His Slayer
folder
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
3,767
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
3,767
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
His Slayer: Prologue
Category: Action/Adventure, Drama, AU
Warnings: het, violence, character death
Characters: Buffy, Faith, Spike, Xander
Pairing: B/S, F/X, S/Dawn (friends)
Author Notes: Inspired by Saber Shadowkitten's most excellent fic.
Spoilers: Everything through Season 6.
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy Productions, United Paramount Network, and Fox Television. This work is not for profit, and no ownership of aforementioned copyrighted material implied, nor any infringement intended.
* * *
PROLOGUE
The slow, rolling motion of the ship was scarcely noticeable. That was a good thing. Not that he was some nancy-boy likely to get sea sick at the first little wave, but storms could cause ships as large as the one he roamed to become rather unpleasant. Spike laughed to himself. As if anything could be nearly as unpleasant as the Trials. He was still a little miffed at the demon's interpretation of his request. He had stalked into that country, that village, that cave with the intention of getting rid of that blasted chip. Apparently, the demon-whore-spawned piece of filth in the cave had thought that wasn't quite what the Slayer deserved. The fact that deep down at the bottom of his newly-reacquired soul Spike agreed was overlooked at the moment.
The large, slow freighter bound for New York was not Spike's first choice in trans-atlantic travel. The voyage brought back memories of Dru, and their escape from Prague. That had resulted in traveling over half of eastern Europe before deciding to head to America by way of a similar cargo ship. Still, for those that had to worry about a terminal case of sunburn--soul or no soul--a boat ride was a way for those who had to stay out of the sun, didn't care about a few days here or there, and needed to work their way home. *Work!* Spike thought with a sneer. Not that being designated rat-catcher was a terrible job. Spike was able to work all night if he chose, and the Russian crew didn't notice or care that the rats he tossed in the incinerator were de-juiced.
Spike headed back to his cramped room in the ship's superstructure. It had barely enough room for him to throw down a dirty mattress the first mate had assigned him, but it had no other occupants, and no portholes. The other thing the room had was an empty crate that served as a writing desk.
Aside from catching his quota of rats and standing firewatch, Spike had nothing to do but avoid the sun. He'd managed to bum some paper off one of the crewmen, and he spent a paf eaf each day scribbling. He wrote bits of memoirs, his homage to those whom he'd killed over the course of his career as a demon. Not that he was going to mope around for decades like the pouf, agonizing over the dead. He did, however, feel more relaxed after he'd finished putting some bit of remembrance to paper. There were also letters to Buffy, of course. Nothing he would ever send, but things that helped him organize his thoughts and feelings about what had happened between them before he left.
One day as he wrote he came to the realization that the last time he had a soul he'd been trying too hard to impress Cecily, or some other silly bint of the week, when he wrote poetry. He was actually inspired to try his hand again on a couple of pieces. *Night draws near on velvet wings... Hmm. Maybe a soul’s good for something after all.* He hadn't been inspired to try anything better that Spam haiku since he was turned.
Now Spike lay on his mattress listening to the sounds of daily life on the ship. Something seemed off today. Then he heard a sizable portion of the crew headed down the hall in the direction of his room. *What? A bloke can't suck on a few rats without being found out and staked?* He could now hear several conversing excitedly in Russian. Spike stood in the small room and prepared to defend himself as soon as the door burst in.
But the crewmen continued past his room, down the hall that led towards the main deck. As their footsteps and conversation died away, Spike became curious. *What had all the bloody reformed communists so bleedin' excited?* He waited a minute, then noiselessly opened his door and stalked down the hall to find a porthole that was not in direct sunlight. As he entered one of the rooms near the door to the main deck, Spike heard noise in the background. It took a moment for him to identify it as a helicopter.
Spike peered out a porthole to the scene of most of the ship's compliment standing on deck. Some of them were busy clearing a section of the deck of various buckets and empty crates. The rest were watching a large camouflaged helicopter with Cyrillic markings descend toward the ship. All the crewmen in sight carried rifles or shotguns. *Bollocks! What the blazes have you got yourself into, mate?*
* * *
Warnings: het, violence, character death
Characters: Buffy, Faith, Spike, Xander
Pairing: B/S, F/X, S/Dawn (friends)
Author Notes: Inspired by Saber Shadowkitten's most excellent fic.
Spoilers: Everything through Season 6.
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy Productions, United Paramount Network, and Fox Television. This work is not for profit, and no ownership of aforementioned copyrighted material implied, nor any infringement intended.
* * *
PROLOGUE
The slow, rolling motion of the ship was scarcely noticeable. That was a good thing. Not that he was some nancy-boy likely to get sea sick at the first little wave, but storms could cause ships as large as the one he roamed to become rather unpleasant. Spike laughed to himself. As if anything could be nearly as unpleasant as the Trials. He was still a little miffed at the demon's interpretation of his request. He had stalked into that country, that village, that cave with the intention of getting rid of that blasted chip. Apparently, the demon-whore-spawned piece of filth in the cave had thought that wasn't quite what the Slayer deserved. The fact that deep down at the bottom of his newly-reacquired soul Spike agreed was overlooked at the moment.
The large, slow freighter bound for New York was not Spike's first choice in trans-atlantic travel. The voyage brought back memories of Dru, and their escape from Prague. That had resulted in traveling over half of eastern Europe before deciding to head to America by way of a similar cargo ship. Still, for those that had to worry about a terminal case of sunburn--soul or no soul--a boat ride was a way for those who had to stay out of the sun, didn't care about a few days here or there, and needed to work their way home. *Work!* Spike thought with a sneer. Not that being designated rat-catcher was a terrible job. Spike was able to work all night if he chose, and the Russian crew didn't notice or care that the rats he tossed in the incinerator were de-juiced.
Spike headed back to his cramped room in the ship's superstructure. It had barely enough room for him to throw down a dirty mattress the first mate had assigned him, but it had no other occupants, and no portholes. The other thing the room had was an empty crate that served as a writing desk.
Aside from catching his quota of rats and standing firewatch, Spike had nothing to do but avoid the sun. He'd managed to bum some paper off one of the crewmen, and he spent a paf eaf each day scribbling. He wrote bits of memoirs, his homage to those whom he'd killed over the course of his career as a demon. Not that he was going to mope around for decades like the pouf, agonizing over the dead. He did, however, feel more relaxed after he'd finished putting some bit of remembrance to paper. There were also letters to Buffy, of course. Nothing he would ever send, but things that helped him organize his thoughts and feelings about what had happened between them before he left.
One day as he wrote he came to the realization that the last time he had a soul he'd been trying too hard to impress Cecily, or some other silly bint of the week, when he wrote poetry. He was actually inspired to try his hand again on a couple of pieces. *Night draws near on velvet wings... Hmm. Maybe a soul’s good for something after all.* He hadn't been inspired to try anything better that Spam haiku since he was turned.
Now Spike lay on his mattress listening to the sounds of daily life on the ship. Something seemed off today. Then he heard a sizable portion of the crew headed down the hall in the direction of his room. *What? A bloke can't suck on a few rats without being found out and staked?* He could now hear several conversing excitedly in Russian. Spike stood in the small room and prepared to defend himself as soon as the door burst in.
But the crewmen continued past his room, down the hall that led towards the main deck. As their footsteps and conversation died away, Spike became curious. *What had all the bloody reformed communists so bleedin' excited?* He waited a minute, then noiselessly opened his door and stalked down the hall to find a porthole that was not in direct sunlight. As he entered one of the rooms near the door to the main deck, Spike heard noise in the background. It took a moment for him to identify it as a helicopter.
Spike peered out a porthole to the scene of most of the ship's compliment standing on deck. Some of them were busy clearing a section of the deck of various buckets and empty crates. The rest were watching a large camouflaged helicopter with Cyrillic markings descend toward the ship. All the crewmen in sight carried rifles or shotguns. *Bollocks! What the blazes have you got yourself into, mate?*
* * *