Vertigo
By Lady Wenham
Vertigo -- Part One
Summary: Post Becoming Pt. II. Spike and Buffy find themselves on common ground
when both Angel and Drusilla are ‘killed’ in the Acathla incident.
Rated: R for language.
A/N: Third person, Spike’s POV. Buffy’s called ‘the Slayer’ mostly in this story
because of that reason – but yes, it’s her.
Got a wee bit depressed this week. This is how I vented.
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Vertigo
Drusilla’s birdcage wouldn’t fit inside the DeSoto’s trunk.
Spike recalled telling her that when she’d first discovered it, abandoned on the
side of the road near the Texas-New Mexico border. But she’d claimed it with
eyes that shone bright for the first time since Prague, insisting that they
couldn’t possibly leave behind such a treasure.
“We’ll catch him inside, you and I,” she had purred, grating blood-red
fingernails over the rusted wiring. “Clip the tips of his wings, so he can’t fly
away.”
Looking back, Spike was beginning to think he should have paid closer attention
to her ramblings. Not that any of that mattered now. Dru was gone, cast into
hell alongside her beloved Angel, just like she’d wanted.
And her fucking birdcage still wouldn’t fit inside the fucking trunk.
The last shreds of Spike’s patience finally abandoned him. With a broken roar,
he pitched the cage to the ground and crushed it under the heel of his boot,
wishing he had the strength to pound it into dust. When it was misshapen enough
to be packed away alongside everything else, he snatched it up and crammed it
inside the trunk. The jagged edges of the snapped wires cut into his hands, but
he barely noticed. He just wanted the hell out of Sunnydale.
He paused to light a cigarette, wiping dampness from his eyes as he waited for
the nicotine to soothe his tattered nerves. He couldn’t fall apart – not again.
If he let himself feel that bottomless pit of grief a second time, he’d never
make it out of town. He hadn’t put much thought into what would happen after
that. He just wanted to drive. There was one good thing about America – its
roads went on forever. There would be plenty of time to think once he was on the
highway. Time to sort. Time to grieve. If he could only keep it together long
enough to make it out of the bleeding garage.
Spike detected footsteps somewhere inside the mansion. He tensed, recognizing
the familiar beat of the Slayer’s heart – its rhythm always just a little too
quick, perhaps some mystical side effect of her calling. So Buffy was returning
to the scene of Angel’s demise, was she? Spike could empathize. He’d spent much
of the day staring blindly at the place where Dru had vanished, hoping – and
yes, even praying – that she would magically appear. Was that why the Slayer had
come? Or was she here for something else entirely?
Eventually her path brought her to the boarded-up garage where Spike was loading
the DeSoto. He stared at her through the haze of smoke filtering up from his
cigarette, imagining her pretty little hands driving a stake through his chest –
and how good it would feel to finally let go of this existence. But from the
look of her, she had no intentions of harming anything, except perhaps herself.
She was dressed in baggy overalls that were ripped in the knees, and her fingers
toyed uncertainly with the zipper of her sweatshirt. Her hair was a mess,
unwashed and flattened from the late spring humidity, and all traces of makeup
had been scrubbed from her cheeks. Spike scowled at her appearance, his mind
filled with images of childlike gowns trimmed with lace and ribbon – perfumed
hair and skin – not one dark curl out of place. The girl before him was
everything Drusilla was not. At that moment, Spike thought he might love the
Slayer a little bit for that, but it was too difficult to see past all the
hatred to know for certain.
“Leaving then, are you?” asked Spike as he eyed the heavy duffle bag slung
around her shoulder.
The Slayer bit her chapped lower lip. “Yeah. That was the plan.”
Too weary to be bothered with further conversation, Spike continued loading the
car in silence. He knew perfectly well that turning his back on a Slayer was
virtual suicide, but somehow he didn’t care. Perhaps she’d take the hint.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” she continued. “I thought you would have
already left. That was the deal, right? That you would leave town.”
Spike glanced meaningfully at his open trunk. “Working on it.”
He half expected her to turn on her heel after that and trot off to
who-the-hell-cared, but she didn’t. Didn’t even have the decency to pull out a
stake either. Instead she just continued to watch him as he stuffed blindfolded
dolls and lacy odds and ends into the car. Drusilla’s things, of course. Didn’t
seem right to Spike just to leave them. How she would cry if she knew…
The Slayer was still standing there when Spike finally finished. Slamming the
trunk closed, he tossed his spent cigarette to the pavement. “Well,” he said,
nodding to the passenger door. “Get in, then.”
For a moment, the Slayer looked confused by his words – but her expression
quickly changed into one of relief. She hefted her duffle bag up on her
shoulder, wrinkling her pert nose at the blacked-out windows as she got into the
car. As if he gave a damn about her approval. Spike wondered momentarily what
the hell he was thinking, but indifference took over before he could change his
mind. He bloody well didn’t care who was in the seat next to him – just so long
as she was as miserable as he was.
“There’s no seatbelt,” she reported when he took his place behind the wheel.
Spike snorted as he tossed an open pack of smokes onto the dashboard. “Guess
you’ll have to hold on tight then, yeah?”
The DeSoto roared to life, and Spike wasted no time putting it into gear.
Spinning the tires before he released the brake, the car lurched forward with
enough speed to slam through the boarded-up garage. Spike was impressed that the
Slayer didn’t cry out upon impact. She merely gripped her seat with bloodless
hands and shot a furious glare in his direction. The amusement wrought from her
discomfort was almost enough to make him smile – but not quite.
“Where are we going?” she asked when they passed the city limits.
Spike shrugged. “Guess that depends on how far this tank of fuel lasts us. Got
money, do you?”
She blinked at him, the ends of her bangs brushing against her eyelashes. “A
little.”
“Good. We’ll get along famously, then.”
And that was the last thing they said to one another for several hundred miles.
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To be continued.
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