@темы: diary

@темы: Вопрос, Пч, Я

Блин*это момент для смайлика*, мне нравится

как Сара_моя_любофф_Геллар с Джеком Блеком смотрится. иии, они мне так нравятся рядом

@темы: _Sarah_Michelle_Gellar, Мороз крепчал(с.), Я

@темы: diary, Я

31.12.2010 в 20:16

Пишет  Darkolgetta:

Подарочки ...
Письмо Деду Морозу Снегурочке от Zlataslawa
Хочу "Аларик с Дженной, что-нибудь теплое и семейное) "
Получай подарочек под елку! Долго не получался артик, но с пяток кажется попытки все встало на свои места!

URL записи

@темы: Vampire Diaries, Избранное, Art

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 42, Part 1: The Answer


awesome banner by lisanice
читать дальше

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

---

What did she crave more than anything in this life?

The answer dawned on her the moment it threatened to slip away.

Suddenly, she felt it in his cooling skin; heard it in his shallow breath, saw it in his icy, sparkless gaze. In that suspended instant, Buffy Summers knew exactly what she craved.

It wasn't him. Not entirely. Yes, she loved him, and she'd loved him for months, long before it even made sense. But what she truly wanted, needed, had to have? Was what they could become together. She hadn't been aware of it at the time, but her every transgression with Spike was her way of coaxing that barren seedling to a vibrant, brilliant bloom.

"Come on," she urged, patting his face with a blood-soaked palm. "Stay with me. I love you!" Why wasn't his chest moving? Why was he still bleeding? Wasn't love supposed to save the fucking day? "Spike! Please! I know the answer!"

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Lindsey was muttering to himself, sitting on the floor, shell shocked. "I didn't mean to..."

What did he think would happen, bringing a gun and his batshit sister in here?

"Move," someone said behind her. Garrett. "Keep his arms down."

Buffy panicked. "Don't move him, he -- he could get hurt."

"I know what I'm doing," Garrett said, pressing hard on his chest and checking his pulse. He'd been a medic in some war, Buffy remembered Spike mentioning that now. "What happened?"

"I killed her," Lindsey said, voice hollow and haunted.

"She tried to shoot Lindsey," Buffy explained, trying desperately to keep it together. "Spike got in the way. His hand is getting cold!"

"It's okay, he's in shock. He's not dead. Hey, look at me, man," he told Spike. "We're gonna fix you up. Good as new."

Spike blinked. That was a good sign, right? She kissed his hand, squeezed it. Wiped her teardrops from his forearm.

"Put his arm down, Buffy," Garrett reminded her firmly, and she backed away, let him do what he needed to.

Her ears seemed to fill with gauze then, muffling all the sound in the room. She watched the scene unfold as if it were a movie: Garrett kept talking to Spike, kept him awake, controlled the bleeding. The medevac crew arrived, put Spike in a stretcher. All the while, she caught flashes of Lilah's lifeless stare, her crumpled doll limbs. The splatter of red on the wall.

As they wheeled him out, she tried to follow but Garrett stopped her, said there wasn't enough room on the helicopter.

"But--" she felt her throat constrict, "he... he doesn't know the answer."

"He knows, Buffy," Garrett said, leaving Spike's blood on her shoulder. "We all know."

At that, he glanced at Lindsey, who looked up at them, lost.

"Cops are coming," Garrett told her. "You help him out with that. You need anything, you call Nigel. You hear?"

Numbly, she nodded.

Left alone with a dead body and her broken husband, she leaned against the wall, and hugged herself.

He sniffled.

She peered at him. "Are you--"

"Don't talk to me," Lindsey said, so she didn't say another word.

* * *

He surrendered to the police, told them more than he should have. They were questioned for hours. When they got to the station, Spike's lawyer met them. Lindsey refused the help at first, but the power of persuasion, and his exhaustion, won out.

Nigel came with bail money and news that Spike was still in surgery, that he probably would be for several more hours.

Buffy burst into tears, and Nigel held her. He assured her that Spike had the best care possible, had his own blood stored for transfusions--

"He's alive," she said, shaking her head. "I was so afraid..." She wiped her wet face. "I want to be there when he wakes up."

"I'll see to it that you are," Nigel said, but then she caught a flicker of doubt in his eyes; one that told her he wasn't altogether convinced he would wake up.

Buffy had lost enough people in her life to take that flicker seriously. As much as she wanted to hope for the best, she had to brace herself for the worst.

She called Fred, asked if she and Charles could take the dog for a few days. She nearly broke down again when Fred asked if everything was okay.

Nothing was okay. It seemed like nothing would ever be okay again.

* * *

Lindsey wasn't freed until after dark. He didn't look at her, just pushed past her to get outside, where they were mobbed by reporters. Who shot your father? What happened in that hotel room? Is this your wife? Are you Buffy Summers? Did you have an affair with Spike Pratt?

Disoriented by the chaos and bright lights, they found each other's fingers and, hands joined, made their way to the car Nigel had arranged to wait for them.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Where else could they go but home? As much as she wanted to be at the hospital, Nigel made her promise to wait until Spike had a room that they could sneak her into, and Lindsey... he had no one right now. Buffy gave the driver their address.

When they opened the door to the loft, the reality that it wasn't her home anymore became painfully clear. Without Huey, it was cold and unwelcoming. There was nothing left for her. Nothing but the painting.

"I'm gonna shower, if that's okay with you." She flipped on the hallway light, shrugged off her coat.

"You really met my mom?"

She turned to Lindsey. He looked even more adrift than she felt. "Yeah."

"Is she..." He put his hands in his pockets. "What's wrong with her?"

With a sigh, Buffy gauged the Scotch bottle he'd left on the hallway table. Just enough for two.

He lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Have a seat," she told him. She went to the kitchen to pour them each a glass, sat down beside him, and told him everything she knew.

* * *

Some time later, she found herself staring at Lindsey, who had fallen asleep on the couch. He looked like a kid.

She took off his shoes, covered him in a blanket, tried to smooth his furrowed brow, and said, "I have to go see your father now."

On her phone, the message read:

Condition stable. G is waiting in your parking garage.

* * *

They were flamenco dancing on a giant chessboard, to a strange, twisted version of Let's Face The Music And Dance.

He pulled her close, and they began to tango. "Gonna tell me the answer?"

She smiled. "I thought you already knew."

"Well, yeah. It's what I been trying to show you all along." They spun. "I wanna hear it from you."

He dipped her. She laughed.

"Well?"

"I forget the question."

Spike pressed his cheek to hers. "What do you crave--"

"Boss," Garrett said. "You're awake."

Buffy opened her eyes. The hospital room. Garrett, Nigel, knitting needles in hand... staring at the bed.

Spike was awake?

Spike was awake!

No excitement, the doctor had stressed, giving her an especially pointed look.

Forcing her demeanor to a quiet calm, Buffy pursed her lips and said, "Hey."







Read on... >>


A/N: The rest of the above scene plays out in the previous chapter, in case you forgot.






A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 40: His


awesome banner by kitty3101 читать дальше

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

---

Lindsey Pratt wasn't stupid.

He knew exactly who his wife was fucking.

But Christ, did he feel stupid for not believing it 'til now.

Lilah had tried to convince him, hell, even his shrink had suggested it, but he couldn't even imagine. Buffy was a no-nonsense kind of girl; that was why he liked her so much in the first place. No dark side, no lies, no skeletons in the closet, it was 'what you see is what you get' with Buffy Summers.

Or so he'd believed.

He'd also believed that Buffy was too smart, too savvy, too practical; not reckless or impulsive enough to fall prey to temptation ...or to be a temptation. To him.

Yeah, Lindsey knew his father liked pretty blondes and respected people who weren't impressed with him, but that didn't mean he'd be interested enough -- or twisted enough -- to try to get Buffy into bed.

He had no idea why he'd given his mother's murderer the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe he had wished that his father was a good man, deep down. That he was sorry for the terrible things he'd done. That maybe it was an accident, maybe he did have a heart after all. But this just proved he didn't.

His mother... God rest her soul, but she was a mess toward the end. A mess that his father made and tidied up without shedding a single goddamn tear.

Spike Pratt was a monster, plain and simple. And now this monster had gone and stolen his wife.

The hell if Lindsey was gonna let Buffy become another one of his messes.

Sitting on the bedroom floor by the upended dresser and a half-empty bottle of Scotch, hands trembling as he held the golden key to a Pratt Hotel room, he made a phone call.

"Lilah, it's me."

"It's 4am."

"You were right. You were right about everything."

After a silent moment, she sighed. "Come over."

* * *

"Penthouse suite," Lilah said, turning the card key over. "It's got to be."

He stopped pacing her kitchen floor. "What makes you so sure?"

She smirked as she passed him the card. "It's cute, how you know so little about the evil that men do."

He hated how she patronized. "Are you gonna give it to me, or not?"

"I'll give it to you. On one condition." She raised a brow. "I get to come."

"Are you fucking crazy?" Fanning out a hand, he accidentally hit a row of pill bottles on her countertop, and tried to right them.

She threw one bottle into the trash can, and shrugged. "I am now."

"These aren't yours," he accused, reading one label that said TAKE 3 EVERY FOUR HOURS WITH MILK. "Who's 'E. Davies'?"

"Look, Pratt," Lilah said, swiping it out of his hand and tossing it in the trash. "Big Daddy's got a bodyguard, right? Who's gonna distract him?"

He frowned. "I didn't really think that far."

She fixed his shirt collar. "That's why you need me."

* * *

"He's sitting by the lobby elevator, napping," Lilah said, talking fast as she got back into her car. "Which means they're definitely here, so all we have to do is go up through the parking garage. There's gotta be penthouse access from there. I'm gonna park on the street, we'll walk it--"

"Lilah, you don't want to be a part of this, believe me. Just let me out--"

"I am a part of this!" He saw something in her eyes then, a flicker of mania he'd never seen before. She composed herself, and said calmly, "Believe me, I just want to help."

* * *

Lilah wasn't wrong. The golden key granted access to floor PH.

The evil that men do. He shook his head in disdain. I know so little.

Because Lindsey... Lindsey was a good man. Every day he triumphed over monster and machine. He wanted no trace of his father's evil inside of him. He didn't even want his money. He was happily giving his trust fund away to charity, until he had to use some of it to build a life with Buffy.

And look where that got him.

As the elevator car ascended to its peak, so did his delirious, sleep-deprived rage. Adding insult to injury, Lilah was rattling off instructions, as if he were an incompetent child. Do this, do that, don't back down, let him know you mean it, blah blah blah--

"Shut up," Lindsey spat, and she did.

The doors opened quietly to a huge, ritzy living area with wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunrise was reflected on the buildings outside. A man's leather jacket was draped over a chair.

As he entered the suite, Lilah showed him that she was holding her shoes in her hands.

He stepped out of his sneakers, and mouthed at her, "Stay back."

She made a face, but complied.

Lindsey crept toward an open door. A king-sized bed came into view, and even though he knew, even though he fully expected it, seeing it in living color made his eyes sting and his stomach turn.

His wife and his father, entwined.

They were fast asleep, nestled under the covers, facing one another. Buffy was cradling that monster's head to her neck.

Tenderly.

Heart pounding, palms sweating, Lindsey cocked Lilah's gun and said, "Wake up."







Read on... >>




A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction

Crave, by NautiBitz
Chapter 38: No Future


awesome banner by Sotia aka ssddgr читать дальше

---

[ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]

A/N: If this story was faithful to canon, it would take about an hour to get to Sunnydale from LA via the provided means of transportation (= 2 hours by car). However, this is super-AU, and pffft, these people don't have two hours to spare. So, 40 minutes round trip it is! Thank you in advance for not getting all Comic Book Guy about it.

A/N #2: Thanks to Dampers for the once-over!

---

"Who are you?"

Spike didn't miss a beat. "Who do you want me to be?"

Sitting in her gym's locker room, mesmerized by the magazine article, she said, "Zeitgeist."

"Oh. You heard about that?"

"I do know how to read."

"God, I hate the press," he groused. "What are you doing flipping through finance rags anyway? Shouldn't you be reading Utne, or Nonprofit Weekly or somesuch?"

"Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I..." He exhaled noisily. "I wanted to surprise you."

He'd stupefied her. "Mission thoroughly accomplished."

"Not quite," he said, and let that hang in the air for a second. "Can I show you something?"

* * *

As the helicopter landed on the Pratt building, Buffy considered worst-case scenarios, most of which entailed a fatal crash, and Lindsey finding out that way. Why did she say yes to this?

The hatch door opened, and she thought, That's why.

The mere sight of Spike made her whole body hum. It didn't matter what he wore anymore -- a black suit this time, with a lilac shirt and a deep plum tie that complemented his hair, and yes, he did look great in purple, but that wasn't the point -- it was him. His presence. And the way he smiled at her...

Anyway. "I have to be back by one-thirty!" she shouted over the propeller's racket as he helped her aboard. "No whisking me away to faraway lands, got it?"

"Sorry," Spike said, tapping his headset. "Can't hear a thing with these on."

She opened the headset and said into his ear, "Promise me you'll get me back here by one-thirty. PM."

She realized she'd placed a hand on his chest when he touched it, tenderly. Meaningfully.

"Tout pour toi," he said, and she took her hand away.

Anything for you.

* * *

About twenty minutes into the flight, Spike sidled behind Buffy as she marveled at the tiny dollhouses clustered east of the coastline. "Look familiar?"

"Is it supposed to?" They hovered over a rooftop painted with the letters SHS in gold and burgundy. "Sunnydale...?" She looked at him. "Why are we flying over my high school?"

"Did I not tell you it's a surprise?"

* * *

From the landing site, they were driven to a parking lot behind a row of stores on Maple Court. A very recognizable row of stores.

"I don't understand," Buffy said, following him to the back door of her mother's old art gallery, a place she'd always remember as Modern Artifacts. Last she saw, it was a jewelry store. "What is this?"

"Now, it's not done yet, all right? Try and see it for what it could be."

"What what could be?"

"Do I have to go over the meaning of 'surprise' again? Because I can."

"Tch." She nudged him and tried to hide a smile. "Just open it."

Tethering his own grin, he unlocked the door.

The old inventory room was empty but structurally unchanged. Buffy had a flashback: sitting on the floor with her mother, wrapping paintings for return or, if they were lucky, for sale.

He took her hand, and they entered the storefront together.

The walls were unpainted, there was a layer of sawdust on the new cement floors. Two men were installing ceiling fixtures by the front window, another was building some kind of reception area. They chatted in Spanish over the strains of a Latin American pop song.

Spike shut off the boom box, and got their attention. "Soy el jefe de su jefe. What I say goes, so take a five minute siesta, por favor."

They peered at each other, unconvinced.

"Now," he said. "¡Ahora! ¡Ándale!"

As they grudgingly left their stations and filed out through the back door, the crisp, white lettering on the front window came into view:

the joyce gallery

"I got a real forward-thinking curator relocating from New York," he said. "She'll turn this end of town into Little SoHo in a jiff. We're building a door here to connect to the next shop. Bought that for the classes."

She blinked out of her trance. "Classes?"

"Art history and appreciation. Painting, drawing, sculpture... Oh, and uh, here's the first show."

He handed her a brochure.

Joan Mitchell: The Lost Works

"I wanted to surprise you by taking you to the opening." He scratched his neck. "But, surprise'll be ruined if you read about it someplace, and who's to say you'll even let me take you out in three weeks, so," with a sigh, he looked up at the ceiling, "here we--"

She grabbed his head and kissed him.

With a high-pitched, grateful moan, he swept a hand up her back, to her neck, into her hair, and the other dug into her spot, as if to stake his claim.

Oh, Spike. Yes, Spike. Her butt hit the sawdusty reception desk and he kissed a line down her neck, causing strange, random word formations. What was intended as an Oh my God actually came out as, "Mmm my Spike."

"All yours, baby," he growled, and got overzealous. "You know I'm all yours..."

"Ha-ahh," she gasped, stopping him just as his wicked fingers found the dewy spot on her panties. "Not here."

Forehead touching hers, he deflated. "S'all right. Got one more thing to show you, anyway."

"More?" He'd resurrected her mother's art gallery and created a charitable foundation in Buffy's honor. Did he honestly think he needed to impress her any more than that? 'Cause he did not.

He straightened her skirt and composed himself. "Come on."

* * *

The second part of the surprise involved a stop at Pratt Enterprises, where she learned that half of one entire floor had been dedicated to the Zeitgeist Foundation. At least twenty actual people were visibly hard at work, in meetings, on the phone, making his whim a reality.

Buffy was still in shock. "How did you do all this so quickly?"

"Money's a powerful tool," he said, and opened a door marked CEO.

It was a bright, spacious corner office with a great city view and a large, bold abstract painting on one wall. Red and black gessoed strokes, ripped paper... "Is that... Jane Frank? An original Jane Frank?"

"I bloody well hope." He closed the door. "D'you like it?"

It was magnificent. Breathtaking, but... "Do you?"

"Looks like rubbish to me," he admitted without shame. "But I'm told it 'evokes sensations of awe and helplessness'."

Much like the man who bought it. She tore her eyes away from the painting. "Don't you have another office right upstairs? I mean, how many do you need in one building?"

"Oh, this isn't mine."

"But it says CEO." She pointed at the door.

"I'm the head of Pratt, not Zeitgeist."

"Oh. Who's heading Zeitgeist?"

He put his hands in his pockets, and looked at her.

"Oh," she said, stunned. "What?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I, I have a job."

"And I'm sure you're very good at it, but that's just a job. This is..." He gestured around the room, and returned to her. "This is you, Buffy."

She tried hard to focus on the wrong in this, the manipulative angle. "How do you know what's me?"

He counted off on his fingers, "Art, world travel, philanthropy, getting people to see things your way... Stop me if you hear something you don't love."

"I don't know the first thing about running a foundation!"

"You in a leadership position, yeah, that's dead hard to imagine."

It flashed in her mind then: a vision of herself in charge of Zeitgeist... followed by everything that came with accepting such a position. Lightheaded, woozy, she wrapped her hands around the back of her neck and paced to the window, saying, "This is crazy."

"You love the idea, I can see it. You want this."

"I--" She crossed her arms. "You can't just spring this on me, Spike, you can't expect me t..." Running out of breath, she took a moment to recover.

He stepped up behind her, but didn't touch her. "Look, I know it's a shock. I don't expect an answer right away. But if I ran this by you before, you'd have assumed I was doing it for the wrong reasons."

"These are the wrong reasons," she said, turning to face him. "You don't even care about art."

"Does that matter? I care about you, living the life you're meant for. I just want to make you happy, don't you understand? Don't you see that?"

She shut her eyes and shook her head. "You're not supposed to make me happy, you're supposed to make me miserable."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't do what I'm supposed to. Never have."

In a huff, Buffy walked away from him. "God, you have to stop being so..."

"So... what?"

Arms crossed, she turned to him. Several words came to mind, but there was only one she could say when he gave her that melty eye smile. "...Nice."

He approached her again, touched her hair. "Maybe you should start being nicer to me."

"Spike..."

Briefly pressing a finger to her lips, he said, "I'm sending you back to your other life now, and because I'm being so very nice to you, you're going to meet me after work, and be very nice to me."

Buffy felt herself nod. Sex. Sex was simple. Sex she could handle.

* * *

"I love you, Buffy," Spike said, keeping her in thrall, holding her face so she couldn't look away, "I. Love you."

Buffy gasped and struggled.

This wasn't very nice of him. She'd done exactly as he'd asked: went straight to the hotel after work, gave him very nice kisses from head to toe and all stops between, and then she began to ride him, quite nicely, until he overtook her and hypnotized her with his all-consuming eyes while he fervently professed his love.

When he said it a third time, she let out a broken, yielding wail, and convulsed with him.

* * *

"What's the rush, kitten?"

The 'rush' was that she had no desire to hear his thoughts on her I love you-gasm, so she closed her bathrobe tight and said, "I need to shower, and get home before..."

"Don't shower," he hugged her close from behind. "Stay dirty, stay with me. Come see what I've done with the new place."

"It's your place, not mine." She broke free of his grasp.

"I know that," he said, a tinge of boyish hurt breaking through his masculine pride.

"I'm... Please just let me go, Spike. I need time to think, okay?"

He followed her out of the bedroom. "Yeah, well, forgive my hesitation, but the last time I gave you time to think, you nearly ended this. If you hadn't seen that article, I'd be coming after you right now, wouldn't I?"

"Stop!" She spun around to face him. "Stop coming after me! Just stop it!"

"Right," he said, mouth tight and angry. "Go on then, do your little ritual dance. Pick a fight with me or better yet," he spread his arms out, "cry until I back off, then run for the shelter of his loving arms."

She'd seen him this disdainful before, but he'd never hit home quite so well. "What happened to being nice?"

"I'm sick of it. I'm sick of seeing you this close to admitting what we both already know, and I am bloody sick of sharing you with another man."

"You are the other man."

"Is that what you tell yourself to get through it?"

"I don't..." She took a deep breath. "We haven't..."

"You haven't. Haven't fucked him? Your own husband? And why is that?" He stepped forward, getting in her face. "Tears are not an acceptable answer."

She pressed her lips together to stop the trembling, and said quietly, defensively, "I love him."

He cocked his head, raised his chin. "In what way?"

With a scoff, she said, "I don't have to answer that."

"No, you don't. Because I can read the answer all over your face."

"You're wrong! You can't read me for shit."

"Oh! Right! Try looking me in the eye when you say that."

"I love Lindsey and I'm going home to him tonight, and that's all you need to know!"

"Like hell it is!" He grabbed her arms. "You take me all the way in -- mind, body, soul -- and then you shut me out, time after time! I know you want me, I know you want this, I can feel it, but you won't let go of him! Why do you insist on living this lie?"

"Because! It's better than the alternative!"

"Of us being together?"

"No, it's what happens after!" The floodgates broke then, and tears started falling. "Okay? I'm eating all the cake, and there's not gonna be anything left on my plate at the end of this, except me, feeling like shit for what I've done, and I know that, and I can't lose..." her eyes met his for a moment and averted, "everything all over again. I just can't."

"What are you talking about?" He tried to recapture her gaze. "I'm not going to leave you, Buffy."

She looked at the floor.

"Hey. Just because we found each other in an unorthodox way, it doesn't mean we're doomed, all right? The only tragedy here is that he met you first."

"You said it yourself, Spike, we're all gonna lie bleeding."

"Yeah. And then we'll crawl off together and lick each other's wounds, come out of it stronger, and life goes on like it should."

"How long 'til you get tired of me? 'Til you move on?"

"What?" He squinted at her. "What in our history together tells you that I could get tired of you?"

"Your history," she said, sniffling. "Harmony..."

"I didn't love Harmony! Talking to her was like talking to the wind!"

"Yeah well, Darla's the love of your life and you can hardly stand to look at her."

"She is not the love of my life!" He let out a breath and said, softening, "You are."

Buffy stubbornly met his gaze.

"What she and I had... It wasn't love. I know that now."

"And how do you know this is?"

"How can you not know?" He shook his head. "You came along and you changed everything, Buffy. My entire world was about proving my worth. You helped me see it doesn't have to be that way."

A tear slid down her cheek. "I can't be your savior."

He took her hand and kneeled before her. "Let me be yours."

She gasped, shut her eyes. "No... Spike..."

"Look at me," he said, and she did. "I want you, Buffy. All of you."

Her hand shook in his, and he rubbed it with his thumb.

"You don't have to marry me, I just... want you," he said, voice trembling with emotion. "I want to fall asleep with you at night, I want to wake up with you in the morning. I want to take you, everywhere, everyplace I love, show you every little city and vista and café and, I want to take you out. Publicly. I want to parade you down the red bloody carpet and say you're all mine." He tightened his fingers around hers. "I want to teach you flamenco dancing, and Spanish; I want to curl up on the couch with you and do the Sunday crossword or watch bloody telly, I don't care, I want... everything. All of you. And if I can't have that, I..." He tutted, looked down. "Hell, you know I'll take any little crumb you give me. But if you think if I had you, if I finally had all of you, all to myself, I would take you for granted? You're wrong."

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide and wet, and she said, "I'm not worth all that."

"Oh, stop it." He let go of her hand. "You've had an affair, you haven't killed anyone. Fidelity is a societal construct, it doesn't mean anything."

"Except to the people you hurt!"

He gave her a scrutinizing head-tilt and said with interest, "Oh, I get it. You hate yourself because you think you've become your father."

She looked away.

"Yeah, that's it. Only that's not what you're becoming."

Sullenly, she looked down at him. "What am I becoming?"

"You're becoming Buffy Summers," he said, eyes sparkling. "A woman who can handle an empty plate, but knows when she doesn't have to."

In the hush that followed, her phone chimed, and her gaze slid in its direction.

"Go," Spike said, relenting. "I've got my crumbs for the day."







Read on... >>



A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction