Scenes from the Past by Denny

This entry is part 1 of 3 in the series Scenes from the Past
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Here goes the first chapter.


Title: Scenes from the Past
Author: Denny
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Buffy (of course)
Author’s Note: This is about living forever, and what it means to a vampire, the love of his life, and a witch, who has challenges being a best friend. By the way, it takes huge liberties with canon (sorry), but the essence of Jossverse is here. It’s short (less than 10,000 words) and I may get it all posted before dawn. If I don’t , you’ll find it the final chapter (or two) in my lj.

Note: This story has not been beta-ed. If you spot something, please do not hesitate to let me know. 

Scenes from the Past by Denny

Chapter I – Future Imperfect

Somewhere after midnight
In my wildest fantasy
Somewhere just beyond my reach
There’s someone reaching back for me
Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat
It’s gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet

Bonnie Tyler, Artist

London, England, Westminster Hospital – 2085AD

The most painful thing about being a vampire has to be living too long. Too many things get lost or misplaced over time, even a hundred leather dusters become tattered and torn and un-wearable after a while. But to throw the last one away is bloody unimaginable. Boots are better, titanium much more durable than any pair in the early part of the century. Grooming has changed, too. Hair dye, gels and the like are obsolete. Homes are houses with steel curtains and iron walls to keep out the poisonous air. Although a plus for vampires, it makes me miss cemeteries. But the old stomping ground of slayers and vampires alike are nothing but ashes in the wind now—too many dead to bury in the ground. Not even the love of your life can have a tombstone here.

Spike stood in the doorway of Buffy’s hospital room. She was in an oxygen chamber, plastic bags and tubes surrounding it, keeping her alive. She lay unmoving and soundless, barely visible beneath the rumpled white sheets. Her hazel eyes, once vibrant and shining, were tightly shut and her small white hands, bent and twisted. Her entire body was frozen in silent agony.

Spike closed his eyes and prayed. But he knew there was no God, just his Buffy decimated by age, quietly waiting to die.

A loud noise screeched behind him, hard wheels scratching on linoleum, and he wheeled around. A brown-skinned elderly woman in a nurse’s uniform was pushing a steel gurney down the hallway. Her rheumy eyes glared at him from beneath rows of thick black mascara. But he recognized the blue aura of a demon’s stare.

He placed a hand on each side of the doorframe, barring its entrance to Buffy’s room. “I know what you are. A shape shifting demon doesn’t fool me.”

“You’re the slayer’s vampire.” The demon sounded impressed and took a step back. “Her protector.”

“Yes.” Spike advanced toward the demon. “So get the bloody hell away from here, or I’ll rip your sodding head off.”

The demon flashed a row of jagged black teeth, glistening with spit. “Threats are the mutterings of a fool, vampire.”

“Not a threat.”

“Spike.” Buffy’s weak voice came from behind him. “Spike, don’t.”

The demon swept a fat, blue-black tongue across its thin lips. “Aw, so the Slayer is still alive.” It chuckled. “Then I’ll come back when she’s dead and you’ll be easy prey.”

Spike shrugged, feigning indifference. “No one knows what will happen when the Slayer dies.”

“We’ll see about that.” The demon shifted his appearance back to that of the nurse, grabbed the handles of the gurney and pushed it down the empty hallway and around the corner.

Spike stepped into Buffy’s room and closed the door behind him. For a moment he needed to lean against it. Her body was wasting away before his eyes. He shifted his gaze pretending to examine a room he already knew by heart.

The hospital’s iron barred windows towered twenty feet high from floor to ceiling. Draped with thick white curtains pulled shut, they kept the cold, the air and daylight from slipping in. The chamber was tucked into a corner. Surrounding it, the freshly scrubbed white walls showed no signs of the other souls that death had trapped here. On the nightstand rested a pitcher of water with melting ice. Next to it, a small shaded lamp illuminated the semi-dark space. A chair sat beside the bed. Spike pushed away from the door and headed for the chair.

He sensed her gaze following him, and glanced in her direction.

Wisps of gray hair mixed with dark brown strands curled softly around her neck and cheeks. But the skin on her face had shriveled into hard cracked lines. He opened the lid of the chamber, knowing he couldn’t hurt her. He then lowered his body stiffly into the chair, and took her hand into his.

“I knew I could count on you.” Buffy’s words came in between noisy breaths. “But don’t look so concerned.”

“Afraid is the better word.”

She smiled. “Don’t be. Willow’s magic kept me young for seventy-five years—and at your side. That was a gift.”

He touched her lips with a fingertip. They felt raw. He picked up a cotton swab from the table and dipped it into the pitcher of ice water. Gently, he patted the corners of her mouth and smiled, as she moved her lips in appreciation.

“Adjust the bed. I want to sit up,” she whispered. “I have to explain what I need from you.”

He found the lever near the bottom of the chamber’s stand.

“I’m tired,” she said. “I feel like I’ve killed demons and fought off apocalypses every day of my life.” Her eyelids fluttered shut.


She opened her eyes. “I need to fix a mistake I made.”

“Only one?” He half-smiled.

“Oh Spike,” she said. “Seriously, back in Sunnydale, when Willow changed the way the world was meant to be?”

“You mean by creating all the slayers?” Spike shook his head. “There was no wrong in that decision, none.”

“Not that one. Before. When Willow brought me back…”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Sunnydale would still exist, you would never have died in that Hellmouth. Anya would be alive, and she and Xander would have gotten back together, and I just know that Dawn…”

“Wait a minute, Buffy.”

“Let me finish.” She raised her hand. “Dawn would be alive, too.” She struggled to sit up.

Standing, Spike plumped the pillows behind her head. “They’ve been dead 70 years,” he said. “Why change anything?”

“Because I’ve been with you for seventy-five years, and until Willow’s spell ended a week ago, I looked and felt twenty-eight years old.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve had my life and so much more, but you’re the only chance I have of making a wrong, right.”
She grabbed his hand. “You can travel through time, get into the portal, and then come back.”

“Come back to what if you’re not here?” His chest tightened. “I won’t do it.”

“It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.”

He brought her hand to his lips. “It can’t be the last thing I ever do for you.”

“Spike, please.”

“No, Buffy, I won’t.” He released her hand. “I can’t.”

to be continued… in about an hour:)

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