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 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.

[herotypical]

"Yes. A regenerative Shift that's also broom-shaped and powered by the magnificent magic that is your arm-muscles."

She...didn't intend for that to come out so -- y'know -- flattering.

[deadpoet]

"If you want a show, Buffy, you've only got to ask."

[herotypical]

"Oh. Sure. Except -- me? I hate re-runs."

[deadpoet]

"Then I'd just have to find a way to make it exciting-like."

[herotypical]

Her response wasn't scathing. It was gentle -- but no less unyielding.

"I think I'll pass, Spike."

[deadpoet]

"I thought as much."

He finished the rest of his mug, crunchy as it was, all in one last go. The sort of thing a person does when they're eager to get a move on.

[herotypical]

"It's not that I..." don't feel for you. No. That wouldn't help matters at all, would it? "You and me, Spike. Even under perfect conditions? Doesn't work."

Buffy could forgive -- almost. But she couldn't forget. That was what her last attempt with the vampire had taught her. "And even if it did...?"

She shrugged.

[deadpoet]

He set the cup down on the counter. A little too hard with a 'clang'. He then advanced on her, hands dragging back his coat as he settled them on his hips. Staring down at her.

"Know that for a fact, do you? Because I can't say I've got quite so firm a handle on that. But you don't need to make excuses for it. You've got a new boy. Do what you like with him. Just don't make it sound like you're doing me a favor with it."

[herotypical]

And she stared up at him. The Slayer didn't even blink -- although her insides were twisting into knots and she felt an awful lot like running away. It was those words again. New Boy.

"I do," she insisted. Maybe if she came clean about this one thing? She wouldn't have to come clean about others. "Because it happened, Spike. Not the first time you were here. And not the last time you were here. But the time in between. Chance the second. And guess what? We? Us? You and me? It. Didn't. Work. Out."

[deadpoet]

That caught him off guard. He stared at her quizzically as he put that all together. But not enough to keep him from objecting.

"So that's it then, is it? Poor Spike's gone and lost his memories. Shame he won't remember us breaking up. Well here's the newsflash for you, pet. I don't remember a bloody thing. I haven't quite worked out what these three years you've got in your head mean, but it's not enough. Not for me to just say 'oh well' and shrug my shoulders. The whole thing is bollocks. You want to call something perfect conditions? Try saying it in a place where I don't have a bleeding bar code stamped on my neck like I've become a piece of produce."

[herotypical]

God, but it was satisfying to have him on the back foot. She jabbed a finger at his chest but -- notably -- pulled up short just before actually touching him. Physical contact was a line neither of them had yet crossed. This time.

"Can't you even muster one inch of compassion? I get it. You're rocking the rage 'cause -- yeah -- getting stuck here? Sucks beyond the telling of it. But while you're wrapped up in your testosterone-charged aggro-fest? Here's me. Once again with my heart in the blender as I watch an endless parade of people I know and lo--" Don't say love "--care about. As they show up. And then leave. And then show up again. And here's Buffy, too out of her league to find a way home like she'd otherwise always do. And too luckless to get the easy way home. And too...stupid not to go and end up caring for other, less-from-home people."

Her shoulders heaved. Wow. That was a vitriolic rant long left corked.

[deadpoet]

If he wasn't on the testosterone-charged aggro-fest, he might have been able to drop the vitriol long enough to let her words sink in and realize how bad she had it. But he was still pissed. Angry at just about everything. Reason? Wasn't high on his agenda.

"See? That's why I don't buy it. The Buffy I know wouldn't be out of her league in something like this. She'd be taking charge, finding a way out, and not being concerned about a bunch of new friends being a little unhappy about a vampire moving in. It's these scientist-types, isn't it? Gotten in your head. You've lost your mojo, Slayer. That's why you're still here."

[herotypical]

Lost her mojo. Well, damn, if that didn't just cut to the quick. It zeroed in on the one insecurity she had been battling with ever since...well? Ever since Derek had gone all ubervamp on her.

"There are no spells to fix this. No enchanted gourds. Willow? She's also been here three times and, God, wicked wicca powerhouse that she is? She still hasn't been able to crack it. I have exhausted myself trying to escape and...and..."

She stammered. "I'm running on empty, here."

[deadpoet]

It was always with a deep sense of satisfaction and immediate regret that Spike was always able to tear straight away at the heart of her problems and expose them. That was how it was now. He'd been on the money and now he could see it. She really had lost her mojo. She was hurting. Broken. But not in the way he'd seen her before. She had a will to live.

But the fight wasn't in her anymore.

It wasn't in him so much anymore. He backed off a step, looking away instead. Suddenly feeling the need to be less confrontational and more helpful. Like old times, really. He took the mug from the counter to the sink and filled it with water. Keep the blood from drying inside it.

"Well you've got me here now, don't you? I'm not empty quite yet."

[herotypical]

Buffy would do her cause no good by explaining to him that his help -- though desired -- would not really make a difference. Not in the end. The answer, she was convinced, was not with any one individual in the barrier. The answer sat somewhere beyond them. It was locked up in science and magic to which they'd been denied access.

She watched the water run into the cup. Run over its edges. A little mug waterfall. "If you're going to help, then you should know what you're up against..."

[deadpoet]

He turned the faucet off and left the cup, filled with pinkish water, to sit in the sink. He turned back towards her.

"A cult of big, scary winged loons is the way I've heard it."