for a shower, thankfully. I've Willow to thank for that." He seemed only too amused by the situation. He'd already seen the ink. And he'd certainly be bringing it up. The moment over, he was also picking up on other things. Like the fact she looked older for one.

"You'll be needing new conditioner, incidentally.

[herotypical]

"...Ugh."

So he was the culprit. That, somehow, made it worse. Her shoulders gave a little uncomfortable squirm and she flicked a strand of damp and dripping hair out of her eyes.

"I noticed. Great. The next month's worth of split ends? They're all your fault."

[deadpoet]

"Happy to take the blame, as always."

He dabbed a finger into the yogurt and licked it off. He hadn't quite worked out where the silverware was. It would be rude to go digging around mid-conversation. Seductive yogurt-eating was much more appropriate. "So, no hug for the man back from the dead then, eh? Or are you telling me you don't remember that either?"

[herotypical]

She rolled her eyes. What else could she do? Happy to take the blame, indeed. It was difficult to stick it to the vampire when he took such wicked delight in being a whipping boy. It was a rhythm that always escaped her until she sank right back into old habits.

But old habits were dangerous habits. She wanted to avoid those for as long as possible.

Especially with how unwholesome he was making that yogurt look.

"You and me?" She didn't bat a lid. "We're not the hugging type. Besides, I'm well aware of your...not...being...dead...again. And plenty more, besides. So? Hah."

[deadpoet]

It was entirely wholesome and altogether healthy. And he wasn't letting up on it. Because yogurt may, by vampire approximation, be slightly more disgusting than blood, he wasn't terribly picky. And he did like strawberries.

"So am I, actually." He knew all about her thing with the Immortal. And had accepted it. Grudgingly. Until he got a chance to get revenge, anyway. "But good. Red seemed to have forgotten the entire thing."

[herotypical]

Ah. Business talk. This was simple. Easier. Or it should be, for as long as she could stop her eyes from wandering and...and damn, it was good to see him. It was always so bittersweetly satisfying to see him kicking, if not actually alive. He could go and come back and go and come back and Buffy was certain that her heart would never quite lost that slight skip in its beat every time she saw him anew.

Because each time, it was like dragging him back from the dead.

"She's...out of time. Literally. We all are. Yanked from it. She told you that part, right?" A sigh -- but not a sad one. It was always a relief to explain this system to those from home. They seemed to understand it better. Even if they coped with it poorly. "When are you...?"

It wasn't an easy question: which you am I talking to; what time are you from; how does my life relate to yours?

[deadpoet]

"I've got the whole story, Buffy. Skimmed the guide and such like a good boy."

He trusted Willow enough to believe it. His life had been strange enough to have little reason to be skeptical of it. Accepting this as some sort of Demon Dimension run by mad scientists was barely a stretch compared to his many experiences. It was the wings that grated him, really. They were just inconvenient.

"Anyway, last I remember, I was in LA. Or Hell. Not much of a difference, at this point. You can thank Angel for that one. Brilliant planner, he is."

[herotypical]

Skimmed it? Then he'd likely seen her name there, too. Presumably. Possibly. It was difficult to get a read on just how genuine Spike was being, sometimes. Easier now that he had a soul. But harder now that she'd been apart from him for so long. And LA...

"Well, Angel never--" She stopped. Slagging off Angel wasn't really the bestest best option, was it? Spike didn't need to know -- and she didn't want him to know -- that all was just as not-right as it usually was in the land of Buffy and Angel. She didn't need the original vampire with a soul to be in town for her to be at odds with him.

"Right." She knew about this fixed point in time from others who had shown up. The last battle for LA. The Senior Partners. Hell. She hadn't heard much, but she'd heard enough. "Are we talking intro-to-hell? Or...long-term-resident?"

She entirely neglected to share her own point in time. Why should she? She was Buffy the Vampire Slayer, let all lesser heroes bow before her.

[deadpoet]

Her name stood out. And also who she fought. But it was no name he recognized. A general was a whole lot less impressive than battling gods and demons. All the same, it was no surprise to him at all she'd get mentioned in it. She was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Killing things was part of the job.

"Recent arrival, point of fact. Didn't even have time to make myself comfortable. Seems we went and ended the world. So much for all the times we saved it, right?"

From Spike's perspective, that's certainly what they did. He had no idea that only LA was in hell. The Senior Partners were all about ending the world. Who was to say that Angel hadn't just played into their hands and triggered it? And Spike had played along, like a sucker. As always.

"But with your not being surprised, I take it that's all in the past for you, isn't it?"

[herotypical]

"Present, actually." Shifting from one foot to another, she was beginning to feel her nakedness. "But I kinda haven't been...present in that present for a while, now. But I've heard rumours. Hearsay."

Some of it from Spike himself. Last time.

"Can I just...can you give me like, three seconds?"

[deadpoet]

Everyone was in hell. Not much to hear rumors about, save for how Captain Forehead went and fouled it up for everyone. Which made him a tad impatient to know what she knew. But he tilted his head and looked away, slightly exasperated.

"Right. Go do your thing. I'll just keep having yogurt." There was an unspoken complaint about he lack of any blood to drink. He was parched and just waiting for the sun to finally set.

[herotypical]

"My yogurt," she stressed -- cattily -- as she fled further into the house. Try not to be too much of a nuisance while she's off panic-strickenly looking for clothing.

[deadpoet]

While she was gone, he continued his search in the kitchen, eventually finding himself a spoon and then hopping up on the counter to sit. He was trying to make his wings move around, but would have to stop because of how uncomfortable it still was. What a nuisance.

[herotypical]

She took much longer than three seconds. It was more like five or seven minutes. And Buffy had spent each one of them fumbling clumsily with clothing that she wished was trendier or more flattering. Stupid desires in the face of stupid feelings in the face of a stupidly returned man. Spike had been all over her brain, recently. Always a constant benchmark she hoped and begged and waited for Jack to supersede. And when he did...

She hopped around as she tugged her jeans up over her hips and fumbled with the fly. Why now? Why did it have to be now?

The evening was humid but she skipped the tank top and went straight to a nice, flowing blouse that kept that tattoo mercifully covered. She'd just gotten used to the idea of showing it off and now it was once again under wraps.

She was still finger-combing her hair when she appeared again. Before even saying a word, she grabbed herself a diet Coke from the fridge and gulped down at least half.

Caffeine helped her think.

"It's so weird," she spontaneously confessed. "Seeing you. Right...there. In my kitchen."

[deadpoet]

"It's not exactly normal for me, either."

He scraped the last bit of the yogurt off the bottom to finish it off, then tossed the spoon away. And managed to sink the cup of yogurt into the trash.

When it came down to it, seeing Buffy like this wasn't how he planned it. He'd picked up a lot from just that short exchange. She had a new friend here that he didn't recognize. There was a man who lived her. He stunk of rum. She had a tattoo she didn't want him to see. All in all, she was hiding something. Keeping secret. And she was older. Different. He could see it in her eyes, how she walked, how she talked, and everything. Sure, a year had changed him too. But this wasn't the Buffy he left in Sunnydale.

"So where should we start? The ink's what's got me curious."

[herotypical]

"...The ink is none of your business, Spike."

Her reticence said more than any words could convey. She crossed her arms over her chest and the solid stance gave her confidence. The Coke can dangled from her fingertips.

[deadpoet]

"Awfully public place for something that's no one's business, wouldn't you say?"

He was going to find out. He wanted to know. Spike would find out. It wasn't like Buffy ever succeeded in keeping secrets from him.

[herotypical]

"Not your business. I didn't say it was...no one's. It's someone's. I mean -- it's my business. And it's..."

She bit down on her tongue. "It's not what's important right now."

[deadpoet]

"Seems important to me. After all. You've got a telly just in the living room. We can't be in much of a rush to escape, can we?"

Buffy was settled. It was obvious. This wasn't a hideout. It was a home.

[herotypical]

She opted to distract him from one harsh truth by waggling another over his head as bait: "That's because I've already been here for more than three years. I practically have tenure."

[deadpoet]

"Well it does explain a fair bit, doesn't it?" He wasn't even surprised. Age was so noticeable with mortals. When you primarily associated with vampires, there was never any change. It was easy to forget to 'adjust' for changes in normal humans. "Bad luck, though."

[herotypical]

"...The baddest. Awful, terrible, tragic luck."

Coupled and mingled with excruciating happiness. Scheduled peace. Friends who didn't die as often and when they did, they came back. A steady relationship.

[deadpoet]

"Food's decent, though." He hopped off the counter, tilting his head as he carefully regarded her.

"Willow's told me everything."

A bluff, really. He had no idea if she did. But she'd told him a lot. The important things. He knew, for instance, that the only other ones present were the other Slayer. And Drusilla.

[herotypical]

Matching his hop, she stepped back. Away. She was not to engage in anything even approaching contact until she felt more...certain.

"Everything?" Buffy's voice twisted into a panicked question. "No. She...no -- not everything. Most things? Sure. But not..."

Willow. This was Willow. She couldn't have said it all, except...

"Well? Got an opinion?"

She called his bluff.

[deadpoet]

"Well, I don't like it." That was true. And unspecific. "The whole lot of it stinks."

He circled her, pushing with not just his words, but with his eyes as well. He was gong to crack this Slayer. Just like he always did. Just in that emotional way. There was no menace inherent in it.