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Fic: Spike and Connor in LA
I have been playing with a couple of scenes for the past few days so I thought I would share. What if Spike didn't go to Sunny dale post grave but rather had another purpose altogether. I have no title just Spike and Connor in LA post Grave/Down Below.
As ever my love and respect to Edi for her time, patience and Beta work.
Spike and Connor in LA post Grave.
“You should be in school.”
Connor started and looked up from the knife he was sharpening. He frowned at the dirty figure chained in the corner, wondering if it was talking to him or to the apparitions in its mind.
“Are you talking to me, demon?”
It laughed and tilted its head. “Don’t see any other sullen brats in the room.”
Glowering, Connor returned his attention to the knife in his lap, hating that this creature could best him with words even when it was clear where the power in the room lay.
“So?”
Grinding his teeth, Connor ignored it, letting the silence stretch out, wondering again why he didn’t kill it and be done. When he had found it in the alley, the scent of familiar blood had bade him pause; even under the reek of garbage and unwashed skin he recognised ‘him’, or something so close as to be practically the same. Then the girl had appeared, running as if the hounds of hell were after her and he had been distracted by the fight, surprised that it had joined in taking down two of its own kind in a fighting style unlike anything he had seen before.
It had known the girl would be there.
Connor wanted to be a champion.
‘He’ had Cordelia to help him. Connor had It.
“So?”
Irritated, Connor glanced up, knowing that it would just continue to repeat itself until it got an answer. He had been sheltered with his father in Quartoth; he had never come across a being so frustrating in his life, nor imagined one.
“I don’t need school, my father taught me all I need to survive.” His voice lowered. “What school would want the child of demons?”
It laughed, a harsh sound that set Connor's nerves on edge. He flushed and grit his teeth against the mocking as it snorted, “Oh, the poor little boy feeling sorry for himself… Newsflash, brat. This is LA. I hardly think you would be the only kid with odd parentage. I’m sure daddy dearest would be happy to provide you with the means to get into a school.”
The knife made a dull thwack as it settled into the wood by its head.
“My father is dead.”
The creature snorted again, ignoring the knife at his ear. “Well yeah, dearly departed for over two hundred years now.”
Connor strode over, backhanding it before retrieving the blade. “My father is dead.”
It studied him, as ever showing no reaction to the earlier blow except absently brushing away the blood trailing from the side of its mouth. When it spoke again it was in the tones that always gave him pause, reminding him of Holtz.
“You know that if a ewe has too many lambs and can’t suckle them all herself, they would take the extra lamb and cover it with the skin of one that died, tricking the mother of the dead lamb into thinking that the extra one was hers; but it’s a trick, that ewe's lamb nothing more than badly fitting dead flesh smothering the living thing underneath.”
Connor watched as the harsh lucidity in its face bled away into a vague smile. “It doesn’t much matter what you start out as. I once knew a little girl who began as energy older than time. She goes to school, paints her nails, eats junk, mourns and loves and screams and her sister’s gonna be a fireman when the floods roll in.”
Stepping back as it began to rock and whisper to itself, Connor gripped the handle of the blade until he felt the wood creak; slowly he let out a breath and sat down. He returned to his earlier task, steadily sliding the metal over the whetstone. He wouldn’t kill it today.
He was going to be a champion, and besides, if useful for nothing else, it kept the rats from over-running the place.
As ever my love and respect to Edi for her time, patience and Beta work.
Spike and Connor in LA post Grave.
“You should be in school.”
Connor started and looked up from the knife he was sharpening. He frowned at the dirty figure chained in the corner, wondering if it was talking to him or to the apparitions in its mind.
“Are you talking to me, demon?”
It laughed and tilted its head. “Don’t see any other sullen brats in the room.”
Glowering, Connor returned his attention to the knife in his lap, hating that this creature could best him with words even when it was clear where the power in the room lay.
“So?”
Grinding his teeth, Connor ignored it, letting the silence stretch out, wondering again why he didn’t kill it and be done. When he had found it in the alley, the scent of familiar blood had bade him pause; even under the reek of garbage and unwashed skin he recognised ‘him’, or something so close as to be practically the same. Then the girl had appeared, running as if the hounds of hell were after her and he had been distracted by the fight, surprised that it had joined in taking down two of its own kind in a fighting style unlike anything he had seen before.
It had known the girl would be there.
Connor wanted to be a champion.
‘He’ had Cordelia to help him. Connor had It.
“So?”
Irritated, Connor glanced up, knowing that it would just continue to repeat itself until it got an answer. He had been sheltered with his father in Quartoth; he had never come across a being so frustrating in his life, nor imagined one.
“I don’t need school, my father taught me all I need to survive.” His voice lowered. “What school would want the child of demons?”
It laughed, a harsh sound that set Connor's nerves on edge. He flushed and grit his teeth against the mocking as it snorted, “Oh, the poor little boy feeling sorry for himself… Newsflash, brat. This is LA. I hardly think you would be the only kid with odd parentage. I’m sure daddy dearest would be happy to provide you with the means to get into a school.”
The knife made a dull thwack as it settled into the wood by its head.
“My father is dead.”
The creature snorted again, ignoring the knife at his ear. “Well yeah, dearly departed for over two hundred years now.”
Connor strode over, backhanding it before retrieving the blade. “My father is dead.”
It studied him, as ever showing no reaction to the earlier blow except absently brushing away the blood trailing from the side of its mouth. When it spoke again it was in the tones that always gave him pause, reminding him of Holtz.
“You know that if a ewe has too many lambs and can’t suckle them all herself, they would take the extra lamb and cover it with the skin of one that died, tricking the mother of the dead lamb into thinking that the extra one was hers; but it’s a trick, that ewe's lamb nothing more than badly fitting dead flesh smothering the living thing underneath.”
Connor watched as the harsh lucidity in its face bled away into a vague smile. “It doesn’t much matter what you start out as. I once knew a little girl who began as energy older than time. She goes to school, paints her nails, eats junk, mourns and loves and screams and her sister’s gonna be a fireman when the floods roll in.”
Stepping back as it began to rock and whisper to itself, Connor gripped the handle of the blade until he felt the wood creak; slowly he let out a breath and sat down. He returned to his earlier task, steadily sliding the metal over the whetstone. He wouldn’t kill it today.
He was going to be a champion, and besides, if useful for nothing else, it kept the rats from over-running the place.