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Big Bad by tangent
Title: Big Bad
Disclamer:I have no rights whatsoever on anything Joss & co came up with first. specially not they're dialogue.
Setting: in the midst of 'Get It Done'
Warning: There is a little bad language in this piece but nothing not heard on the show.
Spike lay on the bedroom floor, sprawled in a sorry heap of throbbing pain.
He groaned softly as full awareness slowly crept back into his battered consciousness, bringing with it waves of sickening nausea and sharp fresh agonies. Getting thrown through a ceiling hurt like all kinds of holy hell, he reflected ruefully.
Raising himself slightly from the floor he shook his head trying to rid himself of the buzzing ache that filled it; trying to focus; to will his unsteady limbs into some kind of action.
Slowly, he crawled round the ragged hole that he had arrived through and over to the neatly made bed dragging himself clumsily on to it, wincing as his bruised body complained with every tiny movement.
The demon had swatted him aside like he was an insect, just an inconvenient nuisance, almost an irrelevance. Oh, he'd been a big fella alright but he'd faced worse, faced 'em and bested 'em. Once there'd been a time that he would have killed something like that quick and easy, hardly even working up a decent sweat as he went.
No, the slayer was right; there was something missing, something that had given him that edge, that sharpness; that undying ferocity that had made him one of the most infamous dark warriors ever to spill blood. Well now was the time to stop playing at it, to get back to basics, to what worked.
Buffy was relying on him, and there was no way on this soddin' earth he was gonna let her down, not now; not ever.
He made his way to the stairs and staggered down, leaning heavily against the wall as he went. A dull ache in his side told him he probably had a couple of bruised ribs but that didn't matter: he'd had worse. The muffled sound of voices drifted up to him as he descended, voices that were raised not in argument but in discussion, exploring possibilities, working out tactics. That was how these so called Scoobies reacted to trouble, pulling together, becoming more than their parts. It was faintly admirable he supposed; in an annoying kind of way.
Reaching the last step he turned towards the sound, the words becoming ever more distinct as he closed in on the speakers.
"Plus, we need an exchange, like you said. I'm thinking a slayer for a demon."
It was the potential, Kennedy. Spike had to admit to sort of liking the young slayer in waiting. She had guts and wasn't afraid to show it. Oh, she rubbed people up the wrong way from time to time, sure; but as he knew better than most, that's where half the fun lay.
"Right. If we want Buffy back, then we have to find that demon and send it through".
That was the new guy, the principal. There was something about him that raised spike's hackles. The guy had issues, some kind of agenda; he could feel it in his gut. Still as long as they were on the same side, fighting the fight he'd leave it be; at least for now.
"It matter if it's dead or alive?"
Spike had managed to get to the doorway by now and was leaning on the frame unobserved.
"I vote dead." He said with as much nonchalance as he could muster, enjoying the surprised glances. "The slayer's counting on you, Willow. Get cracking on that portal, and don't be stingy with the mojo. The demon's mine."
"Hate to say it, Big Bad" Kennedy said making ironic ?air quote' signs "but you look like you can barely stand. We're trained. And the only thing we know for sure about this demon is it kicked your ass"
He gave a small wry smile. Yep, guts. She was his kind of gal alright.
"It did at that"
He pushed away from the door jamb and made for the kitchen door.
"Where are you going?"
"Something I need" He said not turning back to face the questioner. Wood, yeah that was it; Robin Wood.
Tilting his head to work out some of the stiff pain in his neck, he paused for a second, opened the door and set purposefully out into the waiting night air.
He walked briskly, eating up the distance with long determined strides, a man in a hurry. His pain relegated to his sense of purpose.
'Big Bad', that's what the potential had called him. 'Big Bad' and she hadn't needed the air quotes, the irony in her voice had been quite enough to tell him it was a title to which he could no longer lay claim
It had been too long since the mere mention of his name had struck terror in those with the wit to know of it; too long since his appetite for destruction had made him one of the most renowned killers this world had seen. Even with the chip his name had been known and feared in the demon community, but now even that reputation was fading fast.
He stopped under a streetlight and lit a cigarette watching the flame catch and flare.
It was this bloody stupid soul. Yeah that was the problem.
To know of the things he had done over a hundred years of bloody slaughter; of the levels of cruel depravity he had sunk to; that was one thing. To know and to care; well that was something else entirely.
He'd felt it even before tonight's little scrap. The need to keep the beast within contained; to keep the demon on a tight leash, unable to set it free in case it ran amok and couldn't be put back in its cage. The risk of adding more guilt and remorse to the black hole of emotion that sucked at his sanity just too much, too big.
He took a long, last drag from the cigarette and pitched it carelessly into the road before setting off again, head down, face set, all business once more.
That was the trick; to be strong you had to look strong. You could never show them how scared you felt; never let them see your weaknesses, or that was that; game over.
Oh he'd tried to play nice with those damn Scoobies; tried to show them how much he?d changed. But not one of them listened, not one of them saw; not even the boy, the one who supposedly saw so bloody much. They were all so wrapped up in themselves that they hardly had time to recognise each others pain, let alone that of someone outside their cosy little club.
And even if he could somehow get them to understand, could find the right words to explain the maelstrom of new emotions that tore into him every night; what would he get from them? Kind words? Good intentions? Tea and bleedin' sympathy? Well bollocks to that! He wasn't about to start moping about looking for hugs and understanding. It was no use looking for forgiveness when you couldn't forgive yourself.
Dawn, now she was different. Once she might have listened to him; might have actually understood, but not now; not knowing what he had done.
No, the only one he could dream of talking to, the only one who even came close to understanding was Buffy. She'd said that she believed in him; she'd seen what he was, seen what he could be. She'd reached out and she had saved him and now she needed him and he would be doubly damned if he would fail her again.
Turning a corner, his destination reared up before him: Sunnydale's finest educational facility. The place you had to learn fast or die trying.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Hellmouth High.
Once inside the drab, uniform surroundings of the new school he quickly made his way down to the basement, pausing slightly as he took his bearings.
He'd heard that it was easy to get turned round down here; that walls shifted and rooms moved, trapping the unwary in an ever changing maze. Such stories didn't matter to Spike though he knew exactly where he was heading.
It was if it called out to him; spurring him on, bringing him to it.
He turned to his left and strode forward, gathering momentum as he went. Door after door flung back on their hinges as he marched through the sprawling featureless warren, never veering once from his path.
Then almost before he could realise it he was there.
It was a narrow room not unlike any of the others he had passed through except this one was scattered with old filing cabinets and tattered boxes crammed full of forgotten miscellany.
Spike hesitated, realising that he was about to plunge himself back into a world he had only just escaped. It was in here he knew. Waiting, ready to be rediscovered; ready to be set free once more. The thought sent a cold thrill racing down his spine as fear and excitement and trepidation mingled within him.
He would risk it all, everything he'd achieved, everything he'd become. He would sacrifice this new man on the altar of the past; awaken the forgotten fury; and all for Her. All for the girl.
Seizing his courage he strode quickly to the small side room where his goal awaited him. kneeling in front of a tall wooden packing box that, to the casual observer, looked just like any other he started to rummage within, discarding useless scraps of musty paper and small random items around him as he went.
Then as the space cleared, the faded sheen of worn leather peered up at him from beneath the forgotten debris.
He seized on it eagerly, lifting the dusty coat to eye level, spreading it wide, examining it like the face of a long absent friend; drinking in the familiar contours of its long sensuous folds. Here was the prize he had sought, the thing that would give him back his edge.
This was more than a mere leather duster; it represented a lifetime of fighting, of battle without quarter; taking on the fiercest, the strongest, the deadliest foes and always, always, coming out on top. This coat represented the old him. Hell, this coat was the old him.
That was what he was here to recapture; that Spike, the Spike of old; the man who raised a finger to the world and said ?here I am, take your best bleedin' shot, but if I'm going down I'm going down fighting and I'll take the whole soddin' lot of you with me'.
He'd tried so hard to become more than that; to be a better person, a better man. He'd given everything he could to become the man that Buffy wanted: now it was time to give her the man she needed.
Turning on his heels he stormed from the room shrugging the coat on as he went; immediately feeling the return of the old defiant strut. Wearing this coat he felt like a warrior again. As if he were a knight encased in his favourite battle hardened armour. Spike might have only encased his body in thin, battered leather but his fear; his guilt and his remorse were all locked behind thick walls of black, tempered steel.
On he continued growing stronger with every step; his belief and conviction hardening as he went; certainty burning through him like a righteous fire.
He had a job to do; a demon to kill and after that, a world to save.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, his face set in a glare of determined ferocity.
Now was the time for evil to be afraid ?cos he would fight till the bitter, bloody end, be it death or glory. Yeah, that was right; he was back and there was nothing that could stop him now.
Big Bad was back.
Title: Big Bad
Disclamer:I have no rights whatsoever on anything Joss & co came up with first. specially not they're dialogue.
Setting: in the midst of 'Get It Done'
Warning: There is a little bad language in this piece but nothing not heard on the show.
*****
Spike lay on the bedroom floor, sprawled in a sorry heap of throbbing pain.
He groaned softly as full awareness slowly crept back into his battered consciousness, bringing with it waves of sickening nausea and sharp fresh agonies. Getting thrown through a ceiling hurt like all kinds of holy hell, he reflected ruefully.
Raising himself slightly from the floor he shook his head trying to rid himself of the buzzing ache that filled it; trying to focus; to will his unsteady limbs into some kind of action.
Slowly, he crawled round the ragged hole that he had arrived through and over to the neatly made bed dragging himself clumsily on to it, wincing as his bruised body complained with every tiny movement.
The demon had swatted him aside like he was an insect, just an inconvenient nuisance, almost an irrelevance. Oh, he'd been a big fella alright but he'd faced worse, faced 'em and bested 'em. Once there'd been a time that he would have killed something like that quick and easy, hardly even working up a decent sweat as he went.
No, the slayer was right; there was something missing, something that had given him that edge, that sharpness; that undying ferocity that had made him one of the most infamous dark warriors ever to spill blood. Well now was the time to stop playing at it, to get back to basics, to what worked.
Buffy was relying on him, and there was no way on this soddin' earth he was gonna let her down, not now; not ever.
He made his way to the stairs and staggered down, leaning heavily against the wall as he went. A dull ache in his side told him he probably had a couple of bruised ribs but that didn't matter: he'd had worse. The muffled sound of voices drifted up to him as he descended, voices that were raised not in argument but in discussion, exploring possibilities, working out tactics. That was how these so called Scoobies reacted to trouble, pulling together, becoming more than their parts. It was faintly admirable he supposed; in an annoying kind of way.
Reaching the last step he turned towards the sound, the words becoming ever more distinct as he closed in on the speakers.
"Plus, we need an exchange, like you said. I'm thinking a slayer for a demon."
It was the potential, Kennedy. Spike had to admit to sort of liking the young slayer in waiting. She had guts and wasn't afraid to show it. Oh, she rubbed people up the wrong way from time to time, sure; but as he knew better than most, that's where half the fun lay.
"Right. If we want Buffy back, then we have to find that demon and send it through".
That was the new guy, the principal. There was something about him that raised spike's hackles. The guy had issues, some kind of agenda; he could feel it in his gut. Still as long as they were on the same side, fighting the fight he'd leave it be; at least for now.
"It matter if it's dead or alive?"
Spike had managed to get to the doorway by now and was leaning on the frame unobserved.
"I vote dead." He said with as much nonchalance as he could muster, enjoying the surprised glances. "The slayer's counting on you, Willow. Get cracking on that portal, and don't be stingy with the mojo. The demon's mine."
"Hate to say it, Big Bad" Kennedy said making ironic ?air quote' signs "but you look like you can barely stand. We're trained. And the only thing we know for sure about this demon is it kicked your ass"
He gave a small wry smile. Yep, guts. She was his kind of gal alright.
"It did at that"
He pushed away from the door jamb and made for the kitchen door.
"Where are you going?"
"Something I need" He said not turning back to face the questioner. Wood, yeah that was it; Robin Wood.
Tilting his head to work out some of the stiff pain in his neck, he paused for a second, opened the door and set purposefully out into the waiting night air.
**
He walked briskly, eating up the distance with long determined strides, a man in a hurry. His pain relegated to his sense of purpose.
'Big Bad', that's what the potential had called him. 'Big Bad' and she hadn't needed the air quotes, the irony in her voice had been quite enough to tell him it was a title to which he could no longer lay claim
It had been too long since the mere mention of his name had struck terror in those with the wit to know of it; too long since his appetite for destruction had made him one of the most renowned killers this world had seen. Even with the chip his name had been known and feared in the demon community, but now even that reputation was fading fast.
He stopped under a streetlight and lit a cigarette watching the flame catch and flare.
It was this bloody stupid soul. Yeah that was the problem.
To know of the things he had done over a hundred years of bloody slaughter; of the levels of cruel depravity he had sunk to; that was one thing. To know and to care; well that was something else entirely.
He'd felt it even before tonight's little scrap. The need to keep the beast within contained; to keep the demon on a tight leash, unable to set it free in case it ran amok and couldn't be put back in its cage. The risk of adding more guilt and remorse to the black hole of emotion that sucked at his sanity just too much, too big.
He took a long, last drag from the cigarette and pitched it carelessly into the road before setting off again, head down, face set, all business once more.
That was the trick; to be strong you had to look strong. You could never show them how scared you felt; never let them see your weaknesses, or that was that; game over.
Oh he'd tried to play nice with those damn Scoobies; tried to show them how much he?d changed. But not one of them listened, not one of them saw; not even the boy, the one who supposedly saw so bloody much. They were all so wrapped up in themselves that they hardly had time to recognise each others pain, let alone that of someone outside their cosy little club.
And even if he could somehow get them to understand, could find the right words to explain the maelstrom of new emotions that tore into him every night; what would he get from them? Kind words? Good intentions? Tea and bleedin' sympathy? Well bollocks to that! He wasn't about to start moping about looking for hugs and understanding. It was no use looking for forgiveness when you couldn't forgive yourself.
Dawn, now she was different. Once she might have listened to him; might have actually understood, but not now; not knowing what he had done.
No, the only one he could dream of talking to, the only one who even came close to understanding was Buffy. She'd said that she believed in him; she'd seen what he was, seen what he could be. She'd reached out and she had saved him and now she needed him and he would be doubly damned if he would fail her again.
Turning a corner, his destination reared up before him: Sunnydale's finest educational facility. The place you had to learn fast or die trying.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Hellmouth High.
**
Once inside the drab, uniform surroundings of the new school he quickly made his way down to the basement, pausing slightly as he took his bearings.
He'd heard that it was easy to get turned round down here; that walls shifted and rooms moved, trapping the unwary in an ever changing maze. Such stories didn't matter to Spike though he knew exactly where he was heading.
It was if it called out to him; spurring him on, bringing him to it.
He turned to his left and strode forward, gathering momentum as he went. Door after door flung back on their hinges as he marched through the sprawling featureless warren, never veering once from his path.
Then almost before he could realise it he was there.
It was a narrow room not unlike any of the others he had passed through except this one was scattered with old filing cabinets and tattered boxes crammed full of forgotten miscellany.
Spike hesitated, realising that he was about to plunge himself back into a world he had only just escaped. It was in here he knew. Waiting, ready to be rediscovered; ready to be set free once more. The thought sent a cold thrill racing down his spine as fear and excitement and trepidation mingled within him.
He would risk it all, everything he'd achieved, everything he'd become. He would sacrifice this new man on the altar of the past; awaken the forgotten fury; and all for Her. All for the girl.
Seizing his courage he strode quickly to the small side room where his goal awaited him. kneeling in front of a tall wooden packing box that, to the casual observer, looked just like any other he started to rummage within, discarding useless scraps of musty paper and small random items around him as he went.
Then as the space cleared, the faded sheen of worn leather peered up at him from beneath the forgotten debris.
He seized on it eagerly, lifting the dusty coat to eye level, spreading it wide, examining it like the face of a long absent friend; drinking in the familiar contours of its long sensuous folds. Here was the prize he had sought, the thing that would give him back his edge.
This was more than a mere leather duster; it represented a lifetime of fighting, of battle without quarter; taking on the fiercest, the strongest, the deadliest foes and always, always, coming out on top. This coat represented the old him. Hell, this coat was the old him.
That was what he was here to recapture; that Spike, the Spike of old; the man who raised a finger to the world and said ?here I am, take your best bleedin' shot, but if I'm going down I'm going down fighting and I'll take the whole soddin' lot of you with me'.
He'd tried so hard to become more than that; to be a better person, a better man. He'd given everything he could to become the man that Buffy wanted: now it was time to give her the man she needed.
Turning on his heels he stormed from the room shrugging the coat on as he went; immediately feeling the return of the old defiant strut. Wearing this coat he felt like a warrior again. As if he were a knight encased in his favourite battle hardened armour. Spike might have only encased his body in thin, battered leather but his fear; his guilt and his remorse were all locked behind thick walls of black, tempered steel.
On he continued growing stronger with every step; his belief and conviction hardening as he went; certainty burning through him like a righteous fire.
He had a job to do; a demon to kill and after that, a world to save.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, his face set in a glare of determined ferocity.
Now was the time for evil to be afraid ?cos he would fight till the bitter, bloody end, be it death or glory. Yeah, that was right; he was back and there was nothing that could stop him now.
Big Bad was back.
*****
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