Snippety-snoppety-boo
Oct. 3rd, 2003 01:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwynOkay, so here's a snippet from the story. I have no idea if it's shit or not (probably is) and if Ali says to chuck it all, I will ;-), and this will likely change a lot since I never stop editing myself until the moment I post, but such as it is, it is (and some of this exposition makes a bit more sense in the context after a lot of dialog).
La la la anxietycakes.
And if anyone does think it stinks, tell me! Or if you find errors, etc. This picks up after Giles and Buffy have had a conversation, about midway through. The disused Tube station is totally made up but based on my fascination with the abandoned Underground lines.
Giles took her by the shoulder and they walked out into the low-slanting light of early fall, shadows checkerboarding the Strand, glinting off the car finishes. They walked toward Charing Cross, where the Council’s offices were located, as Giles told her the story of the demon they were after, one who rose only every fifty years or so from his human-induced post-snack slumber. There was a talisman that he used, once risen, to do Something Big and Important and Dangerous. Buffy only half paid attention, sometimes casting her eye around this ancient city, wondering what it would be like to make it her home for a little while. By the time they got to the offices, Dawn, Willow, and Spike were there. The city lights came up, casting their white and gold sparkle, as evening fell.
Spike was describing something to Dawn, arms flying about in big, sweeping arcs, and Buffy smiled. He wore her favorite blue t-shirt and black jeans. It was easy to travel light with him, there were only a few things he took everywhere, and only about five changes of clothes. The largest baggage he carried was his piles of CDs and DVDs. He’d adopted a new leather jacket somewhere along the line, but hip-length now, and had since stopped bleaching his hair quite as dramatically as before. Despite their close company, despite what should feel like a daily grind, each new glimpse of him after being away for a few hours swelled her heart with affection.
Giles and Willow excitedly pointed her to the musty pile of fragile books that lay in the center of the big table, their pages, foxed with history, threatening to crumble in her hands as she tried to follow along. It had been years since they’d all been around a table like this, planning, and yet they each fell into their roles precisely, soldiers regimented for their special duties.
It had taken a while, but eventually her friends had learned to accept Spike for what he was, and to see the man she cared for. Not that it had been easy — with Xander and Giles, especially, Buffy equated it to hammering big fat nails into concrete. But now Giles treated Spike with a kind of avuncular antipathy, as if he still had to maintain a certain level of distaste under the friendly exterior. And Spike responded with a sharp-edged teasing dislike, what Dawn had once referred to as boy’s-school acceptance. Buffy watched them both now, bent over the table, discussing hidden buildings, bemused over the turns her life had taken.
Dawn went out to the curry house on the corner and brought back dinner while they plotted and planned; the Council now kept blood in the refrigerator just for Spike. Quentin Travers, Buffy assumed, must turn in his grave every time that fridge was opened.
Once they were all informationed up, Spike took the little map Giles had drawn for them, and Buffy kissed everyone goodbye. These days she was Kissing Girl, offering at least a quick peck on the cheek before she went off to do something with potential dire consequences. Showing emotion had become easier the longer she’d been with Spike — and the longer she’d been away from the weight of being the only chosen one.
They took the Tube out to Liverpool St. station and went up, Spike regaling her the whole way with tales of the disused stations and tunnels of the Underground. Many he recalled wistfully from his own personal experience, describing them in some detail. She’d seen them in films and TV, but in reality the idea gave her the creeps, though Spike’s histories made them seem alive and fascinating. They’d been quite popular with vamps except for the war years, when they’d often been used as shelters, until creeping around in the tunnels and stations became a trendy thing to do for humans and they’d no longer made good lairs. There were whole underground worlds in this city, he told her — shelters from the Blitz, an underground reservoir, the Tube, a mail delivery rail. There was a reason London was popular with dwellers of the nether regions.
With a quick flip through his A to Z, he found the street they were looking for, not far from the station. Buffy had no idea what she was looking for, clue-wise, but as he ducked into a crumbling building on a dark street, Spike suddenly said, “Aha!” and yanked her inside. Weeds had crept into the little tumbledown space, the only remains of the station before it had been moved, he said, and dust covered everything, including the weeds. Brickwork and tile, wood and plaster all lay scattered about, as she examined the surroundings with her flashlight. The air was close and dense from the heat of the day, the cellary smell making Buffy wrinkle her nose.
After a few swift elbow hits Spike loosened some tiles on a wall, then he hopped up, grabbed a slight ledge above a door, and swung out with his legs, kicking most of the bricked-up wall in with a great sweep of dust and noise. It was a good thing it was so late and there was no one around. They jumped down, and then farther down, and down some more, and walked their obstacle course for a ways, until Spike found the tunnel he was looking for. The station they’d entered from had been abandoned in the early twenties, he told her. Unlike many of the disused stations, this one was virtually unknown, and it was clear that no humans had set foot down here for quite some time. Buffy shivered, because it wasn’t hard to guess why it was unknown — it fairly vibrated with demonic energy. The bricked-over entrances looked sinister.
“This just gives me the heebies, squared.”
“Turn off that torch, it’ll look a lot less creepy. You’re creating bloody great shadows, which makes it look all Hammer Horror.”
“Said the guy who can see in the dark.”
“Just take my hand and follow. Be a good little better half.”
She smirked at him, and he smirked back. But she wondered if he’d said it on purpose, harking back to their earlier conversation.
“I don’t know. There’s something really sad and creepy about this place.” She expected ghosts to manifest, apparitions dressed as in the twenties or the teens going about their lives, waiting for ghost trains to carry them to their ghost homes and businesses. The walls’ crumbling tiles, once beautiful and evocative, were dingy and sad. It was an almost unconscious, visceral discomfort, seeing what time and age and decrepitude do to even the most vibrant and useful of things. “I don’t mean to sound all Han Soloish, but I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Leia.”
“What?”
“Princess Leia. She said that most often, not Han.”
She exhaled loudly. If he started quoting the whole movie back at her, she’d have to beat him with the flashlight. Once Spike and Xander had gotten to a place where they could be in the same room together without wishing the other were dead — because Xander maintained, obstreperously, that “I have to give him props for saving the world, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him” — the two would frequently throw movie quotes back and forth until she itched to kill them both.
Farther on they found a tunnel carved into the wall that took them underground from the Underground. Now it was pitch black, and Buffy had to turn the flashlight on. Water dripped down the walls in black rivulets, and she was certain she heard rats scurrying. Above, it felt spooky; now it felt demony and dangerous.
They crept carefully along the cobwebbed passage until they reached what looked like an entrance to a room, covered in rough, primitive script.
“Can you read it?” she asked, and Spike shook his head. “Should we just go in? I imagine there must be guards or alarms or something.” She pulled the bag of weapons in front of her hip and unzipped it.
“Well, you want to catch the monsters, that’s usually the way to do it. Or we could just stand here jawing and wait.”
“Hardy har.” Buffy scowled.
ETA -- gah! sorry, formatting. See? I suck.
La la la anxietycakes.
And if anyone does think it stinks, tell me! Or if you find errors, etc. This picks up after Giles and Buffy have had a conversation, about midway through. The disused Tube station is totally made up but based on my fascination with the abandoned Underground lines.
Giles took her by the shoulder and they walked out into the low-slanting light of early fall, shadows checkerboarding the Strand, glinting off the car finishes. They walked toward Charing Cross, where the Council’s offices were located, as Giles told her the story of the demon they were after, one who rose only every fifty years or so from his human-induced post-snack slumber. There was a talisman that he used, once risen, to do Something Big and Important and Dangerous. Buffy only half paid attention, sometimes casting her eye around this ancient city, wondering what it would be like to make it her home for a little while. By the time they got to the offices, Dawn, Willow, and Spike were there. The city lights came up, casting their white and gold sparkle, as evening fell.
Spike was describing something to Dawn, arms flying about in big, sweeping arcs, and Buffy smiled. He wore her favorite blue t-shirt and black jeans. It was easy to travel light with him, there were only a few things he took everywhere, and only about five changes of clothes. The largest baggage he carried was his piles of CDs and DVDs. He’d adopted a new leather jacket somewhere along the line, but hip-length now, and had since stopped bleaching his hair quite as dramatically as before. Despite their close company, despite what should feel like a daily grind, each new glimpse of him after being away for a few hours swelled her heart with affection.
Giles and Willow excitedly pointed her to the musty pile of fragile books that lay in the center of the big table, their pages, foxed with history, threatening to crumble in her hands as she tried to follow along. It had been years since they’d all been around a table like this, planning, and yet they each fell into their roles precisely, soldiers regimented for their special duties.
It had taken a while, but eventually her friends had learned to accept Spike for what he was, and to see the man she cared for. Not that it had been easy — with Xander and Giles, especially, Buffy equated it to hammering big fat nails into concrete. But now Giles treated Spike with a kind of avuncular antipathy, as if he still had to maintain a certain level of distaste under the friendly exterior. And Spike responded with a sharp-edged teasing dislike, what Dawn had once referred to as boy’s-school acceptance. Buffy watched them both now, bent over the table, discussing hidden buildings, bemused over the turns her life had taken.
Dawn went out to the curry house on the corner and brought back dinner while they plotted and planned; the Council now kept blood in the refrigerator just for Spike. Quentin Travers, Buffy assumed, must turn in his grave every time that fridge was opened.
Once they were all informationed up, Spike took the little map Giles had drawn for them, and Buffy kissed everyone goodbye. These days she was Kissing Girl, offering at least a quick peck on the cheek before she went off to do something with potential dire consequences. Showing emotion had become easier the longer she’d been with Spike — and the longer she’d been away from the weight of being the only chosen one.
They took the Tube out to Liverpool St. station and went up, Spike regaling her the whole way with tales of the disused stations and tunnels of the Underground. Many he recalled wistfully from his own personal experience, describing them in some detail. She’d seen them in films and TV, but in reality the idea gave her the creeps, though Spike’s histories made them seem alive and fascinating. They’d been quite popular with vamps except for the war years, when they’d often been used as shelters, until creeping around in the tunnels and stations became a trendy thing to do for humans and they’d no longer made good lairs. There were whole underground worlds in this city, he told her — shelters from the Blitz, an underground reservoir, the Tube, a mail delivery rail. There was a reason London was popular with dwellers of the nether regions.
With a quick flip through his A to Z, he found the street they were looking for, not far from the station. Buffy had no idea what she was looking for, clue-wise, but as he ducked into a crumbling building on a dark street, Spike suddenly said, “Aha!” and yanked her inside. Weeds had crept into the little tumbledown space, the only remains of the station before it had been moved, he said, and dust covered everything, including the weeds. Brickwork and tile, wood and plaster all lay scattered about, as she examined the surroundings with her flashlight. The air was close and dense from the heat of the day, the cellary smell making Buffy wrinkle her nose.
After a few swift elbow hits Spike loosened some tiles on a wall, then he hopped up, grabbed a slight ledge above a door, and swung out with his legs, kicking most of the bricked-up wall in with a great sweep of dust and noise. It was a good thing it was so late and there was no one around. They jumped down, and then farther down, and down some more, and walked their obstacle course for a ways, until Spike found the tunnel he was looking for. The station they’d entered from had been abandoned in the early twenties, he told her. Unlike many of the disused stations, this one was virtually unknown, and it was clear that no humans had set foot down here for quite some time. Buffy shivered, because it wasn’t hard to guess why it was unknown — it fairly vibrated with demonic energy. The bricked-over entrances looked sinister.
“This just gives me the heebies, squared.”
“Turn off that torch, it’ll look a lot less creepy. You’re creating bloody great shadows, which makes it look all Hammer Horror.”
“Said the guy who can see in the dark.”
“Just take my hand and follow. Be a good little better half.”
She smirked at him, and he smirked back. But she wondered if he’d said it on purpose, harking back to their earlier conversation.
“I don’t know. There’s something really sad and creepy about this place.” She expected ghosts to manifest, apparitions dressed as in the twenties or the teens going about their lives, waiting for ghost trains to carry them to their ghost homes and businesses. The walls’ crumbling tiles, once beautiful and evocative, were dingy and sad. It was an almost unconscious, visceral discomfort, seeing what time and age and decrepitude do to even the most vibrant and useful of things. “I don’t mean to sound all Han Soloish, but I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Leia.”
“What?”
“Princess Leia. She said that most often, not Han.”
She exhaled loudly. If he started quoting the whole movie back at her, she’d have to beat him with the flashlight. Once Spike and Xander had gotten to a place where they could be in the same room together without wishing the other were dead — because Xander maintained, obstreperously, that “I have to give him props for saving the world, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him” — the two would frequently throw movie quotes back and forth until she itched to kill them both.
Farther on they found a tunnel carved into the wall that took them underground from the Underground. Now it was pitch black, and Buffy had to turn the flashlight on. Water dripped down the walls in black rivulets, and she was certain she heard rats scurrying. Above, it felt spooky; now it felt demony and dangerous.
They crept carefully along the cobwebbed passage until they reached what looked like an entrance to a room, covered in rough, primitive script.
“Can you read it?” she asked, and Spike shook his head. “Should we just go in? I imagine there must be guards or alarms or something.” She pulled the bag of weapons in front of her hip and unzipped it.
“Well, you want to catch the monsters, that’s usually the way to do it. Or we could just stand here jawing and wait.”
“Hardy har.” Buffy scowled.
ETA -- gah! sorry, formatting. See? I suck.
