Subject: [BA_Gutter] SUMMER OF LOVE PART NINE: FOR EVERY SEASON, TURN, TURN, TURN. PG Date: Sat, 05 Jun 2004 11:05:29 -0000 From: "gottarhyme1" Chapter Rating: NC17 Chapter Title: PART NINE: For every season, turn, turn, turn. Chapter Summary: Spike needs to see Miranda one more time. The `carnival is over', and Spike needs to give Miranda a happy memory of him. Chapter Notes: I loved writing this fiction, and thanks to the people who have encouraged me, especially those of you who were actually at Woodstock, and said I captured the times perfectly. Thanks for the description of the smell! J Fic Notes: Hello Joss. Have you ever considered a Spike Spin off that looked at his fascinating past? Give him a future with Buffy, and a lot of Fanged four flashbacks. I would pay to see it! Thanks for letting me play. PART NINE: FOR EVERY SEASON, TURN, TURN, TURN. Spike was searching the area for Drusilla's discarded apparel. He found most of it scattered over a wide area around the car, and he held the remnants of the thin cloth dress in his hand, as he gathered her sandals from near the cooling embers of a fire and the shattered remains of an acoustic guitar. People were starting to gather their belongings, and the rain was again misting over the scene, as fires hissed and the droplets fell sending steam spirals up into the air. Drusilla was suddenly at his side, wraith-like, lightly touching the scratches on his back, as if she wondered where they had come from. She held his smokes in her hand like a present, and he smiled softly at her as she held them out to him, slipping one from the packet, and placing it between his lips. "Ta love." He murmured, genuine warmth in his eyes as he looked at her. And in that moment, they forgave each other. Drusilla smiled brightly as he fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. SHITFUCKDAMN. He took the cigarette out from between his lips and crushed it in his fist with frustration. Drusilla reacted to the change of expression on his face, even though he hadn't actually said anything. "She owns a piece of you, my Spoike." She whispered sadly, shaking her head as the smile ran away from her face. He looked at her. She could always see what was in his mind; years of knowing him had made his every expression and thought an open book to her. She had crawled into the place where his soul used to be, and had plucked away at him until she could take him apart and piece him back together with her eyes squeezed shut. "Yes, she does at that, pet." And off her suspicious look, he explained, "My lighter. I have had that for a good while now love. Silly bint must have pocketed it off me for a souvenir." He kept his face perfectly neutral. Drusilla nodded slowly, her fingers whispering over the cuts in his back. She couldn't detect any lie in his voice, and yet… Her nails raked lightly over his back, and the recently made wounds stung like paper cuts wherever she touched him, but he didn't flinch, instead lowering his mouth to hers in a feather light kiss. "I'll hurry back. I promise, " He soothed, thrusting her clothing into her hands. "Wait with the car, Pet. This won't take long at all." And flashing a grin at her, he turned on his heel, and ran off into the misty night. Drusilla stood there, for a long time, like a marble statue, and then she blinked slowly, and walked back to the coffin like confinement of the DeSoto. She knew he would come back to her. He always did. Spike made a detour to the Harley Davidson motorbike that he and Drusilla had killed the owner for a few days previously, when they had arrived. He hoped to Hell it was where he had left it, their worldly goods were stashed in the leather saddlebags, and he needed to retrieve something from his meagre belongings… Ah. There it was! The bike was resting on it's side in a ditch, and Spike had taken great pains to conceal it's form from prying eyes by covering it with a mixture of garbage and tree branches. To the casual observer the bike looked like a pile of refuse, but Spike and Dru had always intended to return for it, unless something better had come along. The body beneath the bike was another matter. The Hippies had apparently sensed something was wrong in the rubbish pile as well, because they had given it a wide berth, the stink had ripened in the August summer air and repeated lashings of rain followed by humid heat had hastened decomposition. Spike tasted the air as the smell of dead animal assaulted his keen vampire sense of smell. He sniffed in disgust, then shrugged, setting his shoulders to the to the task of uncovering the bike. His body gleamed palely with a sheen of rain as he worked. He looked like an otherworldly being, which in a sense, he was. Perfect and sculpted, the muscles in his stomach rippled as he bent to the task of shifting the rubbish from his prize. He reached down, and with a final grunt, lifted the last branch clear. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, as he stared down into the ditch. The Harley was perfect. A work of bloody art. Seemed like such a pity to leave her here, but they had the DeSoto, now, and he would have to live with leaving this beautiful beast behind. Besides, Dru couldn't drive, let alone ride a bike, and he knew in his bones that she might get spooked by the sound of a bike, and the feel of powerful engine under her might make her skittish enough to leap off at the wrong moment. And the car made more sense anyways. Less likelihood of being combustible in a car, if the dawn caught them unawares. He reached out one pale hand to run it sensuously over the gleaming chrome of the exhaust pipe. "Sorry baby, gonna have to leave you here." He murmured, then his eyes flicked to the leather saddlebags. He leaned over, and unclipped the straps, pulling the bags free with a slight creak of leather on metal. He threw them to one side, and covered the bike and it's owner once more. Spike spared a thought for the fellow, a former Hell's Angel who was probably in the real place toasting his toes right about now, and said a silent thanks to him for the leather jacket that was now in his possession. He wiped his hands on his jeans, and stepped back from the bloke's final resting place. "I don't know how you feel about it, mate." He addressed the corpse, "But if it was me, I could think of worse things to have coverin' my dust than a Harley." He stooped to pick up the saddle bags, throwing them over his bare shoulder, then walked in the direction of Miranda's van, hoping to all that was unholy that she was still there waiting for him.