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]

"Don't tease me with that. I might just take you up on it."

A smirk and he turned to leave.

[herotypical]

His back turned; her smile let loose. Buffy shook her head.

"You'd be beyond stir-crazy in four hours. Tops." She accused him in his retreat. As ever, Buffy only managed to warm up to him when he was on his way out of her life.

[deadpoet]

He merely gave a back handed wave as he disappeared into the night. Stalking away. There was a lot to mull over. Pleasant departure or not, Spike was not happy. His mind was still back in LA.

Funny how he'd let Angel get him so wrapped up in all that.

[ the next evening... ]

[herotypical]

Times were tough. Hearts were sore. Egos were...likely soon to be bruised some more. But Buffy had possessed a full twenty-four hours to digest Spike's arrival. Her frayed nerves -- so often shot from the get-go with sudden surprises -- were now considerably better knit. And she'd had a lot of other familiar faces in the meantime. A lot of unconnected chatter. A lot of distractions.

Well. Except for one.

So -- tonight? Sunset saw the Slayer inhabiting her couch and leafing through a pile of...bridal magazines. There was no way she was going to hit her patrol in earnest tonight if there was a chance that Spike was still out with her.

[ the next evening... ]

[deadpoet]

Spike spent a lot of time in the woods, even with the sun up, for lack of anywhere else to go. Exploring mostly. He made it as far as the barrier, just enough to give it a few kicks and prove it was there. By the time he arrived back at the house, he was starved for blood and glad for the fact he'd brought some back from the bar. He wasn't in the mood for a social outing.

He let himself in. No knocking. He lived here, after all. Or that was the plan, anyway. Whatever Buffy's response may have been, he could see the bridal magazines right off.

Bloody hell.

Well to hell with that. He didn't even bother saying hello. Let her make her wedding plans. Wordlessly, he continued to the kitchen. He'd get some blood, heat it up, and then leave. Simple enough plan.

[herotypical]

The clatter of the front door tore her gaze away from a charming article about bridal shoes hand-dyed by blind monks. The magazine flipped shut and Buffy pushed it aside, along with her scribble-heavy notebook filled with wedding suggestions. Plans. Ideas. She found that it was rather fun to plan a wedding, so long as it wasn't her own. But she'd grown a dangerous habit of closing her eyes and secretly planning Dawn's wedding instead of Elizabeth's.

"So kind of you to rejoin us," she said in that quietly reproachful voice of hers. There was no wall between the living room and the path to the kitchen, and so she shamelessly stared after him.

After a moment, she stood. And followed. Her heart was racing at a more reasonable pace, now. She felt a little less threatened and a lot more confident.

[deadpoet]

"So now I'm welcome, then. Nice to know."

He opened the fridge and peered inside. Then moved things around. Top shelf. Bottom. The side. The drawers. The freezer, even. He turned around, irate.

"Where's my blood? I had three pints of it in here when I left last night."

[herotypical]

"Opaque water bottle on the bottom shelf. The one labelled frappuccino."

She leaned against the kitchen door's frame. Yes, the rest of the blood had been...removed. But Buffy -- anticipating a moment like this one and not interested in another argument with a tummy-rumbling vamp -- might have gone and surreptitiously fetched some more from the bar and then disguised it as best as possible so that Jack wouldn't pour that one down the drain, too. Of course -- she wasn't going to confess any of this to Spike.

And why should she? The vampire was a grown boy. He would work it out on his own.

[deadpoet]

He lifted the bottle and opened it up, sparing her a suspicious look as he regarded her over the top of it.

"Sparing the other's appetite, is it?"

He could see the practicality in it, anyway. Vampire or not, it was easy to understand that humans weren't so comfortable around the stuff. Even if they could be ridiculously squeamish at times. "Smells different, though."

Mildly. It wasn't important to him. It just didn't smell like the blood he brought with him the night before.

[herotypical]

"The last thing we need is someone making an ice-cream sundae and mistaking your breakfast for strawberry syrup. And...and some folks don't have the stomach for it. If they knew it was right next to their coffee creamer?"

A shrug. If he'd buy it, she would sell it. But for her part -- and unlike a particular evening so many years ago -- she didn't look away when he sniffed at his meal.

"If you're keen to nuke it? Pick the mug with one that says '1978 Accountants' Conference' on it. There'll be no mug-swapping. I don't want to drink my tea from something with blood stains on it."

[deadpoet]

He reached up into the cabinets and pulled one that read "Malnosso - A Family Company" from the back of the cabinet. Frowning as he read the label.

"I've a feeling no one's likely to miss this one either."

One day in and he'd already heard enough about them to draw enough conclusions about that lot. Even if he did sign up for several missions only hours earlier.

[herotypical]

"...Cheap Christmas gift. I don't know if anyone's ever used it. Go to town. Just -- well, I don't need to tell you twice."

No. Mug swapping.

[deadpoet]

"Right. No mug swapping. Same old Sunnydale rules. I've got it."

He even put a paper towel over the top of the cup after putting it in the microwave.

[herotypical]

"It's appreciated."

By her, at least. Maybe not so much anyone else. It was hard to gauge their feelings after so short a time. Well -- except Jack's. But had she ever expected it to go any differently?

Buffy pushed off the door frame and poured herself a nice and neutral glass of orange juice. Coffee was too fiddly and she wasn't due to have tea again until the next morning. Juice would do. She finished off the carton and gave it a perfunctory rinse.

"So..."

She began. Trailed off. Tried to begin again. What should she ever ask? Got the grand tour? Find Drusilla? Are your wings okay? At that thought, her own give an impatient flutter and she cleared her throat just before trashing the carton.

"Spike."

[deadpoet]

He didn't live there, but he was already perusing the cabinets for something to add something to his blood. Something crunchy. Maybe Captain Crunch, in fact. It would seem poetic after his encounter last night.

By the time she said his name, he was sipping off the top of his mug, slightly too full. He looked up inquisitively, but not saying anything. He figured she would be wanting to know where he'd been last night, seeing as how he'd promised to come back. Even if he never specified when. But like hell he was just going to volunteer it.

[herotypical]

And in turn, she sipped her OJ. She wouldn't rush her way into an interrogation. Because for as long as she didn't bring up Drusilla, she reasoned he wouldn't bring up Jack.

She hoped.

"You're here. Now." She spoke over the opening and closing cabinet doors. "And I know everything was all freaky and new to you yesterday--" emphasis on the yesterday "--but I gotta ask. You're not, say, remembering anything? Are you? About yourself? Being here? Before?"

Like maybe the fact that we sorta dated?

[deadpoet]

"Don't remember a blessed thing. Not the wings, not the people, and certainly not your new boy."

He wasn't in any hurry to bring up Jack. But the pirate recognized him. It wasn't hard to work out why.

"Apparently I've gone and forgotten every bloody detail of this place."

[herotypical]

Her nose wrinkled at boy. And maybe also a little bit at new. Eventually, she would have to explain to Spike that she and Jack had been together -- here -- for over a year and a half.

"Maybe that's...for the best. I think, uhm, that your longest stretch might've been -- six months? Eight months?"

[deadpoet]

"Well, I'm personally aiming for a week this time. Not that I don't like visiting. But I've already done enough of the evil organization with Wolfram and Bloody Hart."

[herotypical]

"A week..."

Well. Should that ever happen -- and it's been known to -- her life would be simpled up so much. But at the same time? She hoped it wouldn't be the case. Because Buffy could use an ally like Spike.

"You think you're gonna manage to do in a week what I haven't been able to do in over three years? Except, of course, for that one time..."

[deadpoet]

"Well I can try, can't I? I know you lot all have it in your head it's outright impossible. I may have given the barrier a kick myself, but that doesn't mean I'm going to go pick out curtains and make myself comfortable, does it?"

Nevermind him comfortable sipping away at the blood until, aha, he finally found some cereal. Good enough.

[herotypical]

It took her a year before curtains were a priority but Buffy suspected that once Spike really understood the extent of their prison, he'd turn homemaker much quicker than she had. He was a nester.

"You went out that far, huh?"

[deadpoet]

"The nice thing about a forest? Lots of shade, even in the day. Had plenty of time to move about. Though I'd pick a direction and see it for myself. Not very impressive, really. Invisible bubble? Done to death already."

He poured some cereal into his hand, grinding it in his hand, then adding it to the blood. That should do.

[herotypical]

"Occasionally, it comes down. Well -- once. Maybe twice. I don't understand the magic behind it." Or whether it was magic at all. "But it keeps us in and the riff-raff out. We're like a gated community if that gated community was also in Canada."

But that, she realized, was a silly comparison. There were no gated communities in Canada.

"You're getting cereal dust on the floor."

[deadpoet]

"That a problem? A regenerative Shift should work that out." Or so believed. It was what Rogue had led him to believe.

"Never cared for Canada. People are too nice up there. There's something right suspicious about that."

He wouldn't be surprised if this was, in fact, some sort of Canadian thing. Probably did a little magic on Buffy's head to make her think she'd been here longer than she had. Like what Wolfram and Hart did to Lindsey and Gunn. A little head mojo and a person would feel plenty settled in. Wouldn't put up a fight at all.