CHAPTER 2 –
“Giles, we’re fine,” Buffy assured her Watcher and boss for the umpteenth time. “Nothing happened.”
Giles paced back and forth in the dilapidated police station – the building they had taken over as their headquarters after it was abandoned. “Even so, Buffy, I would prefer if you and Xander did not attempt any more heroics with this Spike character until we know more about him.”
“You would have sent us out there eventually to try to make a deal with him anyway. We chose sooner rather than later.”
Giles walked away from her, supposedly back towards the room that held what was left of his journals, “But Buffy, we don’t know where this Spike has come from . . .”
“Does it matter!?” Buffy interrupted, following him. “It’s the same thing that’s been going on for years, Giles: Some new bad guy overthrows the old bad guy, we go and make some sort of deal with him; pretend we have a leg to stand on. Spike has managed to defeat the old leader, something we’ve never managed to come close to.”
Giles cleaned his glasses, “You should have gone earlier in the day and with more backup if you were going at all.”
“Backup from whom exactly? The few innocent people that we have left here?” She threw an arm out, gesturing to the two dozen or so ragged people shuffling dazedly around them. “Half of them sneak out at night to hit vampire hangouts to barter their own blood for food and clothing!” Giles didn’t meet her eyes and when he turned to walk away from her again, Buffy jumped in front of him. “And where exactly did you plan on getting more information about him? The school library burned down years ago with all your precious books in it! We don’t have any friends here, no support! The rest of the world pretends we don’t exist!” Buffy inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself after her outburst, diverting her eyes from her Watcher, “And sometimes I wish we didn’t either,” she stated softly.
Giles’ eyes instantly widened in concern; he had seen her stressed before, but never so vacant of hope, “Buffy . . .”
She held her hand up to stop him, “Aren’t you tired of always being on the defense, waiting for them to make the next move?” Giles rolled his head, looking around helplessly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Buffy shook him off. Nothing he could say to her right now would make any of this okay. She stalked towards the door, grabbing her tattered leather coat along the way. “Don’t worry, Giles. I’ll get you your deal.”
__________________________________
She must have been threatened, propositioned, and cursed hundreds of times on her walk outside, well past dark. But Buffy didn’t hear any of them. Something in her stride must have told the demons surrounding her to leave her alone. Besides, they weren’t starving; they had plenty of other victims at their disposal.
The only thing lighting her path on the streets were fires, either coming from the flames of burning buildings or metal drums in alleyways. Burning. Always burning. How was anything in this town still standing? If she stayed alive long enough, would the town just burn itself to the ground around her? Probably not. Every few years another evil leader thought he’d build himself a metropolis and forced hundreds of slaves, human or otherwise, to erect structures in his honor. Just when Buffy thought it would all come crumbling down, something would build it back up again.
Once again crossing the same parking lot she and Xander had traversed hours earlier, not a single crony, even as she let herself into the building of their all-powerful leader, attempted to harass her, probably dumbfounded with the gall of this girl.
In the warehouse, Buffy did not meet the emptiness of earlier. Instead, it looked like Spike was having a moving-in party. Hundreds of bodies filled the main room, very few of them taking any notice of her. Buffy stood in the entranceway, taking in her surroundings. Despite the chill she got from the room, most were scantily clad, black being the color palate. There was a loud buzz of conversation in the air over the throbbing of the music being piped in from somewhere near the ceiling. Some were grinding on each other, others milled around with champagne glasses filled to the brim with various shades of red, wine or blood (or both), Buffy wasn’t sure. And if she would have looked harder, various sex acts were being performed around the room. From this throng he emerged.
Gone were the black jeans, t-shirt, and leather trench coat from earlier. Now he wore black leather pants and a midnight blue sleeved shirt with a sort of celtic-looking design traced on it in black that clung to his lean form.
Spike, taking her in, shook his head, “Isn’t safe for you to be out after dark little girl.”
“I can take care of myself,” she assured him, ignoring the dangerous group that now watched them with interest.
“A little chattier on this trip, I see. Barely said two words to me last we met, let wonder-boy play bad cop.” He circled her.
“It’s not that,” she answered coolly, “I just don’t justify stupidity with a response.”
He sucked in a false breath, “And the lady gets defensive,” he noticed, “Must have spoken some truths earlier tonight.”
He turned and the crowd parted, revealing a sort of throne in the middle of the room. Around him were a bevy of women – some human, some vampire, Buffy’s senses couldn’t distinguish which was which. The crowd that had been watching them, probably realizing their boss wasn’t going to give them the go-ahead to attack, quickly lost interest and resumed talking in low murmurs and rubbing against each other. Buffy smelt the thick stench of drugs all around her.
“So where is your little boyfriend?” he asked, looking behind her for Xander. When she didn’t respond he studied her, tilting his head to the side, “You know I won’t make deals with him,” he observed.
“But you’ll make a deal with me,” she replied confidently.
His brow arched, “Will I now? Don’t you know that the word ‘Slayer’ doesn’t strike fear into the undead hearts like it did years ago?”
Spike slowly slid a hand from his belt buckle up his torso, smiling in satisfaction as Buffy watched, riveted yet again. Bringing his hand up next to his chiseled cheekbone, he snapped his fingers. Instantly, a woman rose from the group behind him. Pushing her long black hair behind her shoulders, Buffy saw that she was naked from the waist up. Silently, she placed herself in front of Spike and quickly fell to her knees, pulling down the zipper of his jeans expertly, her mouth swiftly latching on to his cock.
He closed his eyes in pleasure. A minute passed, seemingly forgetting Buffy was there, rotating his hips into the woman’s eager mouth. When he opened his eyes again, Buffy could see they had darkened four shades.
“What do you want?” Buffy breathed, determined to keep her eyes on his face and ignore the woman’s actions before him.
“What I want,” he stated, voice dropping a register, “You’re not ready to give me . . . yet.”
“I think I’ll decide what I am and am not willing to do.”
He shook his head as if he were tsking a small child, “Little girl, you don’t know what you’re playing at.” He pushed the woman off him and stood, fixing his pants.
“I’ll learn the rules as I go,” she assured him, keeping her eyes up.
“That’s just it,” he clapped his hands in front of her, making her jump; “there are no rules. That’s the thing you white hats don’t understand. You can fight and fight and fight and it doesn’t change a thing.” His eyes shifted focus. He reached up and twirled a strand of Buffy’s hair in his fingertips distractedly. She stiffened, but didn’t move away. “I could show you so many things,” he whispered and Buffy fought the urge to lean into his hand. Suddenly, he snapped out of his trace, “When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting. The girls would love to have you,” he added, smiling.
The prostitutes behind him murmured their approval.
“Sorry, I don’t swing that way,” she ground out.
“Oh, but you would. For me. I’d get you so worked up you’d take anything I give you up that wet pussy of yours.” His hands didn’t touch her, but Buffy distinctly felt of wave of something wash over her extremities. Trying to shake the unnerving feeling, she broke their eye contact, looking over his shoulder. She blinked.
Behind him, mixing in with his masses, she saw a group of men. Men she knew. They were some of the “good guys” – those people she had fought side by side with when they had last attempted to revolt. They were some of the most dedicated to the cause of good she knew, besides Xander and Giles. One of them had lost two of his brothers in those battles, the other a wife and sister. Now, here they were. Still human, from what Buffy could tell, but playing on the dark side. With those that had killed their loved ones.
Spike saw the recognition in her eyes.
“Your legal system isn’t as innocent as you thought, sweetheart.”
Buffy didn’t look at him. “The girls – the human ones – why not turn them?” she asked distractedly.
“The warm bodies and blood,” he answered plainly. “When you pierce their skin at just the right moment, they’re so beautiful when they cum. I could make you cum like that.”
He raked his fingers through her hair, tilting her head, placing his lips next to her exposed ear, “You’d be my favorite,” he whispered hotly, nipping at her earlobe.
“You’d kill me?” she accused, but still caught up in the trance somehow.
“Turn you? Christ, no. That way every month, when that warm blood of yours seeps from between your thighs I can be there to catch it. Imagine it, Buffy. You’d spend all week in bed, covered in silk sheets. I’d bring you anything you wanted, chocolate, sweet treats you haven’t tasted since you were a little girl. You’d be my Princess.”
His words were full of promise and he didn’t look disappointed, even as she backed away. Her entire head felt jumbled and she tripped rushing out the door, not turning her back to him until the last possible moment. She wasn’t concerned about the vampires around her. He’d give her safe passage back to headquarters.
As she made her way back to the old police station, Buffy couldn’t even recall what she had come there for, not like it mattered anymore.
TBC
Showing posts with label Buffy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Buffy. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Spuffy: Dark City
TITLE: Dark City
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: The future of Sunnydale is dark and Buffy Summers is one of the last left to fight the good fight. But when she has to make a deal with the devil himself, will she be able to keep to the calling she was assigned so long ago, or will she submerge herself in his Dark City? *RE-EDITED*
A/N: First, some context: Spike never showed up in S2, and Sunnydale continued to spiral out of control. Most of the Scoobies have died in the years-long battle. There has been a series of Big Bads running the place, but one keeps overthrowing the next.
A/N: The trend seems to be – Spike is dark, Buffy is light. Buffy reforms Spike. Well, what if Buffy liked the dark? There are so many stories about Buffy going to the dark side, only to make Spike see the light, and he sees the error of his ways and goes good. *P.S. I thank you for not plagiarizing*
CHAPTER 1 –
Buffy’s eyes strained to scan past the grim and out the window of the passenger side of the car as it rambled down a seemingly empty street – a street that had been abandoned to the lowliest of demon drug dealers and vampire whores. Buffy vaguely remembered that it used to be called Ravello all those years ago -- when boys, having a social life, and passing biology were all-encompassing to her.
Xander steered the car down the road, wary of their surroundings. Sure, there was a little bit of light left, taking the threat of vampires out of the equation, but humans hopped up on whatever the demon drug ring was cooking up this week was a constant concern. Half the time they were more vicious and carnal than actual demons.
Then they past it. 1630. Xander was making mindless small-talk, the way he did when he felt she needed distracted, but Buffy heard nothing but meaningless murmuring as she continued to zone out the window – the only window still fully intact that hadn’t been hap hazardously fixed by Xander or Giles. Home. It used to be home. Her mom. Her sister. Home.
Looking out, Buffy stared at the shell of a house. Since evil had risen up and overtaken the town and they’d been driven from 1630 Ravello Drive, half of her childhood home had been burned to the ground. Willow was buried somewhere in that rubble, her friends having to make a makeshift grave for their fallen friend like they had the others. Buffy was thankful her mother had died before the demon rebellion had occurred and had gotten a proper burial in a cemetery although it was hard to find the headstone anymore the ground was so tore up from rising vamps. She was doubly thankful that she and Giles had had the foresight to send Dawn far, far away early on. Buffy racked her fuddled brain; Dawnie had just turned nineteen sometime in the last few months. What month was it anyway? Communication was nonexistent. The phone lines and cell phone towers were gone and God knows what happened to the mail system. Buffy hoped her sister was doing well, but rarely ever allowed herself to dwell on it. No matter where Dawn was, it was better than here.
Buffy spared a glance at Xander’s hands sliding over the dented wheel. Even now Buffy still didn’t formally know how to drive, though she’d driven plenty of times during emergency getaways. Not like it mattered much anymore. The local DMV was now a demon bar anyway so you couldn’t get a license even if you wanted one. And it was pointless to own a vehicle because it was either stolen from you or vandalized to the point that it didn’t even look like a car anymore. One of the few left in running order belonged to Giles, which Xander was currently turning into a littered parking lot.
As she slid out of the car, Buffy instinctively looked to the sky. Sundown would be in about an hour. That gave them a small window in which their operations would be relatively safe. There were barely any electric poles still standing so you had to learn to judge time by the sun, if there was one at all, just like the monsters they fought.
Early on the government had tried to step in and help – a group called the Initiative had been sent in to set up underground headquarters when the demon rebellion had really gotten underway. But even the depths of Sunnydale proved too corrupt, and the government operation was destroyed within a year. Buffy painfully recalled a certain agent leaving on a helicopter – he and his remaining agents fleeing, leaving her and the few friends that were still alive stranded.
That was when Giles took over as the head of what was left of the legal system and he, along with Buffy and Xander, the only ones remaining of their group, created a small section of the city that housed those that hadn’t fled or been killed in vampire and demon attacks. But even their attempted safe-haven had been plagued with corruption.
Those that were left in the city were trapped in at all sides. Even if a remaining human tried to make a run for it, they’d never get a few blocks in any direction without being slaughtered. Many had gone crazy and tried. All had failed. They knew of the failures because only minutes after someone fled they would hear the screaming. It was never quick either, but torture that lasted days, making an example out of them. With no sound to drown it out, Buffy and her friends were left to do nothing but lay at night, listening to it. They used that pain to fuel the little fight that was left in them.
But they tried. Time and time again they tried. Every time a new Big Bad would rise up the ranks of Sunnyhell, they would come out to meet with it. Usually they secured an agreement allowing their small operation to continue to run. That’s what they were there for now.
Xander parked the car and they got out. “Think he’ll cooperate?” Xander asked, his voice breaking through the gusts of wind that threw paper and dragged debris around them.
“They never do,” Buffy answered, quickly approaching the warehouse. She halted at the door, turning to her partner, “Ready?” Xander drew his crossbow and secured the ax attached to his back and nodded. Buffy pulled her stake and threw open the heavy steel door.
Suspecting to surprise at least a few vamps and take a couple out early, they were slightly unnerved by the emptiness that met them. Cautiously moving further into the room, Buffy and Xander kept on the defensive.
“Sure this was the right place?” he kept his voice hushed.
Buffy nodded, “If you were the new baddie in town wouldn’t you want to reside in the center of the chaos?”
“I know I would,” a voice came from the room off to their right.
Xander instinctively pivoted and shot an arrow in the direction of the voice, not heeding Buffy’s objection.
A swift, clean movement from the stranger had him further in the open, the arrow caught in his hands, inches from his chest. Nothing in his face gave hint to the fact that there had been an attempt on his life seconds earlier.
Instead, he sauntered over to them, “Don’t waste your arrows, boy,” he sneered, handing the weapon back to Xander who, dumbfounded, reloaded it back into his crossbow.
“We’re here to see Spike,” Buffy’s voice came out strong.
The man turned to Buffy, as if just noticing her for the first time, revealing his pronounced cheekbones, penetrating gaze, and a well-placed smirk. This must be Spike, she surmised. “Well, Slayer, was wondering when you’d be coming around. Supposed it was just a matter of time before you had to check out the goods for yourself.” He ran his hand from his chest down to his belt buckle, smiling in satisfaction when Buffy’s eyes followed his movements.
“Cut the theatrics, we’re here to make a deal,” Xander demanded.
Spike shook his head, keeping his tone casual, and shifting his weight to his back foot. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a drag, he held in the smoke a few seconds before exhaling, “I know all about you white hats. Every time a new Big Bad rises to power you come breaking in wanting to make a deal. It used to work for you way back when. Problem is . . . you don’t have a thing to barter with. Face it; your city’s different now. There’s a new Big Bad -- best if you recognized it and fall in line before you find yourselves catching a nasty case of death.”
“You think you’re the first vampire to threaten us?” Xander asked.
“I think I’m the first vampire to not lie to you.” He took a step closer, “I think I’m the first vampire to know where the cards truly lie.”
“This town doesn’t belong to the sick and demented,” Xander affirmed.
The vampire almost chuckled, “You’re delusional. This town has always belonged to us, Goldilocks here knows it,” Spike gestured to Buffy, “You can see it in her eyes.” He approached Buffy, whose grip tightened on her stake but made no movement to use it, “She knows that if you don’t make a deal with me, you’re going to lose what small grip you have left on this city and the only reason it’s going to stay the way it is now is if I allow it.” His eyes never left hers during his speech and Buffy stood, transfixed, never blinking. Spike backed away, “Now you go scurry home to your little Watcher and tell him there’s no deal.”
Buffy knew she should be more concerned then she was that this Spike knew so much about them, knew that Giles used to be called a Watcher, and knew who she was and when they would be coming. Silence hung in the air until Buffy finally spoke, “Let’s go Xander.” She tuned her back on them, barely hearing the slap on the concrete as Xander ran to keep up.
As the outside air hit their faces Xander looked worriedly at Buffy.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking over at his stern partner who was storming back to the car.
“My shoe’s wet,” she complained.
“What? How?” Xander asked, looking towards the cloudless sky as he stumbled along.
“From the pissing contest you two just had,” she spat. “And just for the record, Xander, you lost.”
TBC – Buffy returns to Spike’s lair to make a deal of her own
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: The future of Sunnydale is dark and Buffy Summers is one of the last left to fight the good fight. But when she has to make a deal with the devil himself, will she be able to keep to the calling she was assigned so long ago, or will she submerge herself in his Dark City? *RE-EDITED*
A/N: First, some context: Spike never showed up in S2, and Sunnydale continued to spiral out of control. Most of the Scoobies have died in the years-long battle. There has been a series of Big Bads running the place, but one keeps overthrowing the next.
A/N: The trend seems to be – Spike is dark, Buffy is light. Buffy reforms Spike. Well, what if Buffy liked the dark? There are so many stories about Buffy going to the dark side, only to make Spike see the light, and he sees the error of his ways and goes good. *P.S. I thank you for not plagiarizing*
CHAPTER 1 –
Buffy’s eyes strained to scan past the grim and out the window of the passenger side of the car as it rambled down a seemingly empty street – a street that had been abandoned to the lowliest of demon drug dealers and vampire whores. Buffy vaguely remembered that it used to be called Ravello all those years ago -- when boys, having a social life, and passing biology were all-encompassing to her.
Xander steered the car down the road, wary of their surroundings. Sure, there was a little bit of light left, taking the threat of vampires out of the equation, but humans hopped up on whatever the demon drug ring was cooking up this week was a constant concern. Half the time they were more vicious and carnal than actual demons.
Then they past it. 1630. Xander was making mindless small-talk, the way he did when he felt she needed distracted, but Buffy heard nothing but meaningless murmuring as she continued to zone out the window – the only window still fully intact that hadn’t been hap hazardously fixed by Xander or Giles. Home. It used to be home. Her mom. Her sister. Home.
Looking out, Buffy stared at the shell of a house. Since evil had risen up and overtaken the town and they’d been driven from 1630 Ravello Drive, half of her childhood home had been burned to the ground. Willow was buried somewhere in that rubble, her friends having to make a makeshift grave for their fallen friend like they had the others. Buffy was thankful her mother had died before the demon rebellion had occurred and had gotten a proper burial in a cemetery although it was hard to find the headstone anymore the ground was so tore up from rising vamps. She was doubly thankful that she and Giles had had the foresight to send Dawn far, far away early on. Buffy racked her fuddled brain; Dawnie had just turned nineteen sometime in the last few months. What month was it anyway? Communication was nonexistent. The phone lines and cell phone towers were gone and God knows what happened to the mail system. Buffy hoped her sister was doing well, but rarely ever allowed herself to dwell on it. No matter where Dawn was, it was better than here.
Buffy spared a glance at Xander’s hands sliding over the dented wheel. Even now Buffy still didn’t formally know how to drive, though she’d driven plenty of times during emergency getaways. Not like it mattered much anymore. The local DMV was now a demon bar anyway so you couldn’t get a license even if you wanted one. And it was pointless to own a vehicle because it was either stolen from you or vandalized to the point that it didn’t even look like a car anymore. One of the few left in running order belonged to Giles, which Xander was currently turning into a littered parking lot.
As she slid out of the car, Buffy instinctively looked to the sky. Sundown would be in about an hour. That gave them a small window in which their operations would be relatively safe. There were barely any electric poles still standing so you had to learn to judge time by the sun, if there was one at all, just like the monsters they fought.
Early on the government had tried to step in and help – a group called the Initiative had been sent in to set up underground headquarters when the demon rebellion had really gotten underway. But even the depths of Sunnydale proved too corrupt, and the government operation was destroyed within a year. Buffy painfully recalled a certain agent leaving on a helicopter – he and his remaining agents fleeing, leaving her and the few friends that were still alive stranded.
That was when Giles took over as the head of what was left of the legal system and he, along with Buffy and Xander, the only ones remaining of their group, created a small section of the city that housed those that hadn’t fled or been killed in vampire and demon attacks. But even their attempted safe-haven had been plagued with corruption.
Those that were left in the city were trapped in at all sides. Even if a remaining human tried to make a run for it, they’d never get a few blocks in any direction without being slaughtered. Many had gone crazy and tried. All had failed. They knew of the failures because only minutes after someone fled they would hear the screaming. It was never quick either, but torture that lasted days, making an example out of them. With no sound to drown it out, Buffy and her friends were left to do nothing but lay at night, listening to it. They used that pain to fuel the little fight that was left in them.
But they tried. Time and time again they tried. Every time a new Big Bad would rise up the ranks of Sunnyhell, they would come out to meet with it. Usually they secured an agreement allowing their small operation to continue to run. That’s what they were there for now.
Xander parked the car and they got out. “Think he’ll cooperate?” Xander asked, his voice breaking through the gusts of wind that threw paper and dragged debris around them.
“They never do,” Buffy answered, quickly approaching the warehouse. She halted at the door, turning to her partner, “Ready?” Xander drew his crossbow and secured the ax attached to his back and nodded. Buffy pulled her stake and threw open the heavy steel door.
Suspecting to surprise at least a few vamps and take a couple out early, they were slightly unnerved by the emptiness that met them. Cautiously moving further into the room, Buffy and Xander kept on the defensive.
“Sure this was the right place?” he kept his voice hushed.
Buffy nodded, “If you were the new baddie in town wouldn’t you want to reside in the center of the chaos?”
“I know I would,” a voice came from the room off to their right.
Xander instinctively pivoted and shot an arrow in the direction of the voice, not heeding Buffy’s objection.
A swift, clean movement from the stranger had him further in the open, the arrow caught in his hands, inches from his chest. Nothing in his face gave hint to the fact that there had been an attempt on his life seconds earlier.
Instead, he sauntered over to them, “Don’t waste your arrows, boy,” he sneered, handing the weapon back to Xander who, dumbfounded, reloaded it back into his crossbow.
“We’re here to see Spike,” Buffy’s voice came out strong.
The man turned to Buffy, as if just noticing her for the first time, revealing his pronounced cheekbones, penetrating gaze, and a well-placed smirk. This must be Spike, she surmised. “Well, Slayer, was wondering when you’d be coming around. Supposed it was just a matter of time before you had to check out the goods for yourself.” He ran his hand from his chest down to his belt buckle, smiling in satisfaction when Buffy’s eyes followed his movements.
“Cut the theatrics, we’re here to make a deal,” Xander demanded.
Spike shook his head, keeping his tone casual, and shifting his weight to his back foot. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a drag, he held in the smoke a few seconds before exhaling, “I know all about you white hats. Every time a new Big Bad rises to power you come breaking in wanting to make a deal. It used to work for you way back when. Problem is . . . you don’t have a thing to barter with. Face it; your city’s different now. There’s a new Big Bad -- best if you recognized it and fall in line before you find yourselves catching a nasty case of death.”
“You think you’re the first vampire to threaten us?” Xander asked.
“I think I’m the first vampire to not lie to you.” He took a step closer, “I think I’m the first vampire to know where the cards truly lie.”
“This town doesn’t belong to the sick and demented,” Xander affirmed.
The vampire almost chuckled, “You’re delusional. This town has always belonged to us, Goldilocks here knows it,” Spike gestured to Buffy, “You can see it in her eyes.” He approached Buffy, whose grip tightened on her stake but made no movement to use it, “She knows that if you don’t make a deal with me, you’re going to lose what small grip you have left on this city and the only reason it’s going to stay the way it is now is if I allow it.” His eyes never left hers during his speech and Buffy stood, transfixed, never blinking. Spike backed away, “Now you go scurry home to your little Watcher and tell him there’s no deal.”
Buffy knew she should be more concerned then she was that this Spike knew so much about them, knew that Giles used to be called a Watcher, and knew who she was and when they would be coming. Silence hung in the air until Buffy finally spoke, “Let’s go Xander.” She tuned her back on them, barely hearing the slap on the concrete as Xander ran to keep up.
As the outside air hit their faces Xander looked worriedly at Buffy.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking over at his stern partner who was storming back to the car.
“My shoe’s wet,” she complained.
“What? How?” Xander asked, looking towards the cloudless sky as he stumbled along.
“From the pissing contest you two just had,” she spat. “And just for the record, Xander, you lost.”
TBC – Buffy returns to Spike’s lair to make a deal of her own
Monday, September 22, 2008
Spuffy: What You're Waiting For -- Chapter One
TITLE: What You’re Waiting For
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Buffy Summers is a jaded writer. Spike Giles is her editor. When Buffy is summoned home for a family affair in the midst of her latest novel, she drags New York back home with her to little ol’ Sunnydale. Her two worlds are going to collide. And nothing will ever be the same.
CHAPTER 1 –
Buffy Summers yawned, re-crossing her legs in the plush leather chair on which she perched. Wishing she would have brought a magazine, she took to glancing about the room, searching for some aspect that she hadn’t noticed before. The rectangular office she sat in was more than familiar. She could map it out in her head – a wooden door led into the deep red toned room, an appropriate color for its dramatic owner. Its décor was minimal. A fireplace was built into the wall behind her. Swanky was an appropriate term. Only in New York.
Across from her, behind his mahogany desk sat her editor, William “Spike” Giles, both elbows on the smooth top as he hunched over her latest manuscript, thin frames perched on his nose.
Buffy fidgeted her hands in her lap. No matter how many chapters of her writing he read, and he had read every word she had written since she arrived in the Big Apple four years ago, she was still nervous for his opinion.
Sensing movement out of the corner of her eye, her gaze shot to the man in front of her. When he did nothing but turn the page and continue reading, failing to acknowledge her annoyance, she sighed deeply.
Why she subjected herself to this torture time and time again, she didn’t know. A sadist when it came to her writing, Buffy always chose to hang around his office while he poured over her writings. She wouldn’t let him go home to read it, like he did so many of his other clients. She wanted him to read her stuff right then and now and give her instant responses. She had tried leaving her manuscript with him overnight once, but she was so nerve wracked that she couldn’t sleep. Would he spill something on it? Or would someone steal it while he was at the gym? What if he read it and forgot to tell her some important aspect of his review the next time he saw her? He would have read numerous transcripts by then and would have forgotten the whole ambiance of the piece!
Ten minutes later, Buffy held her breath, straightening her spine, and waited for his final verdict.
He looked up at her.
“Your last sentence doesn’t make any sense.”
Making a noise of indignation, Buffy stood defiantly, coming to lean over behind him, reading the sentence he was pointing to. “Yes it does,” she said finally.
Spike shook his head, “It’s grammatically incorrect in so many ways it makes my head spin.”
“I’m experimenting with language,” she defended haughtily. “Who was Shakespeare if not a daring wordsmith?”
He shot her a look, “You’re hardly the Bard. And the fact that you would stoop so low as to use my idol against me does nothing but show your desperation.”
“Well other than the last sentence . . . which we’re keeping,” she added determinedly at his look he gave her over his glasses, moving back around the desk, “what do you think?”
He sighed, pushing the chair out from under him and standing up, “Yet another brilliant manifesto on how all men are pigs who take pride in nothing but sowing our wild oats and lying to you fairer sex.”
“Really?” She squealed, “Brilliant?” she asked, ignoring the rest of his unenthusiastic tirade.
“I’m sure you’ll sell millions, yet again, to the bitter women of the world,” he waved his hand toward the large window to his right, gesturing to the potential buyers that walked the streets ten floors below them, his voice lacking in excitement.
He walked around the perimeter of his desk, gathering up piles of papers and sliding them into his briefcase, Buffy hot on his heels and making her way to follow him out the door.
“So when you say ‘brilliant,’ is that more brilliant than my last book? Or is it a different kind of brilliant, because I think this one has a much different tone. Do you think I may loose some people or am I only in a situation to gain?”
“Summers,” he interrupted, “you are the only writer that I edit who I am also friends with outside work. You are the only one I have given my home address and phone number to. Please don’t make me regret it.” He made his way around the group of people exiting the elevator, entering and pressing the down button. Buffy came to a rest next to him.
“I’m dedicated,” she commented.
“You’re neurotic,” he answered as the doors closed.
Leaving the building, they waited for the light, crossing the congested New York street, Spike in his dark grey Armani suit, coffee in hand, and Buffy hurrying along beside him as much as she could in her sensible brown skirt, suit top, and heels.
“It’s Friday, Summers, why don’t you take some time off and relax? That’s what I plan to do.” They safely navigated the zigzagging taxis and reached the sidewalk. Spike spun in front of her, “Come out with me tonight,” he requested smoothly.
But not smooth enough, as Buffy easily dodged his statement with ease, “I’m afraid your idea of relaxation – a/k/a whoring your way around New York . . .”
“How many years have I known you, Summers?” he interrupted.
“Four and you’ve been trying to get into my pants for three of them,” she countered coolly. “I’m sorry, Spike, but it’s just not my idea of a good time.” She moved to go around him, but he blocked her path.
“I’ll show you enough good times to fill two of those books of yours,” he stated cockily, giving her a promisingly heated look that, for a split second, had her thinking twice. But years of practice had her brushing off the notion as ludicrous within seconds.
She looked at him, astounded by his persistence, “Where does this misguided optimism of yours come from?”
“Who was it?” he challenged, ignoring her question.
She shook her head in confusion, “Who was who?” She continued her way down the street.
“The man who ruined you for the rest of us,” he said, following her.
“For the rest of you?” she balked, “Like I’m some kind of buffet?”
Truthfully, there hadn’t been that many given the chance to ‘ruin her’. But those who had had been doosies. Firstly, there had been Angel. Who, to make a long and very melodramatic story short, left her after they graduated because he knew ‘it was best for her’. For about five seconds, there had been Parker, who had come closest to breaking her spirit. And then there was Riley, who had had the misguided notion that men were to protect women. When he discovered that Buffy was strong and independent enough to take care of herself and didn’t need to rely on him in any way, he bolted to places unknown. All these men and, as some New York shrinks would suggest, her father, left her with a jaded (and some would say bitter) outlook on romance. But the common factor of all of them? She had been perfectly content until they had decided it was over.
“Well you just wait for my next chapter,” she warned Spike. “It has to do with my friend Willow’s first love. First, she catches him in bed with another woman. Actually, it was the floor, but anyway, he up and leaves her without so much as saying goodbye and . . .”
The ringing of her cell phone interrupted her.
“Hello?” she answered brightly, only for her voice to drop into an annoyed anger, “Oh, hi. She’s what!? When? No, I absolutely cannot. This is unacceptable.” There was a pause as the person on the other line stated their case. “You know what? Fine.” She slammed the phone shut.
“Arch nemesis?” Spike questioned nodding to her phone, noting her hostile tone.
“Mother,” she answered in a huff. “I have to go home for my sister’s wedding in two weeks and this is the kind of warning I get.”
“Shotgun wedding?” he questioned the abruptness of the nuptials.
“No, we all had a pretty good idea this was coming. Since they met two years ago they’ve been joined at the hip.” Spike detected a hint of snarl in her voice.
“You don’t sound very happy for her.”
“They’re twenty -- much too young to be getting married.”
Spike shrugged, “They found each other and want to start their life together sooner rather than later. What’s so wrong with that?”
“They can’t even legally drink to their own toast,” Buffy merely grumbled in response.
“Well, good,” Spike remarked, “You can get some well-needed relaxation and fax me those chapters by the end of the week.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped, “I can’t do that!” She shook her head, “No, way.” She whipped out her cell, “I’ll just call my mother back and tell her I can’t make it. There’s just no way . . .”
Seeing she was serious, Spike grabbed the phone out of her reaching fingers, “You will do no such thing. You are going to your sister’s wedding,” he told her sternly. “You’re just going to have to suck it up about those chapters of yours because I will not be there to hold your hand.” She didn’t pitch the fit he thought she would, and instead cocked her head to look at him strangely. “What?”
“I have a proposition.”
TBC
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Buffy Summers is a jaded writer. Spike Giles is her editor. When Buffy is summoned home for a family affair in the midst of her latest novel, she drags New York back home with her to little ol’ Sunnydale. Her two worlds are going to collide. And nothing will ever be the same.
CHAPTER 1 –
Buffy Summers yawned, re-crossing her legs in the plush leather chair on which she perched. Wishing she would have brought a magazine, she took to glancing about the room, searching for some aspect that she hadn’t noticed before. The rectangular office she sat in was more than familiar. She could map it out in her head – a wooden door led into the deep red toned room, an appropriate color for its dramatic owner. Its décor was minimal. A fireplace was built into the wall behind her. Swanky was an appropriate term. Only in New York.
Across from her, behind his mahogany desk sat her editor, William “Spike” Giles, both elbows on the smooth top as he hunched over her latest manuscript, thin frames perched on his nose.
Buffy fidgeted her hands in her lap. No matter how many chapters of her writing he read, and he had read every word she had written since she arrived in the Big Apple four years ago, she was still nervous for his opinion.
Sensing movement out of the corner of her eye, her gaze shot to the man in front of her. When he did nothing but turn the page and continue reading, failing to acknowledge her annoyance, she sighed deeply.
Why she subjected herself to this torture time and time again, she didn’t know. A sadist when it came to her writing, Buffy always chose to hang around his office while he poured over her writings. She wouldn’t let him go home to read it, like he did so many of his other clients. She wanted him to read her stuff right then and now and give her instant responses. She had tried leaving her manuscript with him overnight once, but she was so nerve wracked that she couldn’t sleep. Would he spill something on it? Or would someone steal it while he was at the gym? What if he read it and forgot to tell her some important aspect of his review the next time he saw her? He would have read numerous transcripts by then and would have forgotten the whole ambiance of the piece!
Ten minutes later, Buffy held her breath, straightening her spine, and waited for his final verdict.
He looked up at her.
“Your last sentence doesn’t make any sense.”
Making a noise of indignation, Buffy stood defiantly, coming to lean over behind him, reading the sentence he was pointing to. “Yes it does,” she said finally.
Spike shook his head, “It’s grammatically incorrect in so many ways it makes my head spin.”
“I’m experimenting with language,” she defended haughtily. “Who was Shakespeare if not a daring wordsmith?”
He shot her a look, “You’re hardly the Bard. And the fact that you would stoop so low as to use my idol against me does nothing but show your desperation.”
“Well other than the last sentence . . . which we’re keeping,” she added determinedly at his look he gave her over his glasses, moving back around the desk, “what do you think?”
He sighed, pushing the chair out from under him and standing up, “Yet another brilliant manifesto on how all men are pigs who take pride in nothing but sowing our wild oats and lying to you fairer sex.”
“Really?” She squealed, “Brilliant?” she asked, ignoring the rest of his unenthusiastic tirade.
“I’m sure you’ll sell millions, yet again, to the bitter women of the world,” he waved his hand toward the large window to his right, gesturing to the potential buyers that walked the streets ten floors below them, his voice lacking in excitement.
He walked around the perimeter of his desk, gathering up piles of papers and sliding them into his briefcase, Buffy hot on his heels and making her way to follow him out the door.
“So when you say ‘brilliant,’ is that more brilliant than my last book? Or is it a different kind of brilliant, because I think this one has a much different tone. Do you think I may loose some people or am I only in a situation to gain?”
“Summers,” he interrupted, “you are the only writer that I edit who I am also friends with outside work. You are the only one I have given my home address and phone number to. Please don’t make me regret it.” He made his way around the group of people exiting the elevator, entering and pressing the down button. Buffy came to a rest next to him.
“I’m dedicated,” she commented.
“You’re neurotic,” he answered as the doors closed.
Leaving the building, they waited for the light, crossing the congested New York street, Spike in his dark grey Armani suit, coffee in hand, and Buffy hurrying along beside him as much as she could in her sensible brown skirt, suit top, and heels.
“It’s Friday, Summers, why don’t you take some time off and relax? That’s what I plan to do.” They safely navigated the zigzagging taxis and reached the sidewalk. Spike spun in front of her, “Come out with me tonight,” he requested smoothly.
But not smooth enough, as Buffy easily dodged his statement with ease, “I’m afraid your idea of relaxation – a/k/a whoring your way around New York . . .”
“How many years have I known you, Summers?” he interrupted.
“Four and you’ve been trying to get into my pants for three of them,” she countered coolly. “I’m sorry, Spike, but it’s just not my idea of a good time.” She moved to go around him, but he blocked her path.
“I’ll show you enough good times to fill two of those books of yours,” he stated cockily, giving her a promisingly heated look that, for a split second, had her thinking twice. But years of practice had her brushing off the notion as ludicrous within seconds.
She looked at him, astounded by his persistence, “Where does this misguided optimism of yours come from?”
“Who was it?” he challenged, ignoring her question.
She shook her head in confusion, “Who was who?” She continued her way down the street.
“The man who ruined you for the rest of us,” he said, following her.
“For the rest of you?” she balked, “Like I’m some kind of buffet?”
Truthfully, there hadn’t been that many given the chance to ‘ruin her’. But those who had had been doosies. Firstly, there had been Angel. Who, to make a long and very melodramatic story short, left her after they graduated because he knew ‘it was best for her’. For about five seconds, there had been Parker, who had come closest to breaking her spirit. And then there was Riley, who had had the misguided notion that men were to protect women. When he discovered that Buffy was strong and independent enough to take care of herself and didn’t need to rely on him in any way, he bolted to places unknown. All these men and, as some New York shrinks would suggest, her father, left her with a jaded (and some would say bitter) outlook on romance. But the common factor of all of them? She had been perfectly content until they had decided it was over.
“Well you just wait for my next chapter,” she warned Spike. “It has to do with my friend Willow’s first love. First, she catches him in bed with another woman. Actually, it was the floor, but anyway, he up and leaves her without so much as saying goodbye and . . .”
The ringing of her cell phone interrupted her.
“Hello?” she answered brightly, only for her voice to drop into an annoyed anger, “Oh, hi. She’s what!? When? No, I absolutely cannot. This is unacceptable.” There was a pause as the person on the other line stated their case. “You know what? Fine.” She slammed the phone shut.
“Arch nemesis?” Spike questioned nodding to her phone, noting her hostile tone.
“Mother,” she answered in a huff. “I have to go home for my sister’s wedding in two weeks and this is the kind of warning I get.”
“Shotgun wedding?” he questioned the abruptness of the nuptials.
“No, we all had a pretty good idea this was coming. Since they met two years ago they’ve been joined at the hip.” Spike detected a hint of snarl in her voice.
“You don’t sound very happy for her.”
“They’re twenty -- much too young to be getting married.”
Spike shrugged, “They found each other and want to start their life together sooner rather than later. What’s so wrong with that?”
“They can’t even legally drink to their own toast,” Buffy merely grumbled in response.
“Well, good,” Spike remarked, “You can get some well-needed relaxation and fax me those chapters by the end of the week.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped, “I can’t do that!” She shook her head, “No, way.” She whipped out her cell, “I’ll just call my mother back and tell her I can’t make it. There’s just no way . . .”
Seeing she was serious, Spike grabbed the phone out of her reaching fingers, “You will do no such thing. You are going to your sister’s wedding,” he told her sternly. “You’re just going to have to suck it up about those chapters of yours because I will not be there to hold your hand.” She didn’t pitch the fit he thought she would, and instead cocked her head to look at him strangely. “What?”
“I have a proposition.”
TBC
Monday, July 21, 2008
Spuffy: Out of the Rubble Chapter One
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Buffy Summers is living out every parent’s worst nightmare and it’s up to Special Agent William “Spike” Giles to find the person who kidnapped her daughter and bring her back (hopefully) alive. But as these two will learn, the closer they get to the truth, the closer tragedy will bring them together.
CHAPTER 1 --
Buffy Summers sat at her kitchen table, staring at absolutely nothing, ignoring the coffee in front of her that had long ago gone cold. A half-dozen police officers filtered through her house, their heavy boots echoing off the walls -- a constant reminder to Buffy that they were there, who would give anything at the moment to curl up inside herself and temporarily forget everything.
One uniformed man was on her phone, another two were huddled over her kitchen counter pouring over stacks of papers, and she could hear some others upstairs taking stock of her daughter’s room.
Molly.
Buffy had been sent by her local law-enforcement agency to the FBI because of the threat of her daughter being taken over state lines. In less then half a day she’d had local, state, then FBI law enforcement take over her house, setting up their temporary control center. The individual officers were faceless to her. Only the shade of blue of the uniforms changed.
Her front door opened and closed for the one-thousandth time in the past ten hours. The slamming rattled the doorframe and surrounding walls but Buffy showed no sign of having heard it. She was to sit and wait until she was needed to answer a question or answer the phone in case whoever had taken her daughter tried to contact her. If she was so called upon, she was to do it as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Though Buffy didn’t understand how she was to do both at once. But nothing had really made sense to her for hours now. She vaguely remembered Willow sitting by her side while the police asked her questions. It seemed so long ago now, but only a few hours could have elapsed.
So she sat. And the officers, for fear of getting emotionally involved, basically ignored her.
Ten hours. It had been ten hours since her Molly had been reported missing.
“Giles,” one of the officers acknowledged from her living room.
“Giles,” Buffy thought. She hadn’t heard that name yet. He must be new. So far she had encountered and Officer Joseph, Platt, Menendes, a hand full of Smiths . . .
“Ms. Summers . . .”
Buffy jumped in her seat at the sound, which was deafening to her ears. She took a moment, taking a deep breath, before swiveling in her seat to look up at the new officer before her. He was younger than most of his FBI contemporaries. He seemed to be of average height, lean, and muscular for what she could tell under his navy windbreaker which had ‘FBI’ emblazoned across the left breast and back. Though his most telling feature was his hair, which was dyed an unprofessional shade of blonde.
“I’m sorry to startle you,” the man apologized. “Ms. Summers . . .”
“Buffy,” she interrupted quietly. “Call me Buffy,” her voice sounded flat and lifeless and she made no attempt to alter it.
Agent Giles nodded and lowered himself into the seat across from her. He regarded her with a gentle firmness that suggested he’d done this many times before. “I’m sure you already went over this with the local officers, but I need you to answer some questions.”
Buffy nodded in consent.
“Do you have a recent picture of your daughter?”
“Oh . . . Yes,” she fumbled for and reached into her purse, sliding a picture across the table. “I took it last week,” her voice cracked, “At her fourth birthday party.”
Spike picked up the picture, studying it. A little girl with blonde pigtails and bangs beamed at him. And hazel eyes. She looked just like her mother.
“She weighs thirty-five pounds and is forty-two inches tall.”
Spike looked up from his paper, surprise at her anticipation of his next questions. Buffy shrugged, “This is the fifth time I’ve gone over this today.”
William “Spike” Giles was content with her answer. Good, she was talking and offering extra information. An agent he had talked to earlier told him he feared she was incapacitated, but Spike could see she was anything but.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself apologizing.
Buffy made no answer.
Spike’s brow furrowed, “Who’s this with her?” he asked, pointing at the other two people in the picture.
Buffy leaned forward to see, “Willow and Xander, friends of mine. They’re practically family.”
“And her father?” he questioned his absence.
Buffy shook her head, “Haven’t seen him since I told him I was pregnant.” Spike continued to study her, “We were never married,” she added.
He opened the file in front of him. “It says in here she was abducted from her room.”
Buffy nodded solemnly, “That’s correct. Her aunt, my sister Dawn, was babysitting her. I first noticed she was missing when I came home and she wasn’t in bed where she was supposed to be. Or anywhere else for that matter,” she added quietly. “That was around a quarter after ten at night.”
He couldn’t help it, but a little bit of Spike’s heart pained for Buffy. She looked like a broken angel. But that was all she was going to get from him because Spike Giles never got personally involved. Ever.
“And where were you?”
His question must have sounded accusatory because the color drained from her face. “I was at . . .” she choked up, “at The Bronze with Xander and Willow. It’s the first time I’ve been out in years.”
“It’s not your fault,” he found himself saying instantly.
“That’s what the police kept telling me,” she looked down at her hands that rested on her lap. “Do you have kids, Agent Giles?”
Spike was momentarily thrown by the random delve into his personal life, but gamely answered, “No, I don’t.”
He had never had an affinity for kids, but it’s not that the thought had never crossed his mind. He was an only child and a loner of one. He had never been around small children and was in no position to settle down anytime soon. His job required more time than he could ever fairly split with a woman.
“Buffy, do you have any idea who might want to hurt you or your child?”
Buffy shook her head, “No one. Molly’s popular with the kids at school and I don’t have any close friends outside Willow, Xander, and Xander’s girlfriend Anya.”
“Was she at the party also?” Spike asked, motioning to the picture.
“Yes.”
“What about family?”
“We don’t have any. It’s me, Dawn, and Molly.”
Spike nodded. “Ms. Summers, I know this is going to sound trite and in no way comforting, but we will find her.”
Spike hoped she didn’t take note of his leaving “alive” out of his promise. He’d been on one too many cases where that promise would not come true. She answered with a nod that ended with her head hung towards the floor.
Though a parent’s worst nightmare had come true for Buffy Summers and she was rightly devastated, Spike knew that she was anything but defeated. She had conviction, although it was currently hidden behind sorrow, and he had the suspicion that Buffy Summers was going to show him a thing or two about what it meant to be strong before this ordeal was over.
TBC
SUMMARY: Buffy Summers is living out every parent’s worst nightmare and it’s up to Special Agent William “Spike” Giles to find the person who kidnapped her daughter and bring her back (hopefully) alive. But as these two will learn, the closer they get to the truth, the closer tragedy will bring them together.
CHAPTER 1 --
Buffy Summers sat at her kitchen table, staring at absolutely nothing, ignoring the coffee in front of her that had long ago gone cold. A half-dozen police officers filtered through her house, their heavy boots echoing off the walls -- a constant reminder to Buffy that they were there, who would give anything at the moment to curl up inside herself and temporarily forget everything.
One uniformed man was on her phone, another two were huddled over her kitchen counter pouring over stacks of papers, and she could hear some others upstairs taking stock of her daughter’s room.
Molly.
Buffy had been sent by her local law-enforcement agency to the FBI because of the threat of her daughter being taken over state lines. In less then half a day she’d had local, state, then FBI law enforcement take over her house, setting up their temporary control center. The individual officers were faceless to her. Only the shade of blue of the uniforms changed.
Her front door opened and closed for the one-thousandth time in the past ten hours. The slamming rattled the doorframe and surrounding walls but Buffy showed no sign of having heard it. She was to sit and wait until she was needed to answer a question or answer the phone in case whoever had taken her daughter tried to contact her. If she was so called upon, she was to do it as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Though Buffy didn’t understand how she was to do both at once. But nothing had really made sense to her for hours now. She vaguely remembered Willow sitting by her side while the police asked her questions. It seemed so long ago now, but only a few hours could have elapsed.
So she sat. And the officers, for fear of getting emotionally involved, basically ignored her.
Ten hours. It had been ten hours since her Molly had been reported missing.
“Giles,” one of the officers acknowledged from her living room.
“Giles,” Buffy thought. She hadn’t heard that name yet. He must be new. So far she had encountered and Officer Joseph, Platt, Menendes, a hand full of Smiths . . .
“Ms. Summers . . .”
Buffy jumped in her seat at the sound, which was deafening to her ears. She took a moment, taking a deep breath, before swiveling in her seat to look up at the new officer before her. He was younger than most of his FBI contemporaries. He seemed to be of average height, lean, and muscular for what she could tell under his navy windbreaker which had ‘FBI’ emblazoned across the left breast and back. Though his most telling feature was his hair, which was dyed an unprofessional shade of blonde.
“I’m sorry to startle you,” the man apologized. “Ms. Summers . . .”
“Buffy,” she interrupted quietly. “Call me Buffy,” her voice sounded flat and lifeless and she made no attempt to alter it.
Agent Giles nodded and lowered himself into the seat across from her. He regarded her with a gentle firmness that suggested he’d done this many times before. “I’m sure you already went over this with the local officers, but I need you to answer some questions.”
Buffy nodded in consent.
“Do you have a recent picture of your daughter?”
“Oh . . . Yes,” she fumbled for and reached into her purse, sliding a picture across the table. “I took it last week,” her voice cracked, “At her fourth birthday party.”
Spike picked up the picture, studying it. A little girl with blonde pigtails and bangs beamed at him. And hazel eyes. She looked just like her mother.
“She weighs thirty-five pounds and is forty-two inches tall.”
Spike looked up from his paper, surprise at her anticipation of his next questions. Buffy shrugged, “This is the fifth time I’ve gone over this today.”
William “Spike” Giles was content with her answer. Good, she was talking and offering extra information. An agent he had talked to earlier told him he feared she was incapacitated, but Spike could see she was anything but.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself apologizing.
Buffy made no answer.
Spike’s brow furrowed, “Who’s this with her?” he asked, pointing at the other two people in the picture.
Buffy leaned forward to see, “Willow and Xander, friends of mine. They’re practically family.”
“And her father?” he questioned his absence.
Buffy shook her head, “Haven’t seen him since I told him I was pregnant.” Spike continued to study her, “We were never married,” she added.
He opened the file in front of him. “It says in here she was abducted from her room.”
Buffy nodded solemnly, “That’s correct. Her aunt, my sister Dawn, was babysitting her. I first noticed she was missing when I came home and she wasn’t in bed where she was supposed to be. Or anywhere else for that matter,” she added quietly. “That was around a quarter after ten at night.”
He couldn’t help it, but a little bit of Spike’s heart pained for Buffy. She looked like a broken angel. But that was all she was going to get from him because Spike Giles never got personally involved. Ever.
“And where were you?”
His question must have sounded accusatory because the color drained from her face. “I was at . . .” she choked up, “at The Bronze with Xander and Willow. It’s the first time I’ve been out in years.”
“It’s not your fault,” he found himself saying instantly.
“That’s what the police kept telling me,” she looked down at her hands that rested on her lap. “Do you have kids, Agent Giles?”
Spike was momentarily thrown by the random delve into his personal life, but gamely answered, “No, I don’t.”
He had never had an affinity for kids, but it’s not that the thought had never crossed his mind. He was an only child and a loner of one. He had never been around small children and was in no position to settle down anytime soon. His job required more time than he could ever fairly split with a woman.
“Buffy, do you have any idea who might want to hurt you or your child?”
Buffy shook her head, “No one. Molly’s popular with the kids at school and I don’t have any close friends outside Willow, Xander, and Xander’s girlfriend Anya.”
“Was she at the party also?” Spike asked, motioning to the picture.
“Yes.”
“What about family?”
“We don’t have any. It’s me, Dawn, and Molly.”
Spike nodded. “Ms. Summers, I know this is going to sound trite and in no way comforting, but we will find her.”
Spike hoped she didn’t take note of his leaving “alive” out of his promise. He’d been on one too many cases where that promise would not come true. She answered with a nod that ended with her head hung towards the floor.
Though a parent’s worst nightmare had come true for Buffy Summers and she was rightly devastated, Spike knew that she was anything but defeated. She had conviction, although it was currently hidden behind sorrow, and he had the suspicion that Buffy Summers was going to show him a thing or two about what it meant to be strong before this ordeal was over.
TBC
Monday, June 9, 2008
Spuffy: Someday, Much More Chapter Two
Spike paced across the wood floor of his apartment. He felt like all he’d done in the past ten hours was pace, talk on the phone, pace some more, all with no progress. His current conversation was with the brick wall that was Rupert Giles.
“How the bloody hell should I know where he is Dad? Doesn’t Jenny know? I don’t know.” Spike stared across the room at the little girl sitting in the corner in front of the television. The Disney Channel flickered across the screen -- a channel Spike didn’t even know was included in his digital cable package until a couple hours ago when he was searching for something suitable for a three year old. She had fallen asleep on the car ride home and had only recently wakened. She again held her doll to her chest. “She’s just sitting here, dad,” he whispered into the phone, like she was some alien martian come down from space that he didn’t want to alert.
With all he knew about kids, she might as well have been.
A more refined British accent echoed through the phone, “Well until we can find another solution you have some decisions to make. You cannot raise a child in L.A,” he admonished.
Spike pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it like it’d just sprouted a mouth and was singing show tunes at him, “Who said anything about raising her?” Spike asked his father.
“Spike, when you agreed to take the child in, you agreed to take the place of her father, even if it is only for the time being. But I think you would agree that it would be best at this time to think long term.”
“Angel was raising her in this city, why can’t I?” Spike pouted, unwilling to have this kid completely disrupt his life and uproot him altogether.
“I don’t know if you can call what Angel was doing a proper job. He always had his priorities . . . askew.”
“And here I always thought you said I was the irresponsible one,” Spike grumbled, continuing to prowl a safe distance away from the baby.
“When it comes to women, yes, but you have always, shall I say ‘stepped up to the plate’ when called upon. And we are counting on you now, William,” his father pleaded. “Being in England, neither Jenny nor myself can be there to help you right now.”
“Dad, I have a job! I have a life!”
“And now you have a child who needs to begin preschool in the fall,” Giles stated firmly.
“I had to take her! They would have put her in some foster home if I hadn’t!”
“And right there you have shown more concern for this child’s well-being than her own father -- proving you a suitable guardian. You write novels, William, you can do that anywhere.”
His father’s comment on his job just made him anger more, “But my editor is in L.A.!”
“If I have learned nothing from your stepmother in the years we’ve been married, it is the power of the computer. E-mail, Will, use it.”
“Dad, I think we’re missing the point, that being what do I know about raising a kid?”
“I’m sure if you put your mind to it you will find yourself more than capable.”
“She wasn’t left with an instruction manual, dad, all Angel left her with was a bag of clothes and a couple dolls.” In his frustration, Spike’s voice raised and he swung at the papers stacked on his table -- the outlines of his newest novel. The baby raised her head in alarm. Spike quickly shot her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes in order to not upset her. The child didn’t seem any more convinced than he was.
“I’m afraid to touch her -- like I’m going to break her,” Spike said miserably.
“I assure you that you won’t.” Giles seem to reconsider, “On second thought, perhaps you should hire a nanny.”
“I can handle it,” Spike growled, never in his life having accepted help from outsiders before. And if his dad knew how to rile him up, it was in suggesting that Spike had an inability to do something himself. “I have dealt with fussy publishers and fought with editors. I think I can handle a three year old.”
“Well,” Giles stated, satisfied, “That was a quick about-face. Now,” he began, not planning on leaving his son with no hints whatsoever, “the last time I talked to Angel, Lisa was more or less trained to use the loo but was still wearing training pants in case of accidents. Have you checked her diaper?”
“Her what!?” Spike sputtered, “You can’t expect me to . . . I’ve never . . . .” Spike sighed in defeat, “okay I’m on it.”
“Now, I’ve talked to a friend of mine. A Joyce Summers. She’s helped Jenny and I acquire some rather rare art. She lives only a few hours away . . .” Spike heard a rustling of papers on the England end, “place called Sunnydale,” Giles read off a scrap of paper. “Well,” his father stated brightly, “that sounds like a lovely place does it not?”
Spike refrained from telling his father just what he really thought of a place called, of all things, Sunnydale.
“She’s raised two daughters there quite successfully and I’m sure would be more than eager to help you. There are some homes available nearby, all within walking distance of the local elementary school.”
“Dad, for the last time -- I am not moving!”
TWO WEEKS LATER . . .
Spike stood outside the modest two floor, two bedroom, two bathroom home, squinting his eyes against the sun.
A home that was now his.
And Lisa’s, temporarily.
The baby in question, who had been content to wonder around the home’s perimeters, chasing butterflies that escaped from what was left of the previous owner’s garden, came to rest beside him.
Scooping up his niece, Spike moved his free hand to her forehead, shielding her delicate eyes from the morning rays.
The movers had hauled in the last of the boxes and had left Spike and Lisa in the yard to face the intimidating house alone.
Spike looked down at the baby in his arms before looking back up at the house looming over them.
Spike sighed, “Home sweet home.”
TBC
“How the bloody hell should I know where he is Dad? Doesn’t Jenny know? I don’t know.” Spike stared across the room at the little girl sitting in the corner in front of the television. The Disney Channel flickered across the screen -- a channel Spike didn’t even know was included in his digital cable package until a couple hours ago when he was searching for something suitable for a three year old. She had fallen asleep on the car ride home and had only recently wakened. She again held her doll to her chest. “She’s just sitting here, dad,” he whispered into the phone, like she was some alien martian come down from space that he didn’t want to alert.
With all he knew about kids, she might as well have been.
A more refined British accent echoed through the phone, “Well until we can find another solution you have some decisions to make. You cannot raise a child in L.A,” he admonished.
Spike pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it like it’d just sprouted a mouth and was singing show tunes at him, “Who said anything about raising her?” Spike asked his father.
“Spike, when you agreed to take the child in, you agreed to take the place of her father, even if it is only for the time being. But I think you would agree that it would be best at this time to think long term.”
“Angel was raising her in this city, why can’t I?” Spike pouted, unwilling to have this kid completely disrupt his life and uproot him altogether.
“I don’t know if you can call what Angel was doing a proper job. He always had his priorities . . . askew.”
“And here I always thought you said I was the irresponsible one,” Spike grumbled, continuing to prowl a safe distance away from the baby.
“When it comes to women, yes, but you have always, shall I say ‘stepped up to the plate’ when called upon. And we are counting on you now, William,” his father pleaded. “Being in England, neither Jenny nor myself can be there to help you right now.”
“Dad, I have a job! I have a life!”
“And now you have a child who needs to begin preschool in the fall,” Giles stated firmly.
“I had to take her! They would have put her in some foster home if I hadn’t!”
“And right there you have shown more concern for this child’s well-being than her own father -- proving you a suitable guardian. You write novels, William, you can do that anywhere.”
His father’s comment on his job just made him anger more, “But my editor is in L.A.!”
“If I have learned nothing from your stepmother in the years we’ve been married, it is the power of the computer. E-mail, Will, use it.”
“Dad, I think we’re missing the point, that being what do I know about raising a kid?”
“I’m sure if you put your mind to it you will find yourself more than capable.”
“She wasn’t left with an instruction manual, dad, all Angel left her with was a bag of clothes and a couple dolls.” In his frustration, Spike’s voice raised and he swung at the papers stacked on his table -- the outlines of his newest novel. The baby raised her head in alarm. Spike quickly shot her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes in order to not upset her. The child didn’t seem any more convinced than he was.
“I’m afraid to touch her -- like I’m going to break her,” Spike said miserably.
“I assure you that you won’t.” Giles seem to reconsider, “On second thought, perhaps you should hire a nanny.”
“I can handle it,” Spike growled, never in his life having accepted help from outsiders before. And if his dad knew how to rile him up, it was in suggesting that Spike had an inability to do something himself. “I have dealt with fussy publishers and fought with editors. I think I can handle a three year old.”
“Well,” Giles stated, satisfied, “That was a quick about-face. Now,” he began, not planning on leaving his son with no hints whatsoever, “the last time I talked to Angel, Lisa was more or less trained to use the loo but was still wearing training pants in case of accidents. Have you checked her diaper?”
“Her what!?” Spike sputtered, “You can’t expect me to . . . I’ve never . . . .” Spike sighed in defeat, “okay I’m on it.”
“Now, I’ve talked to a friend of mine. A Joyce Summers. She’s helped Jenny and I acquire some rather rare art. She lives only a few hours away . . .” Spike heard a rustling of papers on the England end, “place called Sunnydale,” Giles read off a scrap of paper. “Well,” his father stated brightly, “that sounds like a lovely place does it not?”
Spike refrained from telling his father just what he really thought of a place called, of all things, Sunnydale.
“She’s raised two daughters there quite successfully and I’m sure would be more than eager to help you. There are some homes available nearby, all within walking distance of the local elementary school.”
“Dad, for the last time -- I am not moving!”
TWO WEEKS LATER . . .
Spike stood outside the modest two floor, two bedroom, two bathroom home, squinting his eyes against the sun.
A home that was now his.
And Lisa’s, temporarily.
The baby in question, who had been content to wonder around the home’s perimeters, chasing butterflies that escaped from what was left of the previous owner’s garden, came to rest beside him.
Scooping up his niece, Spike moved his free hand to her forehead, shielding her delicate eyes from the morning rays.
The movers had hauled in the last of the boxes and had left Spike and Lisa in the yard to face the intimidating house alone.
Spike looked down at the baby in his arms before looking back up at the house looming over them.
Spike sighed, “Home sweet home.”
TBC
Spuffy: Someday, Much More Chapter One
TITLE: Someday, Much More
RATING: PG-13 (may be a hard R in places, I'll warn when it is)
SUMMARY: Spike Giles’s brother, Angel, skips town, leaving him with a little girl and a big responsibility. Forced to give up his big-city L.A. life, he meets a small-town girl who could be his saving grace.
A/N: Even though this story is based on Kevin Hill and the movie Big Daddy, I’ve never seen the show and I’ve only watched the movie once, so I’m thinking this is going to be extremely loosely based. I got the idea from reading a description of the plot of the UPN show Kevin Hill, thought I’ve never seen the show. Therefore any similarities are extremely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1 --
“Bloody hell, ow!” Spike Giles sidestepped a pile of laundry lying randomly on the floor, narrowly missing breaking his neck, as he jumped out of the shower, towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist and loose blonde curls dripping as he dove for the phone as it rang for the fourth time.
“Hello,” he answered, taking a smaller towel and rubbing it against his head.
“William Giles?” the matronly woman on the other end gave him a moment to deny it. When he didn’t, she continued. “This is Marianne Stewart, from Child Services.”
“Yeah?” he answered perplexed, trying to wrap his head around why in the world Child Services would be calling him. He mentally Rolodexed the women he’d slept with over the years and any chance one of his many couplings could have resulted in pregnancy. He couldn’t come up with a single time he hadn’t taken the utmost precaution.
“You are the brother of Liam O’Connor am I correct?” the woman asked, the name thankfully jerking him out of his previous line of thinking.
“Stepbrother,” Spike answered automatically. “My father married his mother, but yeah, we’re related,” he finished, separating himself from the other boy who was unwillingly joined within the same family when Rupert Giles married Jenny Calendar twenty years ago. By making this distinction, Spike deflected any blame that could be thrown at him for his stepbrother’s actions – a defense mechanism he picked up in boyhood but habitually kept, even though it might have made more sense had Spike not been the one getting in trouble all the time, hence the apt nicknames.
“It appears Mr. O’Connor has left the immediate area indefinitely,” commented the woman on the phone.
“Appears? Where’d he go?” Spike’s brow furrowed, not really concerned with Angel’s whereabouts, but taken aback that he hadn’t heard about it through his father. Though the move didn’t exactly surprise him; a martyr when it came to his work, his older stepbrother abruptly moving for the sake of some legal case he was overseeing would hardly shock anyone.
But what this had to do with Child Services was beyond him. If Angel and his on again and off again girlfriend, Darla, were having disputes over their kid again, why were they calling him? Why should they drag him into their ongoing drama? If he remembered correctly, Angel had requested Spike NOT be called as a character witness in their last custody battle.
“I’m afraid no one knows Mr. O’Connor’s whereabouts.” The woman paused. “But we do have the issue of the child involved, a Lisa O’Connor.” She hesitated before the name, pronouncing it clinically, like she was checking the name off a paper in front of her, lest she confuse it with the hundreds of other children she dealt with on a daily basis.
“My niece,” Spike answered, getting the feeling like this was a one-sided conversation and he was the uninformed, being blindly led by the woman’s questions.
“You would not by any chance know where the birth mother is?”
“Darla?” Spike shook his head, “No. In the past two years I’ve only seen Angel a handful of times. I’ve seen the mother and the kid less than that.”
“Angel?” the woman questioned.
“A nickname,” he answered. “But what does this have to do with me?” He ran his fingers through his drenched hair, checking the clock on his apartment’s living room wall. He was going to be late for his date with that brunette he met at Lorne’s last week.
“Well, Mr. Giles, as the parents of the child were not married and Mr. O’Connor had full custody this changes some things. The mother could not be contacted and you are named next of kin for Liam O’Connor. The child is now in your custody.”
“What?” he sputtered. His mind went to the baby that he’d seen a couple of years ago at his father and stepmother’s house in England. He had a hard time picturing her face it was so long ago. All he remembered is that the kid had puked on him, not leaving him with a favorable impression of his brother’s brat. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Angel considering him worthy enough to take care of his kid should something happen by naming him next of kin.
Now apparently something had happened.
“Wait, isn’t Lisa with him?” Spike asked, wanting clarification. Granted, from what Spike had heard from his father, Angel may not win any parent of the year awards, but certainly if he up and moved he would have taken his three year old daughter with him.
“No. Lisa was left at our facility late last night.” The woman continued to talk, but Spike heard none of it. This couldn’t be real. Those next of kin things are never taken seriously are they? You only use ’em when you die and you don’t want your money squandered away by an alcoholic uncle. The lady’s voice broke into his thoughts, “You have some decisions to make Mr. Giles. Shall we keep her here with us or . . .”
“No!” he shouted into the phone, shaking his head. “No,” he repeated more calmly, “I’ll . . . I’ll be right there.”
Two hours later, after getting lost a multitude of times, fiddling with his navigation system, finding the Child Services building, and filling out mountains upon mountains of paperwork, Spike felt lucky he had remembered to put on pants. Now he stood face to . . . knee with his niece.
Ms. Stewart was more than eager to see them off, practically throwing them out of her office as her next appointment came rushing in.
The little girl looked up at him expectantly. She hadn’t said a word through the entire ordeal. Her dark brown hair hung loosely about her, almost reaching her waist, the sides were pulled back in a miniature clip with a butterfly on it, which matched her purple jumper with a corresponding insect. She clutched a Raggedy Ann doll to her chest.
Spike tilted his head to his niece standing three feet from the ground:
“Well, kid, now what?”
TBC
RATING: PG-13 (may be a hard R in places, I'll warn when it is)
SUMMARY: Spike Giles’s brother, Angel, skips town, leaving him with a little girl and a big responsibility. Forced to give up his big-city L.A. life, he meets a small-town girl who could be his saving grace.
A/N: Even though this story is based on Kevin Hill and the movie Big Daddy, I’ve never seen the show and I’ve only watched the movie once, so I’m thinking this is going to be extremely loosely based. I got the idea from reading a description of the plot of the UPN show Kevin Hill, thought I’ve never seen the show. Therefore any similarities are extremely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1 --
“Bloody hell, ow!” Spike Giles sidestepped a pile of laundry lying randomly on the floor, narrowly missing breaking his neck, as he jumped out of the shower, towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist and loose blonde curls dripping as he dove for the phone as it rang for the fourth time.
“Hello,” he answered, taking a smaller towel and rubbing it against his head.
“William Giles?” the matronly woman on the other end gave him a moment to deny it. When he didn’t, she continued. “This is Marianne Stewart, from Child Services.”
“Yeah?” he answered perplexed, trying to wrap his head around why in the world Child Services would be calling him. He mentally Rolodexed the women he’d slept with over the years and any chance one of his many couplings could have resulted in pregnancy. He couldn’t come up with a single time he hadn’t taken the utmost precaution.
“You are the brother of Liam O’Connor am I correct?” the woman asked, the name thankfully jerking him out of his previous line of thinking.
“Stepbrother,” Spike answered automatically. “My father married his mother, but yeah, we’re related,” he finished, separating himself from the other boy who was unwillingly joined within the same family when Rupert Giles married Jenny Calendar twenty years ago. By making this distinction, Spike deflected any blame that could be thrown at him for his stepbrother’s actions – a defense mechanism he picked up in boyhood but habitually kept, even though it might have made more sense had Spike not been the one getting in trouble all the time, hence the apt nicknames.
“It appears Mr. O’Connor has left the immediate area indefinitely,” commented the woman on the phone.
“Appears? Where’d he go?” Spike’s brow furrowed, not really concerned with Angel’s whereabouts, but taken aback that he hadn’t heard about it through his father. Though the move didn’t exactly surprise him; a martyr when it came to his work, his older stepbrother abruptly moving for the sake of some legal case he was overseeing would hardly shock anyone.
But what this had to do with Child Services was beyond him. If Angel and his on again and off again girlfriend, Darla, were having disputes over their kid again, why were they calling him? Why should they drag him into their ongoing drama? If he remembered correctly, Angel had requested Spike NOT be called as a character witness in their last custody battle.
“I’m afraid no one knows Mr. O’Connor’s whereabouts.” The woman paused. “But we do have the issue of the child involved, a Lisa O’Connor.” She hesitated before the name, pronouncing it clinically, like she was checking the name off a paper in front of her, lest she confuse it with the hundreds of other children she dealt with on a daily basis.
“My niece,” Spike answered, getting the feeling like this was a one-sided conversation and he was the uninformed, being blindly led by the woman’s questions.
“You would not by any chance know where the birth mother is?”
“Darla?” Spike shook his head, “No. In the past two years I’ve only seen Angel a handful of times. I’ve seen the mother and the kid less than that.”
“Angel?” the woman questioned.
“A nickname,” he answered. “But what does this have to do with me?” He ran his fingers through his drenched hair, checking the clock on his apartment’s living room wall. He was going to be late for his date with that brunette he met at Lorne’s last week.
“Well, Mr. Giles, as the parents of the child were not married and Mr. O’Connor had full custody this changes some things. The mother could not be contacted and you are named next of kin for Liam O’Connor. The child is now in your custody.”
“What?” he sputtered. His mind went to the baby that he’d seen a couple of years ago at his father and stepmother’s house in England. He had a hard time picturing her face it was so long ago. All he remembered is that the kid had puked on him, not leaving him with a favorable impression of his brother’s brat. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Angel considering him worthy enough to take care of his kid should something happen by naming him next of kin.
Now apparently something had happened.
“Wait, isn’t Lisa with him?” Spike asked, wanting clarification. Granted, from what Spike had heard from his father, Angel may not win any parent of the year awards, but certainly if he up and moved he would have taken his three year old daughter with him.
“No. Lisa was left at our facility late last night.” The woman continued to talk, but Spike heard none of it. This couldn’t be real. Those next of kin things are never taken seriously are they? You only use ’em when you die and you don’t want your money squandered away by an alcoholic uncle. The lady’s voice broke into his thoughts, “You have some decisions to make Mr. Giles. Shall we keep her here with us or . . .”
“No!” he shouted into the phone, shaking his head. “No,” he repeated more calmly, “I’ll . . . I’ll be right there.”
Two hours later, after getting lost a multitude of times, fiddling with his navigation system, finding the Child Services building, and filling out mountains upon mountains of paperwork, Spike felt lucky he had remembered to put on pants. Now he stood face to . . . knee with his niece.
Ms. Stewart was more than eager to see them off, practically throwing them out of her office as her next appointment came rushing in.
The little girl looked up at him expectantly. She hadn’t said a word through the entire ordeal. Her dark brown hair hung loosely about her, almost reaching her waist, the sides were pulled back in a miniature clip with a butterfly on it, which matched her purple jumper with a corresponding insect. She clutched a Raggedy Ann doll to her chest.
Spike tilted his head to his niece standing three feet from the ground:
“Well, kid, now what?”
TBC
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