Title Heart of the City
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating R
Words 1000
Prompt The Clash
Setting post-series
A/N some more of the Proverbs verse for you, following The Demon and the Deep Blue Sea and possibly slightly influenced by the last few days of getting extremely damp in our nation's capital...
It’s raining in London.
Well, you don’t want to mess with the classics, do you?
It’s been raining for a week, and Spike has had ample time to remember why leaving home seemed like a good idea. Every bloody time he did it, too.
Doesn’t feel like home any more, but he was expecting that. He’s managed to show the Slayer a bit of the city, with lowering clouds and plenty of sewerage routes even when the sun struggles above the horizon in bleak autumn pallor. Slayer doesn’t much enjoy the route under the Embankment, and bitches like crazy when they walk the Fleet or the Walbrook. Not all the history in the world gets her over the reek of the water or the repeated wreck of her shoes.
The rats are familiar. Sleek and proud, unafraid as anything, these are city rats like Spike knows them. Buffy’s not keen on them, either.
In contrast, they’re sleeping at the Savoy, an old trick Spike’s pulled many times before now, since the underground entrances back onto the Embankment tunnels nicely. No hassle getting in here, and poncy door locks are much easier to bypass than modern keycards. Escape routes are everywhere; the place is never full, and it’s a warren of interconnected little corridors and cubbyholes concealing hundreds of staff.
He’s enjoying the Slayer in this clandestine luxury, swags of fabric and deep-pile carpet setting off her easy prettiness, giving her dignity.
She’s enjoying it too, constantly standing between the rich silk curtains with her nose pressed to the window, examining London landmarks. He fucked her like that, the first night, looking out over the half-misted city lights as her breath further fogged the glass, and his chill hands cupped her breasts to hide her from spying eyes outside. Gorgeous, that had been, feeling her warm clasp around his cock while watching his absence beside her glowing reflection. Daring, he’d slapped her arse, making her jump and jiggle and intensifying sensation, knowing she was in the moment, here with him for once. No planning, that night.
No planning at all, for all he knows, though his mind is full of speculation. What Buffy wants with the Council, and why she’s brought him along for the ride... well, he can guess it’s not to introduce him to the folks, but he’s still chipped and helpless against human opposition, so he's no smuggled assassin. If she abandons him, he’ll be vulnerable beyond belief. He’s got no reason to trust her, though the feeling persists that she hasn’t shipped him across the ocean merely to leave him a pile of dust on an Old World carpet.
Maybe she’s coming back to the fold. Maybe she’s going to argue her case. Maybe she wants him to source her some plastique or grenades, and take the new Council out the way the old one went. Maybe the world’s ending again, and she needs to back up the Council in extremis (though if so, she’s bloody dawdling about it). Maybe she wants to free the other Slayers (he doesn’t know how many there are, but they weren’t all in the Hellmouth, so there must be a few. He suspects the Council wouldn’t have let Buffy go so long out of touch if they didn’t have a fair few other operatives available) – maybe she’s Spartacus.
Maybe it’s all of these things?
He wouldn’t know. She hasn’t said a word since that night on the ship.
Not till now, anyway. “Do you know where the temple is?”
“What, love?”
“The temple. I don’t know which temple, they always talked like there’s only one.”
He eyes her, disbelieving. “The Temple? Is that where your buddies have set up shop?” It’s all of 200 yards from the Savoy, and they’ve been dancing yah-boo defiance in the faces of the Council all week, though neither of them knew it.
The Temple is one of the old places. You can always feel it, those places where old London survives. This one, on the edge of where the Fire stopped, is redolent of the past. Bombed to smithereens, to be sure; flattened by that bloody wedding cake of the High Court whose construction had blighted the Strand in his student days; squashed by the embankments building up the riverbank and squeezing out the old city - but if you know where you’re going, you can still find corners that survive. Old covered stairs, alleys lit with gas lamps, limestone chambers and brick-built Inns that breathe coal dust and woodsmoke, ancient laws and rough enforcement. And the Templars, of course, if you want to go all Da Vinci Code. (Spike doesn’t, load of bollocks that it is, but it’s undeniable that international orders of chivalry and the Watchers’ Council have a certain congruence.)
Spike walks them there in the gloaming, mist rolling off the river and the streetlights turning grainy as the air thickens. Buffy has the address, but as always with the old places it takes time to locate, making false steps among the confusing ranks of buildings, till they find Ephraim Court, and number 17.
Stone floor, panelled walls, dim lighting, low voices. Just what you’d expect in one of these places. Nothing occult springs to the eye, and nobody seems to have spotted they’ve let a vampire in. Buffy touches him on the shoulder, indicating that she’ll go first. Which is helpful, considering Spike’s got no effing clue what to say when they get in there. Hopefully, if she’s going to start killing, she’ll mention it first so he can have a bit of planning time. (Maybe he could lock the door and start a fire? His chip twinges at the very thought.)
Creaking hinges swing the old oak open, the door marked simply Council Chamber. More panelling, more cold stone underfoot. And an audience. Some he recognises: the librarian, the redheaded witch, the idiot boy... another librarian, looking very much like Giles and presumably a holdover from the old Council. Plus a tall black guy Spike doesn’t know, and two more girls. One’s young, long-haired, projecting power. The other is another Sunnydaler, though he’s forgotten her name. Great tits. A screamer, he recalls.
Is that it? That’s who’s left? The Council was always a bogeyman for the evil of heart. That it should be so reduced... it’s extraordinary.
Buffy doesn’t seem to notice that the bogeyman has no teeth. He can smell the fear and resolve rolling off her.
But all she says is, “Okay. I’m here. What happens now?”
***
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating R
Words 1000
Prompt The Clash
Setting post-series
A/N some more of the Proverbs verse for you, following The Demon and the Deep Blue Sea and possibly slightly influenced by the last few days of getting extremely damp in our nation's capital...
It’s raining in London.
Well, you don’t want to mess with the classics, do you?
It’s been raining for a week, and Spike has had ample time to remember why leaving home seemed like a good idea. Every bloody time he did it, too.
Doesn’t feel like home any more, but he was expecting that. He’s managed to show the Slayer a bit of the city, with lowering clouds and plenty of sewerage routes even when the sun struggles above the horizon in bleak autumn pallor. Slayer doesn’t much enjoy the route under the Embankment, and bitches like crazy when they walk the Fleet or the Walbrook. Not all the history in the world gets her over the reek of the water or the repeated wreck of her shoes.
The rats are familiar. Sleek and proud, unafraid as anything, these are city rats like Spike knows them. Buffy’s not keen on them, either.
In contrast, they’re sleeping at the Savoy, an old trick Spike’s pulled many times before now, since the underground entrances back onto the Embankment tunnels nicely. No hassle getting in here, and poncy door locks are much easier to bypass than modern keycards. Escape routes are everywhere; the place is never full, and it’s a warren of interconnected little corridors and cubbyholes concealing hundreds of staff.
He’s enjoying the Slayer in this clandestine luxury, swags of fabric and deep-pile carpet setting off her easy prettiness, giving her dignity.
She’s enjoying it too, constantly standing between the rich silk curtains with her nose pressed to the window, examining London landmarks. He fucked her like that, the first night, looking out over the half-misted city lights as her breath further fogged the glass, and his chill hands cupped her breasts to hide her from spying eyes outside. Gorgeous, that had been, feeling her warm clasp around his cock while watching his absence beside her glowing reflection. Daring, he’d slapped her arse, making her jump and jiggle and intensifying sensation, knowing she was in the moment, here with him for once. No planning, that night.
No planning at all, for all he knows, though his mind is full of speculation. What Buffy wants with the Council, and why she’s brought him along for the ride... well, he can guess it’s not to introduce him to the folks, but he’s still chipped and helpless against human opposition, so he's no smuggled assassin. If she abandons him, he’ll be vulnerable beyond belief. He’s got no reason to trust her, though the feeling persists that she hasn’t shipped him across the ocean merely to leave him a pile of dust on an Old World carpet.
Maybe she’s coming back to the fold. Maybe she’s going to argue her case. Maybe she wants him to source her some plastique or grenades, and take the new Council out the way the old one went. Maybe the world’s ending again, and she needs to back up the Council in extremis (though if so, she’s bloody dawdling about it). Maybe she wants to free the other Slayers (he doesn’t know how many there are, but they weren’t all in the Hellmouth, so there must be a few. He suspects the Council wouldn’t have let Buffy go so long out of touch if they didn’t have a fair few other operatives available) – maybe she’s Spartacus.
Maybe it’s all of these things?
He wouldn’t know. She hasn’t said a word since that night on the ship.
Not till now, anyway. “Do you know where the temple is?”
“What, love?”
“The temple. I don’t know which temple, they always talked like there’s only one.”
He eyes her, disbelieving. “The Temple? Is that where your buddies have set up shop?” It’s all of 200 yards from the Savoy, and they’ve been dancing yah-boo defiance in the faces of the Council all week, though neither of them knew it.
The Temple is one of the old places. You can always feel it, those places where old London survives. This one, on the edge of where the Fire stopped, is redolent of the past. Bombed to smithereens, to be sure; flattened by that bloody wedding cake of the High Court whose construction had blighted the Strand in his student days; squashed by the embankments building up the riverbank and squeezing out the old city - but if you know where you’re going, you can still find corners that survive. Old covered stairs, alleys lit with gas lamps, limestone chambers and brick-built Inns that breathe coal dust and woodsmoke, ancient laws and rough enforcement. And the Templars, of course, if you want to go all Da Vinci Code. (Spike doesn’t, load of bollocks that it is, but it’s undeniable that international orders of chivalry and the Watchers’ Council have a certain congruence.)
Spike walks them there in the gloaming, mist rolling off the river and the streetlights turning grainy as the air thickens. Buffy has the address, but as always with the old places it takes time to locate, making false steps among the confusing ranks of buildings, till they find Ephraim Court, and number 17.
Stone floor, panelled walls, dim lighting, low voices. Just what you’d expect in one of these places. Nothing occult springs to the eye, and nobody seems to have spotted they’ve let a vampire in. Buffy touches him on the shoulder, indicating that she’ll go first. Which is helpful, considering Spike’s got no effing clue what to say when they get in there. Hopefully, if she’s going to start killing, she’ll mention it first so he can have a bit of planning time. (Maybe he could lock the door and start a fire? His chip twinges at the very thought.)
Creaking hinges swing the old oak open, the door marked simply Council Chamber. More panelling, more cold stone underfoot. And an audience. Some he recognises: the librarian, the redheaded witch, the idiot boy... another librarian, looking very much like Giles and presumably a holdover from the old Council. Plus a tall black guy Spike doesn’t know, and two more girls. One’s young, long-haired, projecting power. The other is another Sunnydaler, though he’s forgotten her name. Great tits. A screamer, he recalls.
Is that it? That’s who’s left? The Council was always a bogeyman for the evil of heart. That it should be so reduced... it’s extraordinary.
Buffy doesn’t seem to notice that the bogeyman has no teeth. He can smell the fear and resolve rolling off her.
But all she says is, “Okay. I’m here. What happens now?”
***
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Comments
That's a mean cliffhanger there, mistress!
I enjoy it when you squirm...
"Plus a tall black guy Spike doesn’t know": Robin Wood?
"two more girls. One’s young, long-haired, projecting power" Dawn?
The other is another Sunnydaler, though he’s forgotten her name.
Cordelia or Amy?
And yes, very,very spoiled. :)
Some fabulous description here - and the wetness is remarkably familiar. (Have you seen the weather forecast for the rest of the week? Ugh.) And the end demands sequels galore.
Old London peeking out from behind shady corners sounds divine to this Bloody Colonial. So exotic!
I am very interested to see how this is going to go. Can't wait for the screaming, which I know will delight Spike.
I'm romanticising the Temple a wee bit, but there genuinely are some old passageways there. Some old street names, too (Tweezers Alley, anyone?).
Bet Spike's one anxious manpire about now!