Gill's Place

My Truth

2022-11-28T18:47:14Z

Or my perception of events. But it’s true for me.

Life this year has had highs and deep lows. I’m writing this to try to set some of it in context, mostly for myself.

A year ago the Spuffy fandom was experiencing a slightly shaky patch. There are currently three archives which store old fic and welcome new material. A year ago the Spuffy fandom was experiencing a slightly shaky patch. There are currently three archives which store old fic and welcome new material. Two years ago, in one of them, an individual made a mistake, and instead of consequences arriving at that time, they came about a year later. The handling of that mistake was not ideal, at either time. Possibly completely unrelated to that issue, in January two of the team in charge suddenly found that they weren’t. It was distressing to many including, I understand, to those who made the decision, but in particular to the individuals most profoundly affected. Possibly completely unrelated to that issue, in January two of the team in charge suddenly found that they weren’t. It was distressing to many including, I understand, to those who made the decision, but in particular to the individuals most profoundly affected.

About a month later on the same archive a story, a work in progress, was deleted at very short notice on the grounds that it was not appropriate for the site. There was something of a fuss made by other members, and the story was reinstated. Connected with this, and allegations of extremely unpleasant messaging, one more of the leadership group departed, and one of the people ousted the preceding month felt it was right to explain her understanding of what had happened in a post on LJ/DW.

I contacted the person concerned, someone I had known since the days when LJ was the thriving centre of the BtVS fandom. Initially I expressed my sympathy, then offered my support if she had an idea of starting an alternative archive site, where writers and readers could feel safe. Ultimately she decided to go ahead and set up a team of five people, including herself, to discuss options and move forwards.

Of those five, one was myself, and two more were people I “knew” from earlier fandom interactions. The fifth was a person I had never encountered previously and who spent much of this year struggling with personal and medical problems: to this day those concerns are almost all I know about her.

We created a FaceBook page initially, partly because there was clearly a niche as another group had closed down its operations there and moved to another platform, partly to begin to gauge interest in alternatives. It was more successful than we had hoped and encouraged us to think seriously about starting a new site separate from social media platforms.
The person who drew the group together is a single mother on a limited income, but she invested a considerable portion of her savings to purchase a domain name, web-hosting and the other things necessary to run a site. We chose to use software which is very dated but very common across many fandoms because it allows the hosting of a very large number of text files without gobbling up bandwidth.

A person who was once connected to the establishment of another archive offered to help, but was somewhat overwhelmed by our ambition and felt the need to withdraw while the construction was far from complete. Three of us worked hard to learn the techniques necessary to create “skins” – the screens you see on going to the site – and struggled to get our heads round the technical side. We were undoubtedly out of our depth.

Then the husband of one of the group, an IT professional with considerable skills and experience, stepped in. He was hugely unimpressed by the original code – it’s a decade and a half old and undoubtedly clunky – and pretty much made it his own. He tweaked a great deal of the “back end” to make it more stable and restricted the design options to make it more straightforward to put together effective skins. He continued to play an important role in running the site and trouble-shooting, setting up on a further social media platform for ease of access in the case of problems, complaints and requests. IOW he made himself completely indispensable.

We opened the site in early summer and I contacted quite a few fandom friends, including some who had moved on from the fandom, and asked them to allow us to host their stories. We were authorised by some of them to upload stories on their behalf, a time-consuming but rewarding task which I applied myself too – far from alone in that.
Meanwhile one of the team had started an account on yet another sm platform, and I suggested a Twitter account, which I created in early August. I’ve been on Twitter for about six years, but really flounder when it comes to technical stuff there, and the only way I could find to create an account was by linking it to my personal account. There may well be better alternative routes; I didn’t know them.

We continued to grow the archive steadily, though the proportion of older material to new was still fairly substantial. We ran an opening “event” and devised ways of encouraging graphic artists to post and new formats to be used – the tech guru was particularly important in this regard.

I tweeted links to the site when new material appeared and boosted the signal of Spuffy material tweeted or linked there. The BtVS fandom on Twitter skews very young, naïve and somewhat tempted to extreme drama.

Then the Queen died.

I posted a tweet suggesting that Spike and Giles were raising a glass to her late Majesty, and liked a couple of others using the account.

And then one user, we’ll call them “H”, tweeted that nobody cared about “that crusty old bitch”; Buffy came back to life twice and would always be her Queen.

I saw this while I was logged in on the archive account, and responded using it – in retrospect unwise of me. I pointed out that Buffy, while an amazing character, is fictional, while the Queen was a real person at that point not yet buried. H doubled down and I repeated more or less the same words.

Our personal life was a trifle complicated at that time. I had spent most of the fortnight leading up to the Queen’s death living in an Oxford college doing in-person readings with a group of academic friends of the complete works of Christopher Marlowe and plays influenced by or influencing his work. (The day after the accession of King Charles III, as it happened, we read Edward III and Richard III.) My mobility was very poor – I found it impossible to walk as far as a supermarket, so lived on sandwiches and salads bought for me by Dave – so I was pretty much permanently exhausted.

We finished on the Friday and spent the weekend packing, leaving the country for our first holiday on the continent since the pandemic started. For three weeks we were out of the country, travelling or staying in rented holiday apartments. Both of us had health problems during this period; physical and emotional in each case. This may in part explain what happened, though I do not offer it as an excuse.

At some point over the weekend another participant joined the discussion on Twitter. We’ll call them “T”. They launched a series of really unpleasant attacks on the Queen, essentially holding her responsible for every fault of British imperialism over the last multiple centuries. I responded calmly, as I saw it, pointing out that there is still a distinction between a fictional and a real person, and that before she was even buried it was perhaps inappropriate to blame her. Even nastier replies resulted. To the best of my knowledge and belief I did not “flame” T until the last one. I should have withdrawn from the exchange much earlier, I know, but I didn’t. In my last tweet before finally disengaging I added “And to think I know people who like you.” That is the sum total of my abuse of T. (The full handle is known in the fandom and I have reason to believe the individual concerned acted as a beta for one of my friends whose work I was busy uploading.)

I should have backed away. It was a weird time – many Brit friends I know shared a strange sense of grief and disorientation. You’d have to be in your mid-late 70s even to remember a time without the Queen, and knowing how many details were inevitably changing – from the national anthem to stamps, coins, all sorts of details of everyday life – unsettled a lot of us. I still consider it to be the height of rudeness to call any recently-deceased person a “crusty old bitch”, actually. I was outraged, felt any decent person would have been.

Then, some while later – I’m blurry on the dates – the team member I knew least posted on the group chat that the Twitter account had been used for political purposes. By the time I saw it there had been an extensive discussion about whether we needed the twitter anyway, what was the account doing and so on. It was all entirely in the third person and seemed to be reaching conclusions without me or the person in a very different time zone. I was upset. It felt as if a kangaroo court had been set up, judging my actions, deciding what would happen next and all without once mentioning my name. I grudgingly agreed to post the text of an apology dictated by one of the others, who had not read any of the exchange, and deleted all the tweets concerned. The emphasis three of the four others put on it all was that I was engaging in political discussion; I did not really grasp how the death of the Queen counted as such – to me it was all about unacceptable abuse of a recently-deceased old and distinguished lady.

Life continued. A number of times – perhaps 8, perhaps a dozen at most - I liked posts or retweeted things, forgetting, to be honest, which account I was in. If you have ever tried running two Twitter accounts you’ll know how easy that is to do.
And then the same member reported on me to the group. Yes, it felt exactly that, like a child telling tales, when a brief direct message to me would have brought me up short and made me do what I later did and undo the likes and RTs. Moreover, the person concerned reported that “someone” had told them the account was liking political stuff. That felt very off to me. At no point did it cross my mind that a member of the archive had contacted the person reporting it – after all, any emails to admins went to all of us.

One of the problems with communication was that between us we were in three or four different time zones. That meant a lot of the discussion happened when one or more of us was either missing or exhausted by the late hour. One on occasion it was past 4am before I got to bed. On one of these late nights (I think – I’m too blurred to recall precisely when each thing happened) I was particularly upset that this person had gone to the group with information from their “spies”. An hour or more later debate with the others seemed to be reaching an agreed way forward, and then that individual came online, read my comment and went into a huge, flaming rant. I replied in kind and told them to F off. Then, some while later – I’m blurry on the dates – the team member I knew least posted on the group chat that the Twitter account had been used for political purposes. By the time I saw it there had been an extensive discussion about whether we needed the twitter anyway, what was the account doing and so on. It was all entirely in the third person and seemed to be reaching conclusions without me or the person in a very different time zone. I was upset. It felt as if a kangaroo court had been set up, judging my actions, deciding what would happen next and all without once mentioning my name. I grudgingly agreed to post the text of an apology dictated by one of the others, who had not read any of the exchange, and deleted all the tweets concerned. The emphasis three of the four others put on it all was that I was engaging in political discussion; I did not really grasp how the death of the Queen counted as such – to me it was all about unacceptable abuse of a recently-deceased old and distinguished lady.

Life continued. A number of times – perhaps 8, perhaps a dozen at most - I liked posts or retweeted things, forgetting, to be honest, which account I was in. If you have ever tried running two Twitter accounts you’ll know how easy that is to do.
And then the same member reported on me to the group. Yes, it felt exactly that, like a child telling tales, when a brief direct message to me would have brought me up short and made me do what I later did and undo the likes and RTs. Moreover, the person concerned reported that “someone” had told them the account was liking political stuff. That felt very off to me. At no point did it cross my mind that a member of the archive had contacted the person reporting it – after all, any emails to admins went to all of us.

One of the problems with communication was that between us we were in three or four different time zones. That meant a lot of the discussion happened when one or more of us was either missing or exhausted by the late hour. One on occasion it was past 4am before I got to bed. On one of these late nights (I think – I’m too blurred to recall precisely when each thing happened) I was particularly upset that this person had gone to the group with information that seemed to have come from outside – as if they had it from their “network of spies”. I used that term. An hour or more later, debate with the others seemed to be reaching an agreed way forward, and then that individual came online, read my comment and went into a huge, flaming rant. I replied in kind and told them to F off.

The next day tempers had calmed, I thought. I apologised for my intemperate language and it seemed to me that the whole affair had been put to bed. I took steps to make the password to the account available to all, but Twitter’s mechanisms wouldn’t allow me to change the linked email.

I thought we had sorted things out. Then two of the original “core four” suddenly disappeared from the group chat, the linked sm platforms and activities on the site. After a few days I was worried, though I knew both had recent/pending house moves, so after sending a few direct messages and getting no answer, I assumed that RL was getting in the way, so I got on with keeping an eye on the various social media and the archive itself, doing the day-to-day stuff.

After about ten days of absence the two returned to the group chat. It was the weekend before Halloween, Dave and I were in London meeting friends, then staying in a B&B with very iffy wifi, and spending time with our daughter, who had been ill so it was the first time we’d seen her and the little ones since early September. I noticed there’d been activity on the group chat, but with the business and the wifi I just let it run – the whole point of having a group was that it didn’t need everyone there at once, right?

We got home very late on the Sunday, so it was the Monday before I really caught up with things and saw that the whole sorry episode was being dragged up again. This time the two absentees were both saying they weren’t sure they really wanted to continue being on the admin team at all. It was all, once more, at a time the member in the most extremely different time zone could be guaranteed to be asleep. This pattern was repeating itself so often it felt deliberate. Who knows? It may just have been unthinking.

It was also Halloween, so they were not prepared to discuss things because they had to take their children out – fair enough. But late at night they started again and it became clear it had suddenly (from my POV) become a “me or them” situation. And, of course, one of the pair threatening to leave was the wife of the tech guy, who would hardly be likely to remain if she went. I emailed the person in the other time zone pointing this out, and they commented on the “power imbalance” when, their morning, my very late night, they joined in.

It became clear to me that this was a deliberate, sustained campaign to make me withdraw voluntarily. Back at the time of the mess about the Queen I had offered to resign, only to be assured “we love you, we don’t want you to resign”. Now I was not ready to go. I went to bed at two am. By this stage I was in such an acute stage of mental distress that Dave had become aware of what was going on and intervened, making it quite clear that he felt what was happening was extreme and unjustified.

The next morning I emailed one of the two who had been absent, asking if they were effectively working as a team. I begged them not to ignore this contact as I now realised they must have ignored other attempts by me. I had a garbled reply saying they were driving to work, not ignoring me, but no substantive response beyond that. Later I discovered from the chat log that my email had been shared and was being characterised as emotional blackmail.

On the Tuesday things started to kick off mid-afternoon, despite an agreement that discussion would only happen when all members were awake and able to take part. The tech-guy’s wife stated repeatedly that she had no trust in me, that trust was gone absolutely, and so one of us had to go.

I became extremely distressed.

Then I had to participate in my regular Tuesday commitment, online Zoom playreading with the academic group. It was a play by Ben Jonson, The Silent Woman. His plays are always long and it was a huge struggle for me to focus. I admit I cut into my arms – pain can be a useful distraction and I had to stay with the reading group to the end of the play. It's a serious academic commitment, you see, not just a bit of fun, though it usually is that as well, to be fair. Not that night.

By the time we’d finished I was a mess, literally and figuratively. Dave had to take over writing on the chat as I was crying and shaking too much. At one point I was told it was ridiculous to get so worked up over a website. And I was literally told “You’re unstable!” (Well, yes. Guess why.) The upshot was that I was removed from all my admin functions with immediate effect. Dave then made me go to bed, so it wasn’t until the next morning that I read the rest of the conversation, some of which seemed to me at the time to be positively gleeful, and some of which was the cheery sharing of photos of members when much younger. I had been disposed of, so they could go back to having fun. The other person who had paid up front for the site also stated that they were withdrawing from the site, after removing me.

The next day I had an email from one of the team saying she was “there for me” – it felt like arrant hypocrisy. It may simply have been tone-deafness in an emotional sense.

The rest of that week is a bit of a blur, to be honest. Dave contacted the Mental Health Crisis Team, I was prescribed various drugs (which is what is keeping me calm enough to type all this) and I had a two or three hour assessment interview with the team to determine a way forward. I have to say, the fact that they took me seriously and did not tell me it was too much fuss over something like a website was validating. R and her husband were with us that weekend – they came for the fireworks at the Castle, the first time they’d been on since the pandemic. We had to tell them a bit and R was loving and supportive – and wanting to plot revenge, bless her.

A week later the same individual who had “reported” me emailed me to say they had tried to use the twitter account but two-stage protection made that impossible. (I had never set that up.) They had an exciting new challenge to announce, so would I share my phone number with them, the number linked to the account, so they could take it over. I’m afraid I refused. Dave wrote on my behalf and pointed out that when “trust” had been made the core issue, they were actually asking me to trust them with my personal details.

I was going to leave it at that, until I saw what their “exciting event” actually was. For some reason they decided a “White Elephant” was a good name for a fic exchange of some kind. In a mood of childish mischief – and I know it was wrong – I used the account to tweet the link to the Wikipedia page defining a white elephant.

The next day an ultimatum arrived from the person who had called me unstable. Delete the account, hand it over, or be permanently banned from the archive – and they would report me to Twitter. Dave again replied on my behalf. He decided that in my currently still very fragile state I should not have any further dealings with the group and asked them to contact me only through him. Neither of us take kindly to bullying or ultimatums, and I’m afraid that his email was icily, and deliberately, polite in a British way that is often described as passive-aggressive.

No surprise, then, really, that he got a response starting “I have no desire to correct the misunderstandings and/or mischaracterizations you've laid out, or to respond to the passive aggressive threats and insults.” There were no mischaracterisations. Or threats. But the email concluded by announcing that my access to the site was being removed. By the time I went to look there was no evidence a user of my name had ever existed. All the stories, gone. Including the “Exclusive to that site” story. All the comments, gone.

Ironically, my outrage all those months ago at the deletion of the WIP from that other site had been exacerbated by the fact that the writer never had a chance to save the comments. I’d downloaded all my comments from that location not long after – but never bothered to do the same from the site that was designed to be, above all else, safe, kind and friendly. The writer concerned was the individual who wrote those emails to Dave and, presumably, then took action.

And on that point, I really don’t see the value of that site continuing. It was founded, as I understood it, with the primary purpose of being supportive, forgiving, helpful – above all, safe. It’s turned out to be none of the above.

I’ve tried very hard to write this as dispassionately and truthfully as I can. This is my truth, my understanding of what happened. I don’t exactly feel the urge to protect that site, but I’m not looking for revenge and not asking for any sort of action. I am still very angry and very distressed. The MH team tells me I need to think in months, not weeks, for recovery. At present just waking up not crying is a victory. I have to take a pill at midnight so I don't actually wake up shaking. (That’s self-pity. Sue me.)

If you have followed me here or on the parallel journal for any length of time you can probably work out names of people and sites. If you haven’t, you really don’t want to, trust me. (Hollow laugh.) I’m not claiming to be an innocent victim here, but I do feel the punishment was way beyond what was justified. The wording on the site describes me as someone "who was entrusted with" the job of being an admin. The power relation that implies is, well, interesting. And I would call it a mischaracterisation. But only if I was being kind.

So, three people have charge of the site now. Not one of them invested actual cash into it. The person who first funded the venture tried to refund me my outlay. As if I could possibly accept that sort of money from her: it was repaid at once, so at least PayPal has profited from the whole sorry affair. As far as I am aware no attempt has been made by the people who now have the site to pay her, or me, our investment. I would not accept their money, but I am disgusted that they have not recognised the moral obligation to repay the person who almost emptied their savings to start the archive.

If you visit the archive site you will see an announcement of the changes in the admin team. It is, from my POV, vindictive, partial and inaccurate. Like so much of this whole thing, the presumption seems to be that I have negligible personal integrity. Dave, FWIW, also feels it is a spiteful version of what happened.

But they say I should believe they all care for me and wish me well.

Now that last bit? I’m calling that for what it is. A damned lie.

So, it's a fandom kerfuffle. They used to be two a penny. Fewer now, as there are fewer in the fandom. A good sign? Great.

If you've read this far, thanks. Once more, I am very much not asking anyone to act or speak up on my behalf. But it's affected me deeply and will take a fair bit of getting over, so I thought I would share it here, so people understand where I'm coming from.

In memoriam

2022-01-11T17:53:11Z

ETA: I am making this open to everyone, not just my flist, so if you know someone who was a friend of hers, feel free to point them here. The same will apply to FB people.

This was published on FB by Lisa McLeod, and I share it here with her permission. tx_cronopio was a lovely human being, vibrant, caring, intelligent. All of us who knew her have lost someone special.

This is long.

My friend Pat died on December 11, 2021 … I knew her almost entirely from online communities, and we bonded over academia, fandom, and political orientation. For years, I have been so angry about how the world treated her – she was brilliant and had a huge heart. She was a natural teacher – I mean, her online handles often included “Cronopio”, which turned out to be a sort of human/being in the writing of Julio Cortázar, an Argentinian who moved to France. Pat was a Texan, a committed Texan, like Ann Richards. She traveled! I don’t even know where all she traveled – I know she spent several months in India, probably as part of administration for a study abroad trip. She was fluent in Spanish and Portuguese as well as English. She loved music – Lyle Lovett and Willie Nelson, of course, but also all kinds of 70s singer-songwriter stuff that we both loved from our childhood/youth. She loved dogs, so much, and always wanted to adopt the ones that no one else would take. She didn’t regret this policy, although she had a lot of heartbreak for the elderly ones, the troublesome ones. She got to know them and did what she could to see that they got to enjoy the time they had with her. I’ll just name Zelda and Zeke here, as they were the last two. I won’t recount the heartbreaking story of how she lost them, as I don’t know all the details and that’s not what this is about. I will say they were very lucky to have been plucked from the shelter by such a big-hearted dog lady.

She should have had a long and happy career in university teaching. However, very smart women who speak their minds don’t always get that opportunity. I don’t know all of these details, either, but I am certain she deserved that long career at least as much, and even more than many of the white men I know who have screwed up and screwed up and not even known it, or considered it a funny little foible, and kept their job and their retirement and even family around to make their last days comfortable. But that’s another story.

Pat loved camping, real camping, in a tent; it was hard for her to find folks to camp in TX with who understood what camping really meant – it doesn’t mean sleeping in an RV, for example. We had such plans for a camping trip that got scuttled, by her father’s health problems, then depression – first me, then her, then me again, then money problems. Then COVID. Fuck COVID.

She loved reading, obviously. She loved watching the LOTR movies. I loved Pat so much I would have even watched them with her. I was counting the weeks until March or April so I could make a trip out to TX and we could go camping – real camping! Hoping COVID and workloads would cooperate.

Last spring and summer she got sick and finally figured out it was COVID and then long COVID; she would get out of the hospital and then had to go back in. She fell and hurt herself, then had to go back in. She hated it. She lived by herself, was as bad as I am about understanding the stupid world of smart phones and so getting information was hard. Finally we heard that she’d gone into hospice care.

When I had finally given my last grades I made a last-minute decision to go sit with her in hospice. Because her family was more or less estranged and her friends were scattered to the four corners, etc. I just wanted her to have a friendly presence, even if she was non-responsive. She died the day before I would have gotten there. Probably a kindness, really, but I’m so sorry to have missed that chance.

Her dying and her death left me so sad and angry. But I’m almost ready to focus on the happy memories, the rich lives and friendships. The good times and great dogs and the jokes that had me laughing out loud, really, in front of my computer.

We had plans to be irritating crones together on yearly occasions; to take trips with Road Scholar and make life hard for mansplainers and bigots. I miss her online, I miss having plans. I am so sorry not to have been a better friend, but mainly I want to hold her up and say, Pat was so great.

She was indeed.

Sad news signal boost

2021-11-09T18:48:27Z

Mutual friends of tx_cronopio will be sad to hear that she is very unwell. One of her personal (RL) friends on FB posted:

Patricia's brother contacted me on Saturday. She is in a hospice in Arlington, with weeks to a month to live.
I am beyond devastated, as I am sure you all are.
Here is her information. I don't think calling is an option, but if you can send flowers or well wishes ASAP, it would be appreciated.

If anyone would like the (snail) address, please PM me.

If you know anybody who would like to know more, please signal-boost or direct them here - I will make this post open to anyone, which is why I am not putting the address in plain view.

Fic: Clash of Priorities.

2021-07-03T15:35:53Z

Just a quick ficlet, a response to a challenge on nekid_spike - follow on from the given first line.

It helps to follow this if you know that there is sporty-type stuff happening, the European Football (soccer) Championships (Euros) and that England is playing tonight in Rome.

Possibly FR-15 for implied sex? No more than that anyway.

Clash of Priorities.

"No, look at me."
“I am looking at you”
“Properly. Take your eyes away from that screen and pay attention, or I’m switching it off.”
“Bloody hell, woman! Do you have any idea how important this match is?”
“More important than me?”
A long pause. Spike was definitely struggling. Then he grinned.
“No, not that important. If we have a shag now I can always catch the match later. Not as if anybody in here is going to spoil me for the result.” He pressed the red button on the remote.
“Now, pet. You have all my attention. Just keep on licking. Right there.” He groaned. Just occasionally there were things better than footy on the telly. Even the Euros.

Fic: Touching the Fire, Chapter 6

2021-06-01T11:54:24Z

Spike's home. Things can't be as grim as they have been. Can they?

When your ex-lover is spread over a cross, his white flesh gleaming in the moonlight and smoke starting to curl up from the points where his chest and face touch the thing, it is not very sensible to stand and stare.

For a moment or two, though, that was all Buffy was capable of doing, tears tracking down her cheeks and her heart beating impossibly loud in the absolute silence of the nave. The figure slumped in front of her made no noise, not even a grunt of pain, as he clung to the one object in the place that could harm him. What did he mean, pleading for rest? What did he expect her to do?

What he expected was probably something brutal, physical, involving throwing punches or possibly his body. Buffy swallowed, hard. When had she ever given him reason to expect anything else?

She took extra care to be gentle as she moved towards him and pulled on his shoulders. Even so, he flinched, and for a moment seemed to grip the wooden cross harder, as if it provided the support he needed rather than the agony he must be feeling.

“Spike,” quiet but firm. “Spike, you must let go. I can help you, if you let me.” A pause. “Will you let me? Please?”

He turned his head sharply at that word. She hadn’t used it to him very often, had she?

“Come on, now. This place is cold.”

A broken laugh. “Not exactly chilly where I’m standing, pet. And, vampire. Don’t feel the cold. Didn’t you know?”

She cursed herself internally. Stupid, stupid thing to say. “No, but I’m cold. And…” how to persuade him? “I don’t wanna leave you here.”

That did get his interest. With visible effort he pushed away from the cross and half-turned to face her. She gasped at the raw, red burns across his chest, arms and lower face. He flinched again.

“Sorry. Should have clothes on. Mustn’t upset the girl. Mustn’t be threatening to her.”

The pathetic, burnt creature before her, pearl skin still gleaming, was no kind of threat. But, hey, if that’s what it takes.

“Spike, you frighten me like that. Come away? Please?”

That word again. But he needed to hear it, needed to sense some sort of connection. He tottered in her direction, a few steps, before slumping against a pew and descending to the slabbed floor. He cowered, clutching his arms round his chest, as if to conceal it, and bowing his head. She heard a choking sob.

Buffy’s first thought was to cover that chill, effulgent body. He might not feel the cold, but she did, and it somehow made looking at him unclothed more painful. He had been holding that weird, bright blue sweater when she had entered; it had to be somewhere near. She scouted round the area in back, where there was no seating, and found it heaped near the wall, where he must have flung it behind him. Scooping it up, she returned to his side and knelt down.

“Here, Spike. Put this on. We need to get those burns cleaned up, but you should cover them now.”

“No, no need for cleanup. Need the burns. Remind me what I am. Remind me what I did. What I wanted to do.”

“That’s the past, Spike. You aren’t the same man now, are you?”

“Still me. Still the man who… Who could have… Who wanted to… NO!” He howled at the icon painting on the wall. “Is this what you wanted? Not able any more. Just knowing me, seeing into me?”

Buffy realised he was unlikely to be able to clothe himself. Holding the neck of the sweater wide open she leaned forward, ready to pull it over his head. As she did so the cross she wore swung forward and brushed against his cheek. His scream of pain was instant and high-pitched.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

An oddly lucid grin. “Can’t help but do that, love. Though on the hurting me stakes I beat you hollow. Know how to do that now. The spark does it all for me.”

Growling at herself, Buffy flung the chain’s pendant behind her neck, so it couldn’t touch him again. He stayed still, an obedient child, until she’d pulled the neck down, then allowed her to pull first one, then the other arm through a sleeve. She held out her hands and grasped his and half-stood.

“Time to move on out of here, Spike. Come with me.”

He was docile now, silent where he had been gabbling, blank-faced where the agony had been. Gently, she led him out of the little building.

Revello was not far away, but it took some time to get there. He switched mode and mood frequently on their route, at times babbling about beetles and grass huts, at others grimly silent, at others sobbing steadily, the tears making his face shine in the street light. It was perhaps half an hour before she arrived home, opened the door and towed him inside.

A year ago he had tended her broken hands, she remembered suddenly, sitting opposite to her in almost the same place. He had been gentle, caring solicitous then. Now it had to be her turn.

There was a gasp from the doorway. Dawn. “What happened? Buffy, what did you do to him?”

No longer a child, really, Dawn had grown up a lot over the past year. Her readiness to blame her big sister hadn’t changed much.

“I did nothing, Dawn. He’s done this to himself. Be an angel, will you, and fetch the medical supplies?” Spike flinched again. Obviously the A-word had better be avoided still. Perhaps especially if Spike really had done what he’d told her about in the church. Two souled vampires in the world. Somehow that had to mean extra complications.

When Dawn returned, she helped Buffy remove the blue sweater, eyes wide at the sight of the scorch marks. Then an idea came to her and she ran upstairs, leaving the pair alone.

A vampire might not need to be cleaned up, if he never got infections, and would recover on his own given time. In an abstract sort of way Buffy knew this, but she needed to clean him up, needed the water to be warm and the disinfectant to be rinsed away and replaced with soothing creams. She could see the pain in his face, however hard he tried to restrain it, and she needed to see that gentled away. Later there might be time to consider why it mattered to her. If she couldn’t procrastinate it away.

Dawn came back with an armful of textiles. First she settled a blanket round his shoulders, then shook out a huge, baggy military sweater. She looked at Buffy with embarrassment. “Riley left this behind when he went away, back when he first left. I sorta kept hold of it because I missed him back then, and it’s good to hug. It might be more comfortable for Spike than that tight blue thing? And there’s a t-shirt too, a baggy one I used to sleep in – I’m thinking it might fit, more or less? It’s black, too, and that is so much more Spike’s colour.”

His head jerked up as she spoke. Real fear filled his face. “Black is no good. Bad Man wore black. Bad Man did bad things in black.”

“You always wear black, Spike. It suits you. We like to see you in it. Don’t we, Buffy?” Dawn had grasped his problem quicker than her sister. How had that happened? “Come on, Spike. Let me help you put it on? Please?”

Fear and longing fought across his features, then he lifted his arms in mute acceptance. Both young woman worked to pull the faded shirt over his head and thread his arms through the sleeves, then followed with the heavy sweater which threatened to swamp the drained-looking vampire. Riley had been so big. Spike, not so much.

“What do we do with him now, Buffy?” her sister asked. “Where has he been staying? Not still in the school, surely?”

“School. Yes, school. Underground, where I belong. Other corpses there, other creatures that go bump, other nasties. Just like me. Yes, right. Go back there. ”

“That’s the last place he should be,” Buffy decided. “Look, Dawn. Would you be able to stay here with him while I run and check out his old place? I can see if Clem is still there. Perhaps he’ll take care of him for a little. “

“Good idea. Familiar things around him could be soothing as well. You go.”

As Buffy stood to leave, Spike started to moan, quietly at first, then louder. His hands clawed at the air between him and Buffy, eyes full of desperation. She sighed. “Dawn, I think I may need to stay here to keep him quiet. Could you call Xander and ask him if he’ll go with you to the crypt? It’s dark, but I think we need to do it soon. I’m not crazy about you going alone, not in Sunnydale streets now crazy season seems to be opening up again.”

Dawn nodded and left the room. Moments later the front door slammed.

“What the? Dawn!” Buffy shouted crossly. No way had there been time to get Xander over to Revello. Stupid girl thought she was way too grown-up to need her hand holding. In Sunnydale nobody was ever old enough to go to night-time graveyards alone.

Spike struggled to his feet. “Not good, pet. Not good at all. Gotta go find the Bit. Both gotta go, right?” He actually looked saner than he had since he’d entered her house offering to help. Perhaps helping was the thing that made him Mr Sanity Man? Buffy stowed the thought for later consideration.

“Come on, then, Spike. You promised to keep her safe, remember? Let’s go.”

Dawn strode along the sidewalk. It was really late, but she wasn’t scared, no sir. The Slayer’s sister knew what might be out there, and she was fearless in the face of any threat. Totally fearless.

A grinding sound made her jump. Then a figure twice her size, with horns on its head and – euw – elbows, dropped from a tree as she passed it, landing right in front of her. A sort of shimmering red, it was abundantly, embarrassingly male. Dawn fixed her gaze on its right shoulder and stopped walking.

“Mmmmm. Nice little bite. What do we have here?” The voice was loud, deep and muffled at once, so that making the words out was hard. Like, really hard. Asking for a repeat wasn’t likely to get her far. She stepped backwards softly, till she felt the rough bark of the tree behind her back.

The creature took a single stride and she could feel the heat of its breath as it stared down at her. “Now, now little mouthful. No need to step away from me. At least, there’s no point.”

Dawn gulped. She had been so stupid. Buffy told her to get Xander. Why hadn’t she listened? Not that Xander would have made that much of a difference confronted by this monster. His mouth opened, wider than any jaw should be able to, revealing more and more teeth, shining a sickly greenish-white. Another gulp.

The horned arms straightened, the huge fists opening to grip Dawn’s shoulders. This close she could see the skin was a mass of iridescent red scales, overlapping each other to create what looked exactly like armour. No point in kicking it or trying to punch it, then.

The cruel smile widened and the thing leant in towards her. Then it stopped, the smile replaced by an expression of surprise. It looked down at its chest. Dawn looked in the same direction, no longer transfixed by its expression. Had that horn-thing been sticking out of its chest before? Was that a truly gross implication she was seeing?

No. She let out a huge breath as the creature slumped, held up by what she could now see was a pike or pole of some sort. Sidestepping, she looked behind. Oh thank God. It was Buffy there. Right next to her another figure, in a ridiculously baggy sweater which so didn’t suit him. They held the other end of the pole. A pool cue? How had they got that so quickly?

As soon as Dawn was out of the way Spike’s face changed and he growled. A real growl, not some pussycat purr. He leapt onto the demon’s back and gripped its head, his left forearm holding just beneath its horns, while the right hand grabbed the back of the head. A vicious twist and it was over. A mountain of scaly demon-flesh subsided to the ground and Dawn, shaky and ashamed, ran into Buffy’s waiting arms.

“Dawn, Dawn, Dawn. What did I tell you? Never go out alone at night. This town is never as safe as it looks.”

“I’m sorry, Buffy,” Dawn was sobbing outright now. “I just didn’t think. Spike needed help, and I…”

Spike’s voice, calm, totally controlled, broke into her speech, “Bit. Don’t. Just don’t do that again, eh? I’m not worth it.” He raised his hand to quieten her automatic denial. “Nothing is, pet. Think what it would do to Sis here if one of those beasties got you. I’m fine now. Look. My place? Just up that hill there. You girls stay and watch me go in if you like, but I think you need to go straight home then.”

Buffy nodded slowly. For a loony he was speaking a lot of sense. “OK. But we will watch you from here. Right, Dawn?”

Dawn, feeling distinctly less than her nearly sixteen years, nodded dumbly. Spike nodded in return, turned from them and strode into the graveyard and up the slight rise. The girls watched as they had promised, until he was inside, then headed for home.

Spike was much less comfortable and confident than he’d let the girls believe, but shoved hard on the door till it gave way. Once in he stopped short and stared.

A round table, of the dining variety, and four straight-back chairs occupied the space beside the sarcophagus, and covered the trap leading to the lower level. Seated on the chairs were Clem, two other demons almost as baggy-skinned as he was, and a grumpy-looking vampire, fangs and forehead lumps in evidence. Cards were strewn on the table and they seemed intent on their game. A covered basket stood on the floor, from which a faint mewing could be heard.

Clem looked up, then jumped up. “Spike, pal! How great to see you. You know Lance and Walt, don’t you?” He pointed at the demons who looked vaguely familiar. “This is Jim. He’s new to town since you went. He’s a great partner in the game.”

Spike nodded, but was very still, as still as only the undead could be. His focus was entirely on the other vampire. “Jim, eh? Where did you arrive from? And how come the Slayer and her pals haven’t sorted you out yet”

“Slayer?” Jim looked alarmed and scowled at Clem. “You told me the Slayer here died! Some geek shot her!”

“Temporary, mate. Always is with that one.” Spike’s smile was colder than the room. “Make a difference, does it? I’d hop along, then, if I were you.” The other vampire started to scrabble his things together. “Nuh-uh. Leave the kit. Just be grateful you’ve had a warning and time to clear out.” He stood aside, and Jim, expression like a rabbit in headlights, pushed past, out of the door and was gone.

Clem coughed. “So, Spike. You back here to live? Not that you’re not welcome. It’s your place after all. Me and my pals, just crypt-sitting, you know. Always ready to oblige if that’s what you need.” The flabby-skinned demon scooped up a handful of playing tokens. “Here, take these. Willy accepts them these days. Or kittens? Lovely juicy kittens. A whole basketful of them if you need them.”

Spike relaxed and shook his head. “Nah. I’m back home, but I stashed my stuff elsewhere. You and your gang – this place is yours if you want it. I have to get my things, and I’ll just hang out there. Be seeing you.”

He tipped the stunned trio a cheerful thumbs-up and sloped out. His things were safely stowed indeed. And he had to get them. He needed to chat to a certain pink pig before making his mind up what to do next. The basement called.

On Elysian Fields the story has reached Chapter 9, with another on the way by the end of the week.

Fic: Touching the Fire, Chapter 5

2021-05-20T22:24:11Z

Now it's reached Chapter 8 on Elysian Fields, it's about time I updated here.

This is between Grave and Beneath You, so not exactly full of jolly banter. Things will get better for Spike though, I promise!

It seems that in some cases a return from not-death involves a long, dark tunnel with a light at the end. The end you are staggering away from, naturally.

To be honest, “staggering” was a rather over-generous term to describe Spike’s more or less forward movement away from the cave and tunnel complex in which he had spent the last. What? Hours? Days? Weeks, even? He had no bloody bollocking idea, only that it had endured beyond the limits he would have thought possible and that he was glad to be out.

Beyond the clearing in which the rocky outcrop stood was sparse scrub and the sort of dirt that needed a good soaking with water which it probably hadn’t seen in months, and a few struggling plants drooping for lack of moisture or covered in prickles to deter hungry animals. Jagged spikes snagged at his legs, scraping and tearing the skin wherever it was exposed.

A jagged Spike was about right. He was on many different edges at once, scarred and battered by fights, scraped by harsh rock walls, bruised, bitten and burnt in random patches covering a substantial proportion of his body. And in what he assumed was the East there was some sort of light on the horizon, which in these latitudes meant he had perhaps twenty minutes before sunrise made all his efforts moot. He was too stunned to think, dimly aware of nagging pains of the metaphysical variety rising to the surface but brutally thrust down. Cleansing, scrubbing bubbles they might be, but any sort of self-confrontation had to wait for practical reasons.

The first sunlight was gilding the treetops as he stumbled into the village and made his halting way to the home to which he’d entrusted his earthly goods. He slid through the open doorway as the inhabitants stared at him, eyes and mouths as wide as it was possible. He was the first they’d known to return from those caves, and it took a moment before the father of the family moved to greet him, only to be pushed out of the way by his robust and determined wife, who led Spike with gentle strength to a mat on the floor, helped him lower himself, then busied herself soothing his wounds with warm water and soft cloths.

The next few days were a confused blur to him. Complicated dreams in which he always, always did the wrong thing, or the right thing but too late, or nothing at all when he should have done the right thing. He was falling from a rickety tower, his body slamming into a tiled wall, trying to collect eggs made of plaster or plastic which dissolved in his hands as he tried to grasp them. He was striding down a dark alley, jostled by a big man with stupid hair, he was in a livery stable, he was fighting his way out of a padded box, he was staring at his mother as she dissolved into dust. He wasn’t ever quite sure when he was awake, though the peaceful times with the calm woman soothing his face with cool water had to be a dream.

He didn’t know a word of her language, and he felt guilty about that. It took him three days to work out that was what he was feeling, that strange ache in his stomach and at the back of his throat which refused to go away. When he finally got it, he croaked out a laugh. Guilt. Ten years ago he’d have snapped their necks, ripped their throats to shreds, filled his belly with their hot, rich blood.

Ten years ago he would never have been here. That was before Prague, when he and Dru had feasted on the confused remains of the collapse of Communism across Europe, snacking on disgraced secret police officers, laughing at the mess as people raced from border to border to get what they thought was freedom and he knew was material wealth. They’d done well out of guiding families on secret paths to the frontiers, letting them send a message home, then feeding with reckless greed.

Now he hated himself for it. The Hungarians lined up in his head to berate him in another language he didn’t understand. The Romanians begged for mercy. He and Dru had laughed at them. They’d even worked their way through the entire nursing staff of an orphanage full of neglected children so filthy even Dru didn’t want a taste. Now he could see the huge, yearning eyes in every face. They condemned him with those eyes. They told him just how much worse than worthless he was.

He agreed with them.

Later, he found nodding and smiling worked a little. She pointed at herself. “Miremba”. Then a look of inquiry at him.

“Spike”.

She laughed, a rich, deep sound, full of heart. She had a few, a very few words of English. She knew what a spike was; this bruised, damaged, emaciated pale creature was the last thing she would associate with this name. But the boy was sick. He’d been through the demon caves, her man said, which accounted for the mess of a man in front of her. Miremba ignored the warnings that he could turn on her, be more dangerous than she knew. He was a shattered creature in need of care and peace. She gave what she could.

Then tried to hide some where the children would find it later. dead memories of his small sister, Maria who had died of consumption, to find ways to make them laugh. He performed stories in mime and got the children to teach him some of their words. He stared, entranced by the beauty of the dark, tight curls on the little girl’s head. He threw a ball back and forth to the little boy, who learned that if it went through the door into the sun this odd visitor could not collect it. He stroked the downy cheeks of the baby, astonished by the perfection of its face, its tiny hands, the long eyelashes on its sleeping eyes.

Ten days on he started to prepare to leave. He rummaged through his knapsack, finding the gold secreted at the bottom, and tried to pay his hosts for their kindness. They refused. He had no understanding why that hurt him so much.

He cried easily, far too easily, just now. In the end they allowed him to give a single gold piece for each of the children. He held the rest, useless metal, unwanted by the people he owed so much to, then tried, when he thought himself unseen, to hide them where the children might find the money later. Miremba shouted at him for that. He dug out Mr Gordo – could he give the pig to the children?

“No. A grown man carries a toy round the world because it is important. If it is important it must not be given away.”

Relieved, he gave the pig a hug before stowing it carefully back in his pack.

As the sun set on the twelfth day he left. Tears and hugs all round, and a sense of heartache for these kind, straightforward people who hadn’t cared he was a demon (oh yes, they knew) but cared that he was in need. That strange feeling of loss and longing in his belly travelled with him as he strode away to the truck stop only half a dozen miles away on the nearest road.

The driver had been glad of the company and dropped him near the airport with an hour to spare before sunrise. Two days “sleeping” in the confined bedspace of the cab, mercifully dark, two nights keeping the man company, taking over the driving so the guy could get some sleep and still make up his time. It worked for both of them. Spike didn’t try to work out why that mattered to him.

In the cargo area he found a load about to go on board a plane with US markings. If it arrived in sunshine, so what? He’d dust like he deserved. Security wasn’t much in evidence, so he easily joined in loading in the pre-dawn light and nobody noticed that he stayed behind when they left, job done, and the hatch was sealed.

Twenty-four hours later he was somewhere in California. All the time in the cargo hold he’d talked to the pig. Eager, obsessive, he felt he needed to explain where they were, why they were, what they were. A pink pig and a corrupt, degraded thing who rambled about all the terrible things he remembered. Then apologised and covered the tiny piggy ears. No-one should have to listen to what he was. He must have spent two hours apologising, crying, begging Mr Gordo to forgive him.

He was lucky the plane landed after dark. By that point he would have walked straight into the noon sun. It was all he deserved. The world would be better that way.

It was dark, and he had to do something, so he hitched a lift to where he remembered stashing the bike. For a miracle it was actually still there. It took a while to get his bearings. Big motor bikes are not easy to ride when you are shaking with a mixture of grief and guilt. Eventually he got going. The one place he should stay away from, the one girl in all the world who deserved to be left alone by the vicious, dangerous thing that had betrayed her? Every atom of his body was being called to her. Every atom of his being. Every bit, heart and new, rusty soul, craved to see her again.

He ditched the bike in the woods near where the school used to be. Where, he saw with amusement, it now was again. On top of a Hellmouth. Again. Did these clods never learn? At an hour before dawn there was one security guy, half-snoozing with his telly on way too loud. Easy to get over the fence without him noticing. Easier still to climb through a hole where a window was probably going to be. Easiest of all to get down into the cellar, already rustling with small mammalian wildlife.

He lost track of how long he was there. At one point it seemed like Visitor Central, so many people came to harangue him. Sometimes he was clear it was his stupid noggin playing tricks on him. Sometimes he wasn’t.

She came quite often. She told him how disappointed she was in him. She told him he was bad and wrong and Sunnydale needed him gone.

“I know, pet. I know I’m a bad, rude man. I just gotta get some strength back, OK? Just gotta get some more rat into me, then I’ll be gone.”

“Spike”, she glared at him. She could see all the way into him, deep into his battered soul. “I need you not to be here. You hurt me, badly, with what you did. I need not to be reminded of that. And what’s to say you won’t do worse? You might try to have sex with me again. In my house. In my bed or my bathroom. Do I need to tell you how many kinds of Wrong that would be?”

She went and Drusilla was there. “My Spoike. You are covered in her and in that icky soul. You let me down. You said you’d love me forever, but you couldn’t manage any more once you’d seen her. You betrayed me. Then you betrayed her. All the little fishes told me. Who are you going to betray next? Will anyone trust you again? You even hurt the little mice. I see them scurrying round. Like you, scurrying to hide. You should just take a long walk outside.”

Darla joined in, “You let down my Boy too. Didn’t you? Is there anyone in this world or the next you haven’t failed?” She laughed, but there was no fun or mirth in her voice, just cruelty. And disappointment.

Angel was there. Instead, not as well as. He just stared, big broody eyes boring into him. “So, a soul’s the new cool thing is it? Well done.” He meant the exact opposite. “Welcome to a century of worthlessness. She won’t want you now, eaten up inside with all that guilt.”

Beneath them all, there was a rumble. Something was coming. He could feel it.

His soul was hurting more and more. He tore his shirt open. With a sliver of wood he tried to stake himself. It buckled under the pressure. He sat, gripping what was left so tightly his hand started bleeding. It dripped slowly but relentlessly onto the dirt floor. He scrabbled backwards, still seated but feet shoving him away as fast as they could, which wasn’t very fast. He was in a corner now.

Nothing could come for him without his seeing them first. He stayed there for days. From time to time he launched himself at a rat or argued with his visitors. In between he used the sharp stump of the sliver to score away at the pale skin of his chest. He couldn’t stake himself. Perhaps he could carve his way in?

In the bag thrust behind him the little pig lay upside down, crushed by the weight of Spike’s body, rattled by his shaking. Lucky it couldn’t hear his moans.

Fic: Oldest Profession

2021-05-14T22:51:31Z

It's my day at seasonal_spuffy today, and this is my entry. It's distinctly more explicit than I'm used to writing, so be warned if that's not quite your thing.

Buffy had a serious cash crisis in early S6, which didn't seem to be a problem by the time she had to cope with the crises during the last part of the season. Did she find an alternative source of finance?

Not quite PWP, but not so very far off.

1. Title: Oldest Profession
2. Author/creator: gillo
3. Era/season/setting: Mid-Season 6
4. Rating: NC-17

Oldest Profession

The Slayer had her vamp radar, he knew, but she wasn’t the only one to be able to spot a special friend, shagging partner, nemesis, arch-enemy or whatever the hell she was currently at fifty paces on a wintry twilit evening. The twilight mattered, it went without saying, or he wouldn’t have been out and about himself, off on a toddle to score booze, fags and a pint of the good red stuff from his usual supplier. If he hadn’t been nearly out of said good stuff and sick to his pointy back teeth of pig there was no way he’d have been in that particular seedy part of town at that time either.

Not that Sunnydale really went in for seedy much. There were tracks, and they sort of had a wrong side and a right side, but not by a lot. The dodgier bars, where demons might hang out and the odd pick-up game of poker might be had, clustered together a little bit, but all around them were disgustingly healthy health-food stores, and the town’s major industry, chapels of rest and funeral homes, all tarted up with lawns and flowers, as if that made death OK. This town looked too bloody wholesome, if you asked him. Which, to be fair, nobody much did, ever.

Still, the pricklies on the back of his neck didn’t tell lies, so it was odds-on the Slayer was in the area. Probably scoping out the latest deliveries at the corpse-houses for telltale pairs of puncture marks in or around major arteries. Certainly not looking for him. Why would she do that when she knew very well where to find him if she needed a good seeing-to?

He relaxed against a rough brick wall, scabby bits of incompetent pointing digging into his shoulders as they took more of his weight. He became as still as only the undead could. She was very close now, he sensed, but neither approaching nor retreating. What in hell was the silly bint doing, then? Curiosity had always been his downfall. Well, OK, one of his downfalls, along with drink, sex, impetuosity and – this was not the buggering Spanish Inquisition. No need to list his failings right now, thank you very much.

He pushed away from the wall. Settling down to wait was the boring option. Boring was not his thing. So it was perfectly fine to go after his girl. What was the worst that could happen – a bruised nose? Not as if he wasn’t used to that. OK, a slight, very slight possibility of becoming a heap of dust, but she didn’t even threaten that so much these days. He touched the tip of his tongue to his bottom teeth, thinking of what she did to him instead.

He listened intently. She was pacing. That could be the only explanation of the sequence he was hearing: ten or so steps, a pause, ten or so steps again. Not coming nearer, not going away. So why in hell was the silly bint doing that? Nerves? This was The Slayer. Nerves were not her thing. Were they?

His mighty brain came to a decision. OK, not so mighty, but still functioning. It wasn’t at all that he worried about the girl or just wanted to see her. No, all about the question-answering, that was him. Before he could rethink the rashness of his choice he jumped forward, clear of the corner, in full view of the girl he wasn’t allowed to call his.

Full view perhaps, but she didn’t see him. Or at least notice him. Too busy pacing for that. Either side of a doorway set back into a wall where some deadbeat or other had left his card. Not literally, though the smell of piss told him what else he had left. Even for Sunnyhell this was gross. Why was she there? Hunting down a vamp nest? Hardly. He’d have heard if any rival bloodsuckers had moved in to settle in his town.

Ragged stickers covered the upper part of the door. Spike squinted a little in order to read them. Even super vamp-vision had its limits, and he wasn’t exactly in a position to stroll over to have a proper gander. Then, to his partial relief, she seemed to make up her mind, pushed open the door and went inside.

He scooted over quickly, looking for whichever sticker or notice must have attracted her attention – and made her so jittery. Half of them seemed to be whores, advertising their wares – just a number to call, nothing else. Buffy really didn’t seem to him to be quite in that market.

Then, halfway down, a different type of ad caught his eye. “Wanted: Telephone actresses. Good, flexible voice essential. Must be open minded. Enquire within.” Bloody hell. If that meant what he thought it meant. Did Buffy know what it meant? He knew the bint was hard-up. She’d turned down his offers of finance – some stupid moral qualm or some such. He had no patience with that sort of crap, but she’d been adamant. Stayed on in that sodding fast food job. She’d rejected the offer of cash, but not a crafty shag round the back by the bins.

His mind worked furiously. This was not something her little bunch of cartoon friends would approve of. Not that they ever offered to shell out the spondulicks as far as he could see, not even the pair of witches actually living in her house. Could this give him a little leverage?

He might not have a soul, but even he could see the pitfalls there. “Blackmail” was such a nasty word. The sort of word, what was more, that could lead to a staking rather than a shag. On the other hand, if she was planning to give telephonic relief, why should some bleeding wanker – literally – get all the joy of it? There had to be a way round.

When the door opened and she emerged he flattened himself into a nearby doorway, then followed her at a distance till it was clear she was on the way home. Puzzling his head a little, he worked out the best source of extra information and headed to the public library. It had the advantage of open access for his kind, a bunch of local directories and, though he’d been reluctant in the past to take advantage, a computer with internet connection.

In half an hour he had what he needed – a plan and all the facts and numbers he needed to carry it through. Next stop? A pair of freeloading witches of his acquaintance.

**********

Once Willow and Tara understood what he was telling them, they did at least have the grace to look shamefaced. Tara tried to explain. “W–w–we never thought about it. We’ve always contributed to the food – we had to do all the marketing last summer. Then she was back, so we just kept on paying for our share of the food. Giles g-g-gve her some money too. We knew she took that job to pay her way, but we never thought she was desperate.”

Spike ground his teeth, just a little. “Well you can sodding well think it now. What, did you think some good fairy paid the property taxes and utilities?”

Neither young woman was able to look him in the face. Tara’s family had abandoned her, but her mother's sister managed to send money quite regularly. The Rosenbergs, disappointed in a daughter who had chosen the local university over the sort of institution which would have given them bragging rights, topped up Willow’s bank account without her needing to ask. Or even talk to them or see them much.

“So, as I see it, this is how it’s going to go down,” said Spike, in a tone which made it clear he would brook no nonsense. He might be without a soul, but he saw quite clearly the implications if Buffy followed the course of action she was currently planning. “You girls set up a regular payment. You must have her bank details from when you were running this place for Dawn last summer, right?” They nodded. “Work out what you would have paid for a dorm room, and pay that. Each. You get the run of an entire house here. Then round it up to cover the other stuff.”

Tara wrote the details down in a notebook. She was the practical one with that sort of thing, however good a witch her partner was.

Spike stood up and stretched. “Not a word to her yet, mind. Get it all set up and running. I have a plan to distract her from that outfit while you’re doing it all.” He ignored their requests for details. There was a whole world of things he was not going to tell anybody if he valued his continued undusty existence. Buffy’s friends were considerably more “anybody” than anybody else in the world.

**********

The next time Buffy slammed her way through his door, intent on working out her aggression on his cold body, he was ready. Instead of waiting for her to grab him and start tearing his clothes off, he dropped down through the hole to the lower crypt, and when she got there he was sprawled, nothing on above the waist, on the bed. They’d never achieved sex actually on the bed before; there had to be a first time for everything.

His legs, clad in tight, black jeans, were spread apart, invitingly. Across the action zone, though, lay a large, brashly-coloured pamphlet. Buffy recognised it, gulped and was not quite so intent on mauling her vampire lover as she had been. “Wh-what’s that?” she asked, knowing full well what the answer must be. How on earth had he discovered it?
“Just a bit of advertising material, Goldilocks. Thought you might be interested. Seeing as how you’re about to be involved and all.”

Oh god. He really did know. She gave him her best bewildered look, a delaying tactic. Her abdomen felt cold and heavy, and her stomach was doing acrobatics. “’Splainy?”

“Oh come on, love. The wide-eyed innocent look stopped working several exits ago. I saw you. In the street. Going in to that place. What in hell did you think you were doing?”

“Spike, you do not get to criticise me. Not now. Never. I need money, right? Dawn is growing like a beanstalk, and my cast-offs are no longer any use because she’s taller than me now. She needs a chance. A better chance than I can give her on a minimum wage job with casual acts of slayage. What would you suggest?”

“Told you before I can get money.” He held a hand up to stop her automatic protestation. “Honestly come-by at that. Don’t let your moral qualms tie your knickers in a twist. I’m good enough for a shag, but you won’t take my ill-gotten gains. I understand that. But I actually have sources. Worked a few shifts for Willy. Did a few deliveries, taking care of a bit of stuff for a mate. Here. Look.” He brandished a small but perfectly-formed wad of green paper.

“Spike, I can’t take your money.”

“Yes you can. And you’re going to. If you are prepared to do a special answering service for some jerkoff total stranger, you can do it for me. Now. I pay you, we cut out the middlemen. Anything else we do later, like the Blanket Hornpipe? Workplace bonus.”

Where did he get this language from? Buffy sighed. “I suppose you’ve trashed my chances of getting this job too, right?”

He smiled; the grin was entirely without humour. “Paid the slimy git a visit. Suggested he didn’t want to exploit young women any more. He felt a different city would best suit his ambitions. We parted amicably enough.”

So that was another option out of the window. His offer of cash looked tempting. “So. We do this. Once. You pay up, and we never, ever talk about it again. Is that the deal?”

“If that’s the way you want it, pet, ‘s fine by me.” He settled himself comfortably back on the pillows and unbuckled his belt. “Now, just you sit down on that chair. Back to me, that’s right. Just like you were on the phone.” He made a weird double trilling noise – was that supposed to be a telephone ring?

“Come on, now, pet. Pick up the telephone. This is your job now, right?”

“H-hello?” Buffy found it hard to believe she was actually prepared to do this. In the depths of a crypt, though, with her unliving sex-toy, a creature who knew exactly what would happen if he told anyone – that was about as safe as she was ever likely to be. Part of her felt relieved that the special phone service option was off the menu now. Far too much risk of discovery in a tiny town like Sunnydale.

“Hello. What’s your name little girl?”

“Spike, you know what my name is!”

“Now, now. That’s not playing the game right, now, is it, love? You wanted to do this job, so do it. Properly.”

A bigger sigh. Perhaps she couldn’t have done this for real after all. “My name is Buffy. What should I call you, sir?” A ridiculous, childlike voice came unbidden.

“Oh, Sir will do nicely. Or William, if you like.”

“What would you like to talk about, Mr William?”

“Well, now, Buffy. Tell me, what colour is your underwear today?”

A moment of panic. Spanx were entirely practical, but for sex-chat? No way. “Um, I think I’ve forgotten.”

Spike’s tongue caressed his teeth. This might be more fun than he’d expected. Undoing the fastenings, he settled his jeans waistband low on his hips and slid his left hand inside. Yes, he had a firm idea he was going to enjoy himself. Not the only firm thing either. “Well, isn’t that silly of you? Why not take them off to check?” He watched her with interest. Would she do it or simply pretend?

Buffy’s tension was growing. “Oh, I’ve just remembered. Pale pink.”

“Really, now, is that so? Why don’t you slip your fingers inside that scrap of pink, then, give yourself a fine old stroking?”

She couldn’t do this. Really, really not. But she did. “Ooh, I feel damp down there. Why would that be, Mr William?”

“Perhaps you’re thinking of what I might want to do with you? Shall I tell you what I’m doing with my firm, hard, long prong?”

She nearly giggled. Prong. Really? “Please, sir. I’d like you to tell me.”

“What will you do if I do?”

“I could slide my fingers into my panties, see if I can work out why they are feeling wet. Would you like me to do that, sir?”

He swallowed. How long could he actually keep this up? “Yes.” Husky. “I’d like that quite a lot. Now you just stroke yourself gently downstairs. I’m using both my hands now.” And he was. What sort of prat was he anyway, being turned on by fake phone sex? “I’m stroking my balls with one hand. They’ve gone soft and full, as if they are straining against something. But the other hand? Oh you can’t imagine what I have in that.”

“I think I can, sir. Is it long and hard and pink at the tip, wanting something to soothe and moisten it? I think I know what could help with that.”

He whimpered. This really was not fair. He grasped himself firmly and pulled up, pushed down.

“I have a very moist area inside my panties now. Do you know what I’d like you to do with it?” She grunted, quiet and low as she finished speaking, but he could still hear it. So, this was turning his Slayer on too, was it?

“I think you might like to stop playing daft games, pet. I think you might like to shuck off those panties and come over here. I think you might like to share this bed with yours truly. What do you think?”

“God, I thought you’d never ask” she gasped. She slid skirt and underwear together over her hips and dropped them to the floor. If he wanted to fantasise about scraps of pink silk rather than sensible, white, comfortable, unsexy stretch cotton, who was she to spoil it for him? She turned to face him.

He thought he’d been hard before. The sight of the girl of all his dreams like that, though, coming towards him, ready to take him inside her. That made one hell of a difference. Before his arousal became too big an … impediment, he removed his own last layer of clothing. Panther-like he crawled across the bed to where she was standing.
“Girl, you talk the talk. But how about walking the walk now?”

And she was on him, slamming his head back on the mattress, pulling at his legs to make him lie flat. Her mouth - Oh God, so hot was on him and around him and he felt like he might explode as she licked her way up his shaft, twirled her tongue around the tip, then moved on, nibbling and pulling at the skin of his belly, sucking and biting as she want. The bites were hard, bruising. The girl was making it clear playtime was over. He knew who was in charge.
She bit and scarred her way to his mouth, which she fixed on as if starved and desiccated, sucking and pulling on his lips and tongue. His hands were everywhere now, caressing and tearing in equal measure. When she got serious, gentleness was the last thing she wanted.

He fought back, pulling her legs down, struggling from underneath her, grasping her ankles and pulling them wide apart.
What he saw entranced him, as always. She wasn’t just ready for him, she was glistening . Reverently, he lowered his face and licked her in return, tasting her juices as if they were the best champagne, which, to him, they were.

And then he was in her and beyond thought. And she felt full, complete. For just a few moments she was where she knew she had to be. Nothing else was in her thoughts but the physical body she surrounded and the physical body she inhabited.

Money? That could wait.

As always, comments and feedback make me very happy.

Fic: Touching the Fire Chapter 4

2021-05-08T18:55:33Z

Still a little on the not entirely cheerful side, but I have at least avoided one notorious scene.

Touching the Fire - Chapter 4

When somebody you’ve always considered feeble damages you, it makes you think. On his way back to his mausoleum home, Spike had plenty to think about. The unexpected strength of Tool-Box Boy was one of those things. There were others, but just now, like his ribs, shoulders and abdomen, they hurt too much to consider properly. Stupid carpenter, however – just where did he get that strength from?

Spike sighed. The answer was bleeding obvious, of course. Love made him do the whacking. Perverted love, twisted into anger by a sense of betrayal. None of these emotions were exactly alien to Spike currently, and it was a pity he’d aroused them in someone else.

Not that much a pity, mind you. As the demon bint had pointed out, Harris had left her at the altar, not the other way round. He had no right to dictate what she did with her body, none at all. Just as nobody now had any right to dictate to Spike what he did with his own body, whatever they thought they might have.

Once in his cosy little crypt he flumped into his chair, a survivor of that nasty soldier raid. No, certain people bloody well did not have any right to tell him what to do. Not after they’d well and truly dumped him after that horrid little incident. Right after they’d come to him begging him to repeat that he loved them and wanted them. Oh, bugger it, not them. Her. Her face had been so devastated back there outside the shop. Not that he cared now. No way.

But she had rushed to stop Harris from using that axe on him. She must have seen what he’d seen, or she wouldn’t have said that. Didn't take long, did it?

He looked for something to hurl at the wall. Bugger all left except his bottle of Jack and he needed that too much. The last lot was wearing off, and he needed to keep his alcohol stream high. Sober meant serious, meant thinking about stuff, meant realising his how hurt she had been, must have been, to have said that. OK, so he’d been hurt. That didn’t matter. Her hurting, now, that was serious.

There was a bang on the door. Buffy coming to chide him some more? He looked up, wary but hopeful. No, it wasn’t her.

It was Dawn. A flaming Dawn, all rage and self-righteousness. “What have you done? Spike! Look at me. What on earth have you done?”

He shook his head. “What are you on about, Little Bit? Not done a lot this evening. Been right here in front of the telly, that’s all.”

“Don’t give me that garbage. I saw. With my own teenage eyes. You and Anya. Getting all wriggly together on the table.”

“What? How?” Spike stood up. It was bad enough Buffy knowing, but Dawn? How in hell had she got to know about his X-rated activities with demon girl? Who had let her see? “Now, petal, calm down a bit, hey? Some things are supposed to be private and stay private, you know?”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Not when they are on all-singing all-acting sexogram computer screens they’re not.”

Ah. Yes. That was how Buffy and the Tool knew. Made sense the Platelet would be in the know too. Everyone queuing up to share Spike’s shameful sexing. Bet some of her crowd had tried to stop her looking, but you can’t stop a teenager when she’s determined to see.

“Did you want to hurt her? Hurt Buffy, I mean? Because if you did, you found the right way to go about it. You now what she’s doing right now?”

“Out looking for something to kill, I’d wager.”

“You might have thought that. But no. She’s walking round the house. Outside the house. Kicking things sometimes. Mostly just staring at the ground. I haven’t seen her looking that miserable for months.”

“She told you? About us, I mean?”

“Didn’t really have to – it was all over her face when she was watching your shenanigans. It was like someone had cut into her.”

“Did she tell you it was over? Between us? She put a stop to it?”

“Yes, she told me that. She tried to pretend she wasn’t crying when she said it, too.”

She was crying? She looked hurt outside the magic shop and she was crying at home. That had to mean something, right? But it was definitely over. She said so, weeks ago. Spike needed to explain.

“Look, Bit. It’s not as simple as you think. After her ex blew up my crypt she told me we had to stop. She said she was using me and it was killing her. Have to say, I wasn’t the happiest vamp in town. Cut up real bad I was. But she made it clear that I needed to move on. So I did.”

“With Anya? How could you? You know how long she’d been with Xander.”

"Was, pet. Past tense. He dumped her at the altar, remember? Kinda changes things."

Dawn screwed up her face, trying to work it out in her head. She knew he was right in theory, but wrong, wrong, wrong in practice. Grown up stuff like this was hard, but she knew how unhappy Xander was about what had happened. “He still loves her, you know.”

“Right funny way he has of showing it, then. Not that I’d have expected much else from him. Always was about as bright as a half-brick, that one. Couldn’t see what he’d got when he had it. Now he’s just playing dog in the manger.”

Dawn started roaming around the mausoleum. She righted a candle on its holder and thought furiously. This wasn’t supposed to be her job, telling people so much older than herself what feelings were about. It looked like it was going to have to be.

“I don’t get what a dog has to do with it. But can’t you see? He made a mistake. Haven’t you ever done that? He loves her. Can’t you see that? He’s hurt and bruised and angry with her.”

“Yeah. It was more about me, wasn’t it. Letting a disgusting thing like yours truly so much as touch her. Feeling all the feelings. Disgust, loathing, the whole gamut from X to Z. I’ve even got the bruises to show for it. Couldn’t hit back, didn’t really want to. He wasn’t so much with the restraint.”

“Did he say that? It’s not what he meant. He was hurt. Badly hurt. Lashing out. Don’t you see?” Dawn flinched as Spike pulled loose his shirt to reveal the wide purple mark across his ribs. It would heal quickly enough, him being a vampire and all, but it got him the sympathy vote right now. She turned her head, a sick expression on her face, and moved further away.

She had reached the other side of the space now, and was looking intensely at the points on the railings. She stroked the cold iron with a fingertip, trying to find some sensible way to explain yourself. “Spike, you have to understand. He’s hurt. Buffy’s hurt. You and Anya are hurt too. But all this pain? It won’t go away until you try sorting it out.”

Trigger point finally reached, the bottle flew from Spike’s hand in an arc and shattered noisily against the wall. Eyes more than a little level, eyebrow ridges swelling, Spike stood up. “Just tell me. Tell me, Dawn. How in all the fucking hells there are do I go about doing that?”

It was very rare that Spike used that sort of language to her. She knew vaguely that some of the cute little Britishisms he was so fond of had rather worse meanings than he usually let on, but this, a familiar word that was rare enough in her hearing to be still shocking, especially used by people who cared about her, this was extreme.

The alarm in her face brought a little sense back. He buried his face in his hands, trying to smooth the ridges back down, hide the evidence of his naked fury. Leaning his forehead, taking the weight on his wrists seemed to help, just a little. When he looked back up at her the familiar blue eyes, welling up with tears, had returned to an almost normal face.

“Dawn, Little Bit. Honestly. I don’t know what to do. She junked me. It was pretty brutal. Now you’re saying I hurt her and I have to do something about it? I don’t get it, I really don’t.”

All the wisdom coming from a girl barely into her mid-teens. Who would have thought it? “Spike, you have to look deep into yourself. Find what’s right. Think it through and you’ll see.”

Deep into himself. What would he find there? A whole lot of sod all. He knew he was hollow inside. Had to be, to have done what he did over more than a century. He’d never felt the loss before.

“Look, love. I need to explain. Inside me? There’s a demon fighting all the time to get out. Without this chip being in my head I can’t even promise you would be safe around me. Beside the demon? Nada. Zilch. Rien. I am a hollow shell, full of anger and fight and instinct, but nothing else. I’m not human. I remember a pathetic jerk who was human, and I wouldn’t want to be him again for anything.”

Dawn furrowed her forehead. She looked adorable, did she but know it. Spike knew with certainty there was one other part of himself he hadn’t mentioned – love. But love without the rest of the humanity was next to worthless, wasn’t it? His face was covered by his hands again. Cold fingers touched cold flesh that was at least smooth again now. He pressed them into his skull till they started to hurt. The pain took away the other pain, the inside pain.

As if he was a cartoon animal, he saw, almost literally saw, a lightbulb going on over his head. He was dead. As a bloody doornail. No changing that. Heartbeats and body temperatures above room level were never going to be an option for him. Never again. But there was one thing he could do something about. What a bleeding fool he’d been not to think of it before.

“Right, Dawn. Time to skip off now, sweetheart. I’m sorry and all that, and you can tell Big Sis as much if you like. But I have demons to do, things to see. Off you go now.”

Almost twisted a knife in his unbeating heart to see her bewilderment and the confusion on her face. He strode over to her, gave her a big, two-armed hug. Kissed the top of her head so lightly she didn’t feel it. Then gently walked her to the door, opened it and pushed her, even more gently, outside.

He’d rigged a sort of bolt bar after the sodding soldiers had been through wrecking his joint. He eased it into position and started rummaging around. There was a small backpack in the corner by the fridge. The freezer compartment had some cold blocks, designed to keep a chill on stuff. There was an insulated box too. He lifted the remaining blood bags from the fridge, and the last remaining beer, and packed them into the box. From the battered chest he took a spare t-shirt, black like all the rest, and wrapped it round the box, then placed the lot into the backpack. There wasn’t a whole lot of space left.

The velvet bag was where he’d hidden it. No room for that lot. No room for anything else, much. He brought it out into the light, regardless, and saw just how faded and bare the thing was in places. Nah, that wouldn’t survive much of a journey. He slipped his hand inside, reaching for the soft plush, his fingers sinking into the pile and the stuffing. There was room for that, perhaps?

He came to an abrupt decision. Behind the fridge, like most of his few treasures now, was something not treasured, but useful. A shovel. It had come in handy in numerous ways, and it did so again. He pulled another shirt from the drawer, to wrap the silk velvet in, and dug into the dry, friable earthen floor. He placed the little bag, minus the pig, reverently into the space he’d created, then covered it with enough soil to make the area look undisturbed. Just to make sure he stacked a few bits of junk on top of it.

Right. When you don’t have many possessions packing doesn’t take long. His bike was outside. There was at least an hour left before daybreak. He could drop in on Clem, who would be thrilled to be invited to house-sit, and be on his way.

House-sit indeed. He gazed round at the dust and just plain dirt, the battered few bits of furniture, the chipped stone sarcophagus. How low did you have to sink to be fond of a place like this and call it “home”? Only a thing, with nothing good or clean in him, dead inside, unable to feel anything real. He had it on the very best authority that’s what he was. An evil, soulless thing

Well, some of that he could do sod all about. But some he could at least make an effort to sort out.

He pulled his stuffed mascot out of his pack and looked at it. Eye to black, beady eye. “Come on pal. You and me, going places. Fancy seeing Africa?”

The pig, being a stuffed toy, did not answer. But Spike grinned and stuffed it back where it belonged. He pulled the door to behind him and swung a leg over the bike. He was going to get what the girl needed.

Comments are my drug of choice, as ever. Now up to Chapter 7 on Elysian Fields.

Fic: Touching the Fire Chapter 3

2021-04-29T22:09:32Z

This does get a bit grim for a chapter or two. It will get more cheerful eventually, promise!

Now up to Chapter 6 on Elysian Fields and not far off the end.

Rating: NC-17 or thereabouts.
Pairing: Spike/Buffy

Touching the Fire
Chapter 3

Spike clambered warily over the heap of debris which was all that was left of his home. Stupid word, “home”, for a wandering vampire. They were supposed to destroy homes, not build them, rip the hearts out of their owners, frequently literally, not have their own hearts torn out, not literally, but even more painfully than that.

There wasn’t much left of the bed. Fair enough; they’d missed it plenty of times, after all. The coverlet looked OK at first glance, but a single tug was enough to make it disintegrate. The fancy rugs were stinking the place out with the smell of charred wool, and the candle holders were dangling forlornly from the walls, their charges not much more than shapeless puddles of wax beneath them. It was a sodding mess, that’s what it was. It didn’t help that some poor sod’s casket was partly hanging loose from the wall, and the grenades had revealed a load of dead tree roots tangling themselves along the wall.

There wasn’t even anywhere much left to slump and feel sorry for himself. The upper part of the crypt had fared a touch better, but he was feeling quite vulnerable right now, and the sight of the sepulchre he and Buffy had used so recently, yet so very long ago, was not calculated to help with that. The bed collapsed as he tried to sit on it. Of course it bloody did. He’d had good times on that bed. It seemed like the final insult to trash it too.

He sniffed away the moisture from his eyes. Definitely not tears, just a reaction to all the smoke and charring. Time to clear this place out before dawn made it impossible to cart things to the dump. Starting with the rugs, once beautiful and full of raunchy memories, now desperately sad and more than a bit pathetic. Much like their owner.

Some nit had left a dumpster outside their house overnight, within sight of the graveyard gates. They would have a shock when they started their pansy house remodelling or whatever in the morning and found it full of Captain Cardboard’s leavings. Out of Spike’s sight, out of his mind, though. Very definitely a Someone Else’s Problem Field.* He was going to miss those rugs, with their glowing colours. And the glowing girl he’d shagged on them, and under them that time.

Ah well. She’d change her mind. She always did. Then it would be another call on the cellar dweller, another violent attack on his body, another violent (but so good) exploitation of his body. Whatever the girl needed. She would be back. If he kept telling himself that he’d believe it.

Shaking his head to clear the mental picture of her face, sorrowful, pitying yet totally resolute, he got to work. Just as well he’d lifted a brush and pan from that convenience store a few weeks back. There would be plenty of work for them; almost nothing was left intact.

Those bloody eggs. How had the great wanker got them into the crypt in the first place? Any fool could see some of them were fake, but some were most decidedly not, and they had to be his first target. He wrenched one of the candle-holders off the wall and twisted it till it snapped, leaving a lethally sharp pint. A spike, you could say, and he did, with a mirthless laugh. Just to be sure, he went round every one of the eggs which had survived the grenade more or less intact, and punctured each of them several times. Most cracked, showing they were made of cheap plaster. Some released an ugly green goo, oozing from the hole he’d made. Stupid fucker hadn’t even managed to finish the job and make Sunnyhell safe for puppies and little girls. No, leave that job up to Uncle Spike. He could take the rap for being the Big Bad, but he could actually make sure the Slayer’s home town was protected while the incredible Tin Soldier marched back to his jungle den. He pushed the debris into a heap. It could all get shoved down the tunnel towards the sewers in due course, along with everything else the bugger had destroyed.

If his heart could beat it would have stopped. Had that bonehead bastard who thought a uniform justified any sort of bloody action really destroyed everything? His precious corner too?

His lips twisted wryly at the thought of his precious. Not a frigging Ring, though that Amara jobby would have been bloody useful if he’d still had it. No, he might have the morals and lifestyle of a Gollum, but not the jewellery obsession. His own precious stuff was far more important to him than that.

The corner of the undercroft was dark, even to his vampire sight, and looked as if a load of smoking trash was piled up there. He sighed. If that stuff was beyond reclaim, chip or no sodding chip he would hunt that toy soldier down and snap his neck off. And his bit of stuff too. How in hell had he married that one, in less than a year since abandoning Buffy? There was no punishment cruel enough, no words extreme enough for that toe-rag piece of horse droppings.

Anger gave him the energy his despair had withheld from him. He wrenched away bits of lumber which had once been part of his bed. Behind them were the tattered remains of his sheets. He’d had a full set of bedding and a bed before he started screwing the Slayer. Now, nothing. He ripped them away. Behind them was a small cabinet, one he’d rescued from the dump a year back, scratched and battered then as now.

But it was intact. The drawer stuck, and he had to use subtlety as well as vampire strength to pull it open, but once he could see inside he released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d taken in a sigh of relief. Yeah, subtle and Spike. Mixier than his Slayer would ever have admitted.

Wandering vamps don’t usually accumulate stuff any more than they create homes. Spike was not a normal vampire, however. Inside the drawer there was a dark green velvet bag with a drawstring holding it closed. He stroked it tenderly, relishing the slightly rough sensation as it dragged as his hand moved in the reverse direction. He pulled the bag from its space and looked round for somewhere to sit to engage with his prize.

No bloody where. Not so much as a sodding log or stool to sit on. A collapsed bed or the floor. All the choices left to the proud Master Vampire. He didn’t know that his brow ridges had sharpened or his eyes yellowed until he felt the fangs begin to emerge. No sense in that, man. Put them away. Not even enough light to look at stuff down here.

One-handed, he climbed up the ladder. GI Joe hadn’t trashed that at least, though how in hell he’d managed to leave it alone who knew? Up there he perched on the sarcophagus, shifting to allow the moonlight that came in through the grubby window to shed a little light on his trophy. He’d have to work on getting the electric going again soon.

Now, however, he had one focus. He tugged the edges of the bag and pulled them open. First out, a small, carved, Victorian box. He’d kept that with him through all his travels, since leaving his mother’s home. It reminded him of her, in the days before his stupid, crass decision to cure her forever. Inset into the top was a glass or crystal dome – no idea which – and under that two types of hair, one sandy, the other grey,both curly, were plaited together and twisted into a kind of knot. Around the bezel there was pattern made of inset rare woods, a picture of a rural idyll, the sort that had never bloody existed of course. It summed up the pathetic loser he’d been, still was and always would be. Nevertheless, he stroked it reverently.

He flicked open the box lid. Inside, still safely hidden, were some letters in faded, spidery Victorian script, some battered, sepia-toned photographs, including one of Drusilla, magnificent in Edwardian evening dress, all pouty bust and projecting bum, just as he’d liked them back then. At the bottom was a small leather-bound book, untouched as far as he could see. Something very much not for sharing, but that he couldn’t bear to throw away. He flicked open the cover and found an inscription, written in a careful, immaculate Copperplate. “William H Pratt, August 1873”. Long, long dead that jerk, and better so. His poems could stay there with the rest of the junk.

Belying the angry thoughts, he replaced the box’s contents with exaggerated care, closing the lid and clicking the tiny catch. Then he pushed his hand further into the velvet bag. He pulled out a few bits of silver, the chains and Punk rings he’d enjoyed wearing for a while now. He choked just a little as he felt the death’s head on the sturdiest of these, remembering the time he had presented it to the love of his life, long before the unenchanted him knew that was what she was, and she had accepted his offer of himself, life and missing soul, with such an intensity of joy even now he couldn’t help smiling at the memory.

He rested his accoutrements on the slab next to him, after a moment’s thought stripping off the silver chain he’d been wearing all day to add to the pile. Then he retrieved the final and most precious of his precious objects. A little, plush, pink pig. It was completely intact, beady eyes staring back at him as if nothing had gone wrong, as if his relationship with the pig’s first owner was not just intact but healthy and thriving. As if there was a future for him in this world instead of an eternity of dust and ashes.

There was no bed as such, but he and Buffy had made do with the tomb on which he sat (a thousand years ago) this afternoon. It was wide enough and long enough for what he needed. He curled himself round the stuffed toy, hugging it to his chest. At last the tears came, hurting as they needed to, pouring out the misery that this might be the end, that sodding Action Man had stitched him up good and proper, that he would never hold his girl, pretend she was his girl, service his girl again.

The little pig rested in his arms. It didn’t judge him. Never had. And to his powerful senses, it still smelled of her.

As always, comments make me very happy.

Do not watch if you are pro-Brexit

2021-04-25T23:27:51Z

You really haven't paid attention to the news if you are.

Springtime for Brexit: song parody by Lyrical Whacks
🌞🇬🇧🎼#ToryDictatorship #BorisJohnsonOut #torysleaze #flagshaggers #ToryCorruption #ToryHypocrisy #ToryLies #ToryCriminals pic.twitter.com/WEUsT2TUOT
— 🎤✊Lyrical Whacks 🇪🇺 (@Lyrical_Whacks) April 23, 2021

New fic: Touching the Fire

2021-04-20T18:49:15Z

I've been writing all month for the Elysian Fields Artistic Challenge Month. This year it's a banner-based challenge, and there were so many to choose from! In the end I chose this one, by fellow-Brit AlloSpoike

The request included a requirement that Buffy should rescue Spike from a fire. Well, she did that, but it's gone beyond that. A Special Guest Star appears throughout.

So far it's up to four chapters; I hope to get it finished within the challenge month. You know the drill - characters not mine, just playing with them, promise I'll put them back tidily.

Rating: R, veering towards NC-17. Spuffy. Season Six, with the sex and violence that involves.

Chapter One

Grief is exhausting, however little physical activity is involved. You blunder about from room to room, again and again shocked by reminders of what – who – is missing, stunned once more by the hole where the person should be.

In Revello Drive that was, to some extent, a blessing. After dark Dawn struggled her way upstairs without needing to be prompted, went through the childhood ritual of teeth, face, hands, bedclothes and tucked herself up in bed. No-one else was left to do that, kind as Willow and Tara had been when they’d moved into the house to help her, and to help maintain the illusion that her world hadn’t ended when her sister had jumped.

After the others were safely in bed, and only rhythmic breathing sounds could be heard through the closed door, Dawn often surfaced briefly. Dreams of panic and loss shook her awake, or she fell out of soft, comforting dreams in which no loss ever happened, the family was completely intact, including the father Dawn knew intellectually she had never met, but whose kindness, sense of humour and robust games were every bit part of her memories as … and … the names she needed to avoid at all costs if she was to sleep again that night. In the end she would take her own comforter and shuffle along into – the other bedroom, where the thing that wasn’t a person but looked so much like a beloved person, lay recharging so that she – it – could continue the pretence one more day at a time.

Spike knew she had done this more than once, because confession sessions in his dank cellar had revealed much about Dawn’s life now. Some of it she knew she had told him, but this fact, like many others, had simply been deduced, as much from what she didn’t say as from what she did. When he swung by the house after a savage, bloody, dusty patrol, in which no demon or vampire ever had a chance against his own rage and grief, he half-expected her to be in that room, the room he, too, avoided naming. Even so, he entered.

Spike might not have had to breathe, but he enjoyed doing it. Breath meant air to speak, sing, smoke, filling his chest with the semblance of life belied by his unbeating heart. Until he walked into the room, though, he had almost forgotten that breath also meant the ability to smell, to inhale the sweetness of the missing girl, the hair products, shower products, perfumes, all the artificial scents she had applied to herself so routinely. Beneath those, though, even two weeks after she had last been in her room, was that indefinable smell that was her, that he would never forget whether his unlife stretched for centuries into the future or the hours he sometimes felt were the absolute most he could drive himself to endure.

He stopped, one hand still on the door, stunned by the effect such soft, gentle odours could have on him. He’d been here before, of course, when the smells of sex and soldier-boy had dominated. None of that left, thank all the powers, just his girl and his little Bit. Soft teenage snores weren’t massively charming, but they told him she was sleeping soundly now, and not likely to be awake to challenge him. She smelled clean, like new flowers, fresh young life. The other scents would fade all too soon.

His permission to enter the house, brutally taken from him after that incident involving Dru, had been returned, almost the last thing the girl had done before leaving for. Before she went to. Before. Whatever. She’d let him back in. That was what mattered.

She was no longer there, though, nor anywhere else he could reach. And, sweet as it was to see the little one dreaming, from the half-smile on her face of happier times, he really wasn’t the creepy sort of vampire who got his kicks from standing in corners at night watching girls sleep. His skin crawled at the very thought, though he knew of a certain pillock with an under-age girl fetish doing just that, long ago. Not Spike, though. Really not.

The room, with the exception of the two still figures on the bed, was not so different from the time Captain Musclebound had found him going through a drawer. OK, he could admit to himself, not his best hour, or his least creepy, but that was way in the past now, which was another country. He still knew the layout, however, and the exceptional night vision came in handy as he skirted the bed to reach the dresser, on which a random assemblage of childhood things, not quite put behind her, cluttered the smooth wood.

He laid his hand down, the bitten nails almost free of the black polish he had prided himself on in what felt like a different era. The little crochet doily – must have been her mother’s, so not her thing – felt a little rough under his fingertips, the ridges and holes alternating like some sort of relief map. He ghosted his palm across it and drifted up along the miniature mountain of stuff. No other word for it. A naked plastic doll, impossible dimensions of long, long legs, minuscule waist, perky tits and huge painted eyes fell, threatening a cascade, but he caught it, stared briefly and unbelievingly at it, then laid it to one side. There was a teddybear to negotiate, a strange sort of headband with spring-loaded butterflies attached, a bunch of weird hair gewgaws which threatened to rattle. And there, near the top, was his prize.

One hand holding back the potential debris, he used the other to extract the object, his fingers pressing deep into the soft velour. He brought it to his nose and inhaled, more deeply than he had need to, which was not at all, stupid git. He brought his other hand up to join in cradling the precious thing.

Everybody has a toy in their past. Something special, a companion in wild fantasies of war and conquest, a playmate in an empty house, a soothing companion in the dark if things were scary or the dark was intruding. This had been hers. The pale little thing was soft, warm even to his room-temperature touch, with smooth, smooth eyes he knew would be shiny and black, proper piggy eyes in a proper little pig. Mr Gordo.

“Exactly what are you doing here?”

Shit. He’d been concentrating so hard on the stuffed toy he’d missed the little snuffles and stretching sounds that should have warned him the bitty girl was awake. Now he’d have to leave without his treasure. Unless…

Spike didn’t lie to the people he cared about. Few enough of those in nearly a century and a half, of course, but still. Didn’t mean he had to pour out the truth, the full truth. This time, though, it might be worth a try. He and his little Slayerette had a sort of chemistry of their own – it might work.

“Just dropped in after a patrol, pet. Came up to see if you were safe in the land of Nod. Found you in here, saw this stuff, thought I’d take a look. Tha’s all.”

Dawn sat up, meticulously careful to avoid touching the illusion of her sister lying beside her. If you didn’t touch, and didn’t look too hard, you could still pretend it was what it wasn’t. She pushed her hair, long and without even a sign of tangle, back from her face, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her chin tilted up and she stared into the vampire’s eyes, just visible in the light from the street lamp outside.

Whatever she saw satisfied her in some way, Spike supposed, for she stood up and reached out her arm. “Give,” she demanded.

He complied, then watched as she unhooked a bathrobe from the back of the door and shrugged it on. That might have been easier to do before she’d grabbed the stuffed pig, but she was not daunted by her struggle, and wrapped it round herself, tying the belt one-handed as if born to it. She jerked her head in the direction of the room’s exit and he followed her out and down the stairs.

In the sitting room she closed the door silently, then switched on a small table lamp next to the couch. “Now tell me the rest of the story,” the intensity of her voiced belied by the breathy whisper in which she spoke. “Do you come here often?”

He couldn’t help himself. For almost the first time since ... in a fortnight ... he grinned, and a quiet chuckle escaped him. “Never expected that chat-up line from you, Platelet, I must say.”

Dawn’s face went pink as she thought through their exchange, then she let out, still as faint as a feather landing, what could almost be called a growl, but Spike thought was adorably closer to a kitten’s purr. Spike felt himself smiling even more broadly.

“Yes, Petal, I do come here from time to time. I made a promise, you see. Said I’d watch over you, defend you, to the end of the earth. Didn’t expect that to come in the way it did, but still feel bound by my promise.”

“It does feel like the world has ended, doesn’t it? You get that. I mean, really get that. Nobody else seems to.”

“It ended for both of us, Dawn. The others, they have their grief too, devastating grief. But it’s not like you and me.”

Dawn eyed him warily. Middle of the night was a good time for hard questions, tricky conversations, if only because it wasn’t so easy to see who was crying and how much. “You really loved her, didn’t you? Buffy said you couldn’t possibly feel love, not without a soul. But I think she was wrong.”

He flinched. Hearing her name spoken still hurt. The past tense hurt a lot more. But he had promised to look out for the girl, and that meant being straight with her. As straight as he could be with himself at least.

“I love her. Now, then, in the future. She didn’t believe me; well, that’s my stupid fault, innit? I only went and found the worst, creepiest, most moronic way in the world of trying to tell her. ‘S no wonder it freaked her out. Worried yer Mum too. She was good fun, before. Never spoke to me again after. Should have kept my bleeding mouth shut. Should have offed Dru and that stupid bint Harm when I had the chance. Not as a bribe, mind. No buying love for Spike. I get that. Now. No. Should have done for them because it was the right thing to do.”

It was rare to hear him talk at such length. More than one taboo name there, too. Dawn swallowed. “So. What’s the soul for? I don’t even know if I have one. Just a ball of glowy light, with no purpose left. That’s me.”

Spike shifted and gripped her chin. “None of that now. Look at me.” She obeyed. “You have a soul. You have a beautiful, perfect soul, because you were made by the monks from her. You carry the blood of Summers women. Strong, proud, beautiful and chock full of soul. Never forget that. Never.”

Dawn was startled by the intensity in his voice. “So what is it then? Why does it make all the difference?”

“Cursed if I know the answer to that, sweetling. Just know that not having one makes me not good enough somehow. Like a piece is missing, but I can’t see where it’s missing from, or what it looks like. But I do know you are good. And ensouled.”

They fell silent. Each of them was struggling to absorb what they’d said. Neither was making a good job of it.

Dawn shifted herself on the couch and shifted the subject. “So, the explanation. You. In a bedroom here. With a stuffed pig. Gonna explain why?”

He groaned, very quietly. Bloody tenacious these women. “What I said. Did a patrol, bumped off a fair few nasties, dropped by here to check everything was all hunky-dory.”

“And the pig?” Christ. She wasn’t going to let that drop, was she? “It was hers. Important to her. Back in the day I remember Angelus joking about it. Right nasty he was, the bloody pillock. Said she loved it, handful of plastic and fake fur as it was. He had plans to rip it to pieces in front of her at one point, before getting all apocalypse-mad and dropping the idea. Dunno why it mattered to the prick quite so much. Just that it mattered to her.”

“And?” Really not giving up, was she?

“And I thought.” He sniffed. Choked back what was definitely not a sob. Definitely. “I thought if I held it. Stroked it, even. That I could feel just a little bit closer to her. That’s all. Even thought you might not miss it. Always the stupid one, me.”

Dawn’s face was wet. Her memories of the little pig weren’t real. She had never stolen and hidden it when she was seven, or pulled one of its eyes off so Mom had had to do a quick repair before Buffy got home from school. But she remembered these things happening. In a way they had. She rubbed the arm of her bathrobe across her face, dragging most of the dampness away.

“I think you need to have him.”

He jerked his head up, his eyes wide. Yes, his face was wet too, his eyes brimming. She’d guessed right.

“I think you did – do – love her. I think you need something special of hers to keep next to you. I have this whole house. Every bit of every room hurts, but I am surrounded by her. All the things she used, all her clothes and photos. I can spare one little toy pig.”

There was painful hope in his eyes. “You really mean that? I thought of nicking it. Never thought you’d give it.” He swallowed hard. “I’m such a jerk. You’d think at pushing a hundred and forty I’d know better. But yes. Yes please. If you can bring yourself to be without him, I’d really, really like to have him.”

Dawn hugged the toy, hard and long. Then, with infinite gentleness, she laid it in his arms. “Take it home, Spike. Cuddle it if you need to. Be close to it.”

He could scarcely speak to thank her. Clutching the velour stuffed toy as if it was the most priceless thing in his world, which in a way it was, he scurried home.

A scurrying master vampire is not something you see every day or night. He looked more vulnerable, running with his head down, both arms hugging the tiny pig to his chest. Dawn stood at the door and watched till he was out of sight. Then she sighed and went up the stairs.

Comments are loved and nurtured like my own babies.

Spike, the Buffybot and the meaning of "Human".

2021-03-14T00:41:34Z

After some discussion on EF about Spike and the Buffybot I found myself thinking about the thematic importance of Warren's short-lived creation. This is the result - comments would be welcome, especially if you want to engage with or rebut my ideas, but if meta isn't your thing, feel free to pass on by.

The Buffyverse is full of doppelgangers, from Vampire Willow and The Wish Buffy to Liam, William and Cecily/Halfrek. It could be argued that The Road Not Taken is almost a mission statement for the show at times, and characters frequently have to make choices about their fundamental identity – who they are and who they want to be. We, the viewers, are shown the alternatives and are encouraged to reflect on the choices made.

Part of growing up is about discovering your “real” self, and coming to terms with your strengths and weaknesses, your core beliefs and your self-delusions. To some extent all the transformations are about that – schoolgirl to witch or Slayer, schoolboy to werewolf or skilled craftsman, young gentlemen to vicious vampires. Dawn, who is “really” a mystical Key, writes about her “real” self in her diary in the first episode in which she is a full participant. As viewers, however, we know that much of what she believes is the truth is not “true” according to our experiences of her world; she is an unreliable narrator on a scale previously unexplored in the show. Moreover, on our first viewing, we have no idea how to handle our own knowledge; our understanding of her – and by extension our own – world is challenged almost to the point of breaking. Eighteen months later it happens again, even more brutally, as Normal Again gives us another version of both Buffy and her world which is frighteningly plausible and undermines everything we thought we knew.

The Buffy of Normal Again is one of a number of alternative Buffies (Buffys?). The vampire of Nightmares, the hardened killer of The Wish, the broken girl of Normal Again are all roads not taken. They are all, significantly, also severely damaged by their life experiences, just as “our” Buffy is. But what if nothing had hurt her? If she’d continued to be happy, supported, unchallenged by the brutal realities of life? What if the loss of her mother and of her boyfriend, Riley, had washed over her, leaving her unaffected?

That is what you get in the Buffybot. Created by sleazy Warren according to Spike’s requirements, she is cheerful at all times, displays the emotional responses expected of her, is invariably ready and eager for sex and her first priority is to please Spike. In other words, she is not a real girl. The image of Pinocchio recurs during the series, often in Spike’s language, but also in the human-made people. The Buffybot is far from being the first of these. Sid, the possessed ventriloquist’s dummy, is followed by Ted, the serial wife abuser and April, the rejected lovebot. All are deeply damaged as “people”, while challenging us to question our own understanding of what actually constitutes a person.

It’s important to recognise that the Buffybot is doubly a masculine idea of what a “real girl” is: Spike’s illusion of Buffy carried into action by Warren. The episode Intervention was written by Jane Espenson, and her twist on what a man might see as ideal is not only funny, as so much of her work is, but also thought-provoking. The Bot is manufactured by a man who is incapable of seeing women as people with their own agency, as we will see in the next season. He made April, tired of her remarkably quickly, moved town to wipe her out of his life and is completely lacking in remorse when she comes looking for him. She was made to be his concept of a girlfriend, only existing in relation to him: he specifically says: “I made her to love me. I didn't make a toy. I made a girlfriend“, but when he is not with her she ceases to exist as far as he is concerned. Her “love” is relevant to him only as long as he wants it, after which it becomes an irritating inconvenience to him. Despite the failure of his first creation, abandoned because she does not perfectly fit his needs, he makes another, to order. And this second attempt has all the same flaws as his first. He is the ultimate solipsist; nobody exists for him when he is not there to observe them.

Spike wants, he thinks, a Buffy clone who is devoted to him, the perfect girlfriend. He himself, after all, was "created" by Drusilla to be her ideal, or idealised, companion. He has tried managing with one false Buffy, when Harmony is ready to play sex games while wearing Buffy’s stolen clothes. It failed, because the pretence was too flimsy, and Harmony’s own needs and demands kept pushing through the fragile fabric of illusion. She is of no value to him in herself, and he barely notices that she leaves him at the end of Crush. Playing as a toy Buffy, from his perspective she is no more real than the robot; if anything, he is able to spare more emotion for the latter. He has been Drusilla's toy for a century or more; this is the relationship pattern he has internalised.

Even so, the robot is clearly a failure in Spike’s terms. It provides sex, but only according to its programming. The programming treats sex as a technical exercise, with files of positions shown onscreen as part of the database. When it reaches the end of a programmed sequence it can only start again or, on instructions, move to another sequence. It is, by specific design, incapable of autonomy. Yet even Warren tired quickly of a too-perfect “girlfriend”. April bored him. Spike wants more from his manufactured girlfriend than Warren wanted from his, however, and the disappointment is likely to be more extreme.

Spike wants Buffy. His obsession with her, if that were all it was, would have been satiated by repeated sexual activity with an apparent clone with her voice, body and face. After all, his requirements were very precise:

WARREN: Hey, she's, uh, great. You'll be real happy, I swear, she's got everything you asked for. All the extra programming, tons of real-world knowledge, the profiles you gave me about her family and friends.
SPIKE: *All* the extra programming, right?
WARREN: Ah, the, the stuff that you wanted, the, uh, scenario responses, you know, the, uh, uh, special ... skills ... (nervous laugh) All of it.

Note that to both of them the special extra programming is what matters, her ability to respond precisely as required, to order. At this point there is no significant difference between the human woman and the mechanical model, as long as the latter is sufficiently capable of mimicking the former. Spike thinks he needs a “nice Buffy”: one that will do exactly what he wants. However, as soon as he has her, he realises that her voice and body do not equal “her”, the woman with whom he is obsessed, with whom in his own mind he is in love. Without agency and free will she cannot be Buffy. What is more, it was always going to be impossible for a human to construct the “real” Buffy, lacking, inevitably, any grasp of her interiority, of the thought processes that make her act as she does.

Spike, the soulless monster, is not Warren, the ensouled human, however; he seems to have some sense of responsibility for the Buffybot. When he realises it is Buffy herself who has visited him after his beating from Glory, he asks after the robot. Later, during the interval between Buffy’s death and her return, he finds it actively painful to work with her, and finds the remnants of the programmed devotion he himself asked for to be particularly distressing. This is part of the learning process we see in him from Season 5 onwards. Unlike Warren he has learned that he needs to sense autonomy in his “girlfriend” – he is only satisfied when her free will is involved.

During the toxic sexual relationship which develops in Season 6, there is a sort of inversion of roles, in that Buffy does not feel “real”, or, indeed “feel” anything much. In the song before their first kiss Buffy admits that only he is capable of making her feel. She is, in effect, not a real girl; she has taken on the role of the robot destroyed by the demons on the day of her return. Spike, conversely, admits that she makes him feel real, not dead. This inversion persists to the point at which Buffy is forced to admit that Spike’s emotions are real for him, while her inability to share them is destroying her.

Spike attempts a number of times further to make her return his feelings; he hovers, threatening to tell all in Normal Again. He tries to make her jealous in Hell’s Bells - and derives some hope when she admits that it does hurt to see him with someone else. Her pain seems to be the only measure he has of what she is able to feel about him; Dawn tells him she was hurt by his entanglement with Anya and this is what gives him the incentive to make one last, disastrous effort to make her share his feelings in Seeing Red. In the bathroom scene she is tired, battered, almost entirely without feeling, it appears from outside. He has a superabundance of feeling and only one template for acting on it – the violent sex which has been a key feature of their relationship. His lack of a soul makes him unable to see the boundary he transgresses until too late.

Ironically this is a point at which they come closest to each other. Both are horrified at what he has attempted to do. He leaves without knowing about the terrible events of later in that episode; she is no longer able to exploit him as a caregiver for Dawn. Both of them have hit rock bottom, and for both there is now only one direction – taking their own moral and personal growth in hand. Spike seeks his soul: Buffy literally returns to the grave, but this time with a new determination to rise from it.

Spike’s growth is reflected in his idea of what humanity means, and his understanding of his place in the scale of demon to human. When he tries to feed from Willow in the dorm he is awkward, trying to reassure her that she is desirable even as he fails to kill her. He still sides with the monster n himself. The creature who attempted to convince himself to feed from a passing stranger in Smashed is fighting for an identity he has lost. A year later he asks Buffy to stake him in case he causes further deaths. An important part in the growth of his understanding of what it means to be human is, ironically, the non-human Buffy, who has shown him that form and function are not enough to make a person. Even more ironically, it could be argued that in some ways the Bot symbolises Buffy - on returning from the dead Buffy is metaphorically in pieces, unable to function. The Buffybot is quite literally both of these.

Appropriately, there are no robots in the final season. Spike and Buffy are both as real as they can be, and have to find ways of destroying their own demons independent of outside forces. Spike faces the fate of his mother and overcomes the trigger which has made him kill again. Buffy has his chip removed, so he finally has full agency – as much and as little as any souled human. His choices are his own, not his demon’s, and her choices are no longer affected by the vast weight of loss and depression which has plagued her for over a year. Each has to face a double once more, but now it’s a representation of their individual deaths, and they have learned to deal with that. When Buffy embraces him and finds peace and solace in his arms, they meet as equals, without duplicates or distorted mirror images. They are ready to go out and fight the fight as autonomous adults.

Snowflake Challenge

2021-01-02T00:25:35Z

As I sorta accidentally volunteered to help the mods, I thought I'd better try to do the challenge this year, perhaps get a little further on than before.

In your own space, introduce yourself! Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so.

I'm Gill, mid-60s, living in the English Midlands in a small town with a big castle. I used to teach English and drama, but after some MH issues I left teaching in 2011 and since then have been a serial student, doing MAs at our nearest universities, Warwick (English) and Birmingham (Shakespeare and Theatre at the Shakespeare Institute in Stratford-upon-Avon.) As a result I am an even bigger Shakespeare and Early Modern theatre fangirl than ever. I don't as yet write in the fandom, though, apart from academic essays, because treading on the turf of the Greatest Ever Writer seems a bit cheeky. I've been involved in a Zoom reading group of plays from that period since June, and it's been a real support in these strange times.

I do write in the BtVS/AtS universe, with an emphasis on Spuffy. You can find most of my fics here on DW/LJ, on Elysian Fields and AO3. I'm mildly fannish about a whole range of other shows: Doctor Who (I saw the first episode in 1963), Staged, Green Wing, Good Omens, and lots of books. I am a Literature Nerd.

I have two married daughters, one of whom has a daughter and a son. I miss them terribly in this bizarre plague time when even meeting your own family is dangerous. I am lucky to have been married to my Dave for 42 years and counting.

This is just a delight

2020-05-17T23:14:54Z

So many actors from the Buffyverse, gathering on Vimeo to thank an anaesthetist/anesthiologist. Her responses are just adorable, but by the end she's a wreck. Well, I would be too.

Wilfred Owen, 1893-1918

2018-11-04T23:55:00Z

Today is the centenary of the death of he young poet, Wilfred Owen. ONE WEEK before the Armistice he was shot by a sniper.

Turkey had surrendered. The War was clearly coming to an end. But still the young men were sent out to kill and be killed. The last man to die lived after the Eleventh Hour, about an hour and a half. His general wanted a bit more glory.

So much waste. So much futility.

Anthem for Doomed Youth
By Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

We will remember them. We must never forget, or allow our children and grandchildren to forget, the horror of war. And the pity of it.

Wilfred Owen, 1893-1918

2018-11-04T21:03:24Z

I doubt it will bother him

2018-07-12T21:57:10Z

I do rather love this.

https://twitter.com/i/status/1017516889839472643

Signal Boosting

2018-04-17T18:25:02Z

As some of my flist know, velvetwhip has had a terrible time. She lost her mother very suddenly from a horrible, rare infection, and is now struggling with debt way beyond her resources to deal with. The wonderful purple_feenix happened to be staying with her at the time and has taken her under her wing, but the financial situation is scary - we're talking hospital and funeral here, not lavishness. She has set up a GoFundMe for Gabrielle, who is one of the sweetest and most supportive people in the entire Buffy fandom. If you could see your way to adding even a little it would really help.

http://www.gofundme.com/help4gabrielle

Times are hard, I know - if you can't afford cash, perhaps you could help boost the signal, on FB, DW/LJ, Tumblr, Twitter, wherever the cool young things hang out these days? It's bad enough to lose your Mum, but this mess is making it ten times tougher for her.

Bloody hell

2018-04-17T16:51:28Z

It gets worse. The sodding Home Office destroyed the landing cards of the Windrush generation, collected when they arrived here 50-60 years ago, despite protests by civil servants who pointed out that it could make it harder to establish the immigration status of that generation.

And they did it in 2010. I am incandescent and speechless with fury.

https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/apr/17/home-office-destroyed-windrush-landing-cards-says-ex-staffer

Just how much more shamefully can our government act?

ETA: Particularly interesting is the end of the article:

The former Home Office employee, who worked in a team of around 50 in the data protection unit, said staff had wanted to offer the landing card files to public archives, but were told there was no interest.

He said he asked managers at the time what would happen in the case of a dispute. He said he was told the majority of people on the landing cards were in their 70s and 80s and most of their cases would have been resolved, and the office did “not have the resources to keep them”.

“I suggested digitising but was told there were no resources,” he said. He remembered protesting: “Even if half the people are dead, they are historical records.” His manager responded that the cards were “redundant”.

He said he noticed a change in approach to these cases after the announcement of the “hostile environment” policy by May, then home secretary. In 2009 and 2010, managers gave case workers and members of his team time to look into cases. “Generally speaking, most Home Office staff want to try to do the right thing and be fair, within the rules,” he said.

But from 2013 onwards, he said, staff were “given no leeway to make a judgment call”. The changed atmosphere combined with staff cuts made it a more unpleasant place to work and many experienced staff took redundancy, he said. The people who remained were told: “These are the rules, stick to them.”

He decided to leave at around this time. “I am so angry that people are being treated in a way which is just abhorrent.”

Sunshine, snowflakes, dust and ashes

2018-02-28T23:51:50Z

We have winter weather here - unheard of for late February, according to the more hysterical media. (Daily Express, I'm glaring at you.) In Scotland it's actually serious, but here it's a light dusting and temperatures only a few degrees below freezing.

Folks from places with deep snow for months may mock, but it's actually quite rare here, thanks to the Gulf Stream, and snow by the foot is generally a once-a-decade phenomenon. That means it is really not cost-effective to invest in snow tyres/chains for cars or commercial vehicles, and local highways authorities have gritters but few snowploughs. At times like this, that's a problem.

On Monday we went up to Llandudno to inter my mother's ashes with my father's. The minister who conducted the funeral was there, so we had some prayers and a quasi-religious interment, but it was short, though rather moving. I've struggled to express my grief over the last few weeks - a sort of flatness, a lack of affect, rather than tears, though I did cry a little as my niece placed the little casket in the hole. Weirdly, the funeral director had brought a similar casket containing soil with him, for us to throw into the hole. My niece, with a doctorate in archaeologist, actually asked him about it; "I'm a professional archaeologist, and I know what human remains look like, and they aren't it..." At such times a smile is welcome.

We went back to Mum's bungalow afterwards, for a cuppa and a quick recon, which mostly brought home the huge scale of the task. She had done no sorting of stuff before she entered the home, so there is paperwork everywhere, and so. much. stuff. It's going to take some pretty intensive sorting before we can put the place on the market, which can't happen before we get the grant of probate. I have begun on the paperwork for that. The wheels of HMRC (tax/customs arm of government) grind slow but very fine, and there is much to do. We will be getting to know the A5 far too well over the next few months, I fear.

R and E (niece) each took a memento from the house. We are all very determined nobody will squabble over stuff, so it's nice to know that some of the things Mum liked but I don't will find a safe haven with E.

The "beast from the east", or "hysteria from Siberia" has arrived, and we have a little more snow today. Pretty, but no problem.

Rhiannon likes the snow.

It may get worse later in the week, as the Jet Stream has definitely skewed and we are getting weather from all sort of unexpected directions. Meanwhile, in the area around the North Pole, the temperature is above freezing for the first recorded time during the polar night. This is what climate change looks like, folks.

I gather Trump has mislaid another close associate. Ah well.

Fic - Mothers' Day

2018-02-19T13:52:05Z

No prizes for guessing what triggered this. S7, Spike in the basement and elsewhere.

Mothers’ Day

She visited him. In the basement, in the street, in the cellar, she was there for him, with him, so he was never alone.

God, how he wished he was alone.

Sometimes she was empathetic. “I lost her. It was so sudden. I thought my worries were finished; she’d had the operation, she was out of the hospital, she’d even been on a fricking date. So I know loss. I know it hits sudden and deep.”

His loss hadn’t hit sudden. It hadn’t hit deep either, not for the first century. When it did hit deep it was sudden.

Sometimes she reminded him he was always guilty. “You liked her, you said. I saw her buying the special chocolate, the sort with the little marshmallows for you. I saw you making her laugh. But when it counted, you weren’t there. You made free of her house and my house, but when she needed you where were you?”

Sometimes she looked different. “You don’t know guilt, my Spike. You don’t know being driven by remorse when they died and you couldn’t help. You don’t know feelings any more than you know the birds in the well or the stars hiding in the floor. You don’t know because you’re not right and never will be.”

Sometimes she was herself. “You thought I loved you. You never knew how much I laughed at you. My friends thought I should have got rid of you, but I was too soft, too tired to tell you what I really thought. Your father could have said, but he was long gone and I just took the easy way.”

Sometimes she was gentle and kind. “I need you to be here with me. Just let’s sit together and be quiet.” But sometimes that turned into something quite other. “Just sit there and let me run my hands through your hair. And over your body, all those smooth planes and defined muscles.” Those were the times he screamed. He wanted her and he wanted her and he even missed her, but they were all three there together in one and as one.

He knew it was his fault. It was the soul. It was the lack of soul and the two killings so close together, so long ago. It was the girl who rejected him and the one who took him and made him her own and the girl who rejected him while taking him or took him as she rejected him. Above all it was the one he failed again and again. He’d failed to save her, he’d failed to cure her, he’d killed her again and again which was why she never left him.

He shifted his posture and heard that tune and shifted his face and raged and raged. She’d made him a man and made him a monster and now he was trying to be a man again.

The girl could save him. She treated him as a man, knowing he was a monster. He could serve her or service her and she would come to him and come with him. And then he could be at peace.

Comments on this will be loved and cherished.

Many thanks to all of you who commented on my previous post - much appreciated.

Too glorious not to share.

2018-01-22T15:44:53Z

It does help to be a Brit to get this, I know. If you aren't, and have never heard of the late, great, wonderful Victoria Wood, you should go and look her up on YouTube or similar - Acorn Antiques might be a good place to start. But first, watch this:

Now read the following, from Twitter:

OK, "Theresa" and "Farage" are a bit Brit, but I'm sure you get the gist!

My monthlydiaryday post

2018-01-15T16:20:01Z

I've not been much good at updating this comm of late, but Friday was quite a fun day. This is what I posted - mostly under a cut to spare you.

Really? 2018???? I have never really adjusted to the new millennium, and now its second decade is nearly over.

Up earlier than usual as my car had to go in for its MOT and service, which involved both of us going over to the dealers' the other side of Leamington Spa, and then back in Dave's. On the way we stopped at the mega-Sainsbury's round the corner from the car place, to buy food and so I could trawl what's left of the children's stuff in the sale. Only the bigger branches do clothes, and it's not usually worth the hassle to go over that way, so this was a nice opportunity to pick up a few things for Rhiannon, all half-price or better. A sweet top and leggings, a fluffy fleecy jacket and cool jeans with stars on.

Rhiannon cares very little about what she wears, but she'll look adorable (as she would in a paper bag, frankly) and F will, I hope, be pleased.

(Bloody LJ just swallowed a long paragraph. WHY?)

I watched some TV while we consumed much-needed coffee on getting home; my secret vice is crafting TV channels, especially the morning-only Sewing Quarter, which, you may be amazed to learn, deals only with fabric, textiles and sewing crafts. The presenters are hilariously inept, often apparently more interested in talking to the producers they, but not we, can hear on their headphones than addressing their audience. A little goes a long way, however, so I then turned to planning a trip to Nottingham next week to see the County Archives and, I hope, to garner useful material on productions of Shakespeare in the mid-60s there.

Dave sneakily ate some lunch. I forgot, which was silly. Then it was off to Stratford in Dave's (battered, elderly) car where he strolled around town and bought a shirt in the Rohan sale. He wears almost entirely that brand since retiring.

Meanwhile I went into the Shakespeare Institute for a "Sonnet Workshop". Will Sutton, , an SI alumnus, came in to run a two-hour session. In the first hour as a group we looked at one of my long-time favourites, Sonnet 73, "That time of year thou mayst in me behold..." Then we moved into small groups to pick one to work on and present as a performance. Three of us chose Sonnet 123:

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past;
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by that continual haste.
This I do vow, and this shall ever be:
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

We played around with different ways of doing it, from a word each, a line each, a punctuation block each, before settling on a dynamic way to project the poem, which is a typical Shakespeare boast - time can't change me. We weren't entirely sure about the pyramids, mind you.

Each group performed to the others, then the session was rounded off with three professional performers - Will and two major celebrities in our (granted, fairly niche) field, the Sonnet Man (Devon Glover):

and Ben Crystal (son of the incredibly eminent David Crystal) who has made a career of performing Shakespeare in the closest we can get to the accent of the period:

Here he is with his father at the Globe, talking about OP, with examples:

Ben performed Sonnet 18, "Shall I compare thee...". It was lovely, and the afternoon was enormous fun. It's always great to do this sort of thing with other people who are just as geekish about the poems. Will said he'd loved working with people who didn't need iambic pentameter explaining to them, and who could tell the difference between poetry and prose!

They posed with the Boss afterwards:

Dave attracted my attention by waving through the window, as we went on talking long after we were supposed to have finished. We went straight to the garage and collected (and paid for - ouch) my car and then went home.

We didn't do a lot in the evening, other than watch TV - QI and "Silly boys in fancy cars"=Amazon's ~~Top Gear~~The Grand Tour, which was entertaining enough.

Just to catch up, the Wednesday before we went down to see F. Compulsory Rhiannon photos:

And on Thursday there was the 25th anniversary of the SI play-reading sessions, so there was fizzy wine, cake, Professor Sir Stanley Wells (another niche megastar!) and, as we did The Revenger's Tragedy, much perverted murder. I do love Early Modern plays!

RIP Ray Thomas

2018-01-08T15:14:10Z

The Moody Blues headlined the first gig I ever went to, in Leicester when I was 16. I was addicted to their music for most of my remaining teenage years. One of the important elements of their distinctive sound was the flute (think Nights in White Satin) played by Ray Thomas, who died yesterday.

This is a gentle piece Ray wrote - they were not just a pretentious, loud prog-rock band. I still enjoy their music. Well, at least the music that doesn't have insanely pretentious lyrics. RIP, Ray.

Fandom Snowflake, Day 3

2018-01-04T01:13:54Z

Day 3

In your own space, post recs for at least three fanworks that you did not create. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so.

I'm going to go with something old, something not too old and something new. And, unapologetically, all are not only in the BtVS fandom, but in the Spuffy quadrant thereof.

To start with, the very new - Every Rose by Sunalso, who also posts at Elysian Fields. Just the first chapter so far, but setting up an extremely intriguing story. Wishverse Buffy, having wiped out the rest of the Fanged Four, goes after William the Bloody, but with an unexpected hitch. So now she has to travel back in time to put a stop to him before he even gets started. I'm really looking forward to updates on this.

Doesn't Matter by Sigyn, who has been working in the fandom for three or four years now, and producing some really good plotty fics but also some one-off portraits like this one, set just after Buffy's return from meeting Angel in early S6, when Spike is the only person she is able to confide in. Subtle and touching, but also with occasional flashes of humour.

And an old one, but still excellent, from the much-missed calove, who vanished about eight years ago, from the world of Spuffy fandom at least. She wrote excellent, powerful stories, mostly with a Spike, if not a Spuffy focus, and with a real feel for voice and context. This one, Five Stages of Grief is an exploration of post-Chosen feelings, alternating between Spike and Buffy. Beautifully done. Click through to read later sections.

So many wonderful writers in this fandom, and so many have moved on elsewhere, to other fandoms, or RL, or into the ether. It makes me sad and nostalgic - but if you haven't come across any of these writers and you enjoy Spuffy, you should seek them out, because they are all very much worth your time and attention. In a fandom dating back 20 years there's a lot of good stuff in the distant past which deserves a new audience.

In other news I visited oxfordia today and spent several hours teaching her delightful daughter how to use a sewing machine. You can take a teacher out of the classroom...