deadpoet | First Stanza - [Action & Voice]

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[action]. [voice]

First Stanza - [Action & Voice]

[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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

You know I always was partial to both. [He ought to feel bad leading her on.] So where are you? I did go looking for you, after all.

And you didn't sense me? Didn't sense my trembling innards, like happy jelly?

[More pouting, but at least this is more relaxed, playful pouting.]

I am home. I am in my house, far from all dangerous conflagrations. By the water, Spike. Cold, black, deep.

My senses are a bit off. New wings and all that. [Not that he particularly had a sense for knowing where she was, other than the path of dead bodies.] But there's lots of water here, Dru. I landed in some on arriving.

"Ha!" He'd landed in it, had he? "You were all wet and shiny, then! Your hair gets so shiny when it's wet.

Still looks perfect, though, darling. Perfect."

"Of course it does. Wouldn't have it any other way, would I?" It was too easy slipping into an old habit. Now that he wasn't as torn apart as he was four years ago. "But I'm all dry now. With a pair of black and bloody wings as a set."

"We will spread our wings together, my love. Like ducks, quack quack! But larger and prettier and with pink-stained lips and chins.

And cheeks! Messy ducks, we are!"

"Of course, ducky. But I still don't know where you are, do I?"

"The lake! The house by the lake. I've decorated it for us, Spike! I've hung it with mourning and crepe and a little you-dolly and a little me-dolly. They have a house, the dollies do, and they feast on silver and golden plates!"

Trust. Need. Desire. She had it all for Spike.

She'd been here a long time, then. A very long time. They'd been separated before, back in those days. Go their separate ways for a short time, always ending up together. Never as long as this. It was strange how, up until arriving in Luceti, he hadn't given her much thought in a good long time.

"Well, I'll have to go have a look, won't I?"

Bring a pint of blood for old time's sake.

Bring a stake just in case.

"Come, love. I've died again, here." There was more of a hitch to her voice at that. "Nasty slayer did it, and now I cannot make myself perfect anymore. It's all dagger-work for me, now. What would the neighbors think?

Please. Please come."

So she'd been staked. And lived. In a place where dying doesn't take.

They'd both died.

"Nasty slayer, indeed. On my way, pet."

He closed the journal to go take that long, long walk.

The woman who perched on the edge of the porch of the old lake house was cradling a doll. As she sat and waited she rocked and sang, rocked and sang, rocked and sang.

"Lucy Lockett lost her pocket! Dreadful, Lucy, dreadful! She shall have lashes and no tea! We shall strangle her white neck. We shall scold her harshly!"

Spike stayed out of sight for a good long time, watching her from behind a tree. A familiar situation he had with Buffy, but nothing quite the same. He was trying to decide his course of action. Playing his old self on the journals was easy. He'd never manage it in person. Not with her mind. Her perceptions. Her knowing.

He tucked the stake tightly into a pocket in his jacket. Tossed away the cigarette. Made his approach.

"Lucy should learn to keep track of what she's lost."

"Spike!" With an easy, sinuous motion the slender dark-haired woman rose and began to run toward him. She let the doll drop into the long grass.

The lake house was surrounded by long grass and late wildflowers -- neglected-looking. Forgotten.

"We shall punish her together, dearest!"

But something brought the vampire up short. Yes, this looked like Spike. Smelled like him, oh that delectable spice; the eyebrows were the same, and his knifeblade cheekbones, and the hair

the hair never changed

But he was missing. No -- NO, not missing! No, all the swirling brightness around him! Fire and dissolution! Sacrifice! No!

"....No." The lady groaned and slowed and dropped to her knees, still several feet away from him. "Oh, Spike."

He had a soul.

She'd not found him in Sunnydale. Not seen him broken with a chip in his head. He stood tall, as he did when they first stepped into that town. Confident. With purpose. In command and with no self doubts.

And yes. He had a soul. This was exactly what he'd expected. He stood his ground, looking somewhat pensive. It was a bit cruel of him, revealing it to her like this.

"Figured it out already. I expected as much." He untilted his head. "Surprise."

"Who has done it to you?! I shall split them open like firewood, darling! I shall spit them upon my knitting needles!"

She'd taken up knitting to fill in the boring long hours of not having anyone to terrorize the town with.

"Did it to myself, Dru. Fought long and hard for it. No curse for me. It's what I wanted for myself."

The only one to blame was him. But he wasn't apologetic for it. He just had one feeling for her he'd never had for her in the hundred years they'd known one another.

Pity.

The strange clarity that only Spike ever seemed to bring out in her seized Drusilla. She looked up at him, lips twitching. But that passed, and she descended into the tone of a lover's spat.

"You're going to tell me your heart's beating next, aren't you? You're going to make me sad and mournful!"

"Not quite human, yet. Mourning's about all we've got left, Dru."

In more than one way. It was a long walk. The unfortunate thing was that there'd be no time to return to his new 'home' until the following night. His tone was patient, as it always was with her. You don't date a flighty, mad woman for a century and not learn a little patience with her.

"What? No. Stop. Stop it! We never mourn, we too! We hate mornings. We like the night. Who needs tomorrow? We've got the night, my love.

Why don't you stay? We can speak of your....condition tomorrow."

"You've something in mind for now?"

"Just you without those trousers on and me in my white shift. It can be like old times, Spike. Like our days in the Orient."

She began backing toward the house, gesturing with flowing motions of her arms for him to come join her.

Spike found himself at a bit of a crossroads. On one hand, he was still pissed at, well, everything. Angel and his stupid plan, Wesley getting himself killed, LA going to hell, the bloody wings on his back, Buffy being so domestic-like here, Willow making him wear that damn bloody pink hoodie, and Jack the sodding pirate boyfriend. Not to mention he found out he was apparently some sort of TV character, so chances were any person he ran into was going to know his whole sodding life story, from Pratt to Champion.

Sod it all. He started to follow her. Slowly at first, watching about him, as if Buffy might jump out at any moment and condemn him for wanting to unwind a bit.

"You know what? Just like the old days, Dru. You and me. All Orient as you like."

The woman pulled at her white shift, and it cleared her head and drifted to the ground. White skin reflected celestial light: lithe and rather beautiful and angular where many women were rounded. She liked standing naked in the moonlight. It was like bathing.

This wouldn't be as fun without civilization collapsing around them. Not as exciting. The lake house was rather dank and quiet and decorated like the Goth bordello of a porcelain doll-fancier. The bed was comfortable, though.

And well-nigh unbreakable.

"We can pretend," she sang at him. "We can pretend we've destroyed it all."

[voiiiiiice!]

[voiiiiiice!]

[voiiiiiice!]

[voiiiiiice!] Surprose. : |

[voiiiiiice!] about time. : |

IT WOULDN'T BE SURPROSE IF IT HAPPENED RIGHT AWAY

or if I knew they were coming!

: D

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