beer_good_foamy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beer_good_foamy) wrote2019-08-25 10:34 pm
beer_good_foamy) wrote2019-08-25 10:34 pm
Fic: Heaven Is Hell For Bad People (BtVS/Dr Who)
OK, so I entered Doctor Who as one of my fandoms for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
intoabar, knowing there was one character I didn't think I could write but figuring what were the odds… Oh well. I hope I did Clara justice here.
Previousintoabar challenges I've written:
A Product of Its Time (Angel walks into a bar and meets... Steve Harrington!)
How To Drain Your Flagon (Wesley Wyndam-Pryce walks into a bar and meets... Khal Drogo!)
Untimely (Drusilla walks into a bar and meets... Zoe Washburne!)
The Scrying of Lot 48 (Willow Rosenberg walks into a bar and meets... Ron Swanson!)
I Will Face My Fear (Dale Cooper walks into a bar and meets... Riley Finn!)
Title: Heaven Is Hell for Bad People
Author: Beer Good (beer_good_foamy)
Fandom: Buffyverse (post-"Not Fade Away")/Doctor Who (post-"Hell Bent")
Characters/Pairing: Spike, Clara Oswald, background Buffy/Spike
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~1300
Summary: Spike walks into a bar and meets… Clara Oswald!
The band in Heaven, they play my favorite song
They play it once again, they play it all night long
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens
- Talking Heads
Heaven Is Hell For Bad People
The Ramones got on stage just as he stepped inside the bar, and they were just as great as always. Dee Dee yelled "ONETWOTHREEFOUR!" and the band kicked off with "I Don't Wanna Go Down To The Basement", and he could just dive into the crowd and go fucking mental. The Ramones were never better than they were here, with the same energy that they'd had back in the early days when he'd seen them at CBGBs, except they played the newer tunes he liked too; "Wart Hog", "Pet Sematary", "I Don't Wanna Grow Up"... Later, there'd be a poetry reading where he had something new to present, and probably a fight or two afterwards (funny how the slam poets were always more up for it than the punks) but nobody would get badly hurt, and in between he could just hang out at the bar and enjoy the scenery. As always, the bartender forgot to charge him. She just served him whatever he wanted and left him alone to work on his poetry while the DJ blasted "Sonic Reducer".
But then suddenly, there was this bird. Sat down next to him, ordered a glass of wine, looking completely out of place here; shiny hair, nice clothes, Blackpool accent. He shrugged, figured she'd realise her mistake soon enough and move on to wherever she belonged. Except she just kept sitting there, finger running around the rim of her glass, glancing his way until he had to -
"What?"
"Nothing, sorry," she said, not nearly as intimidated as he'd have thought. "I was just wondering… Were you here yesterday?"
"What's it to you?"
She smiled. It seemed, somehow, a well-practiced patient smile. "Call me naturally curious. Clara."
He studiously ignored her outstretched hand and ordered himself another drink, because he had to think about it. Had he been? He didn't seem to… He raised the glass in her general direction and grinned. "Who can tell, right? Few too many of these."
"That must be it, I suppose. The day before that, though? Or before that? When was the last time you weren't here?"
He stared at her, trying to come up with a snappy response, before finally settling on "Oh, shove off." He tossed back the bourbon, which tasted oddly flat somehow, and ordered another. He stared towards the empty stage, hoping that the band would do a second set, maybe play a few songs he hadn't heard yet. Which they never did, as far as he could remember. The girl continued sitting next to him, sipping her wine, not looking at him but obviously waiting for something. Eventually he had to turn back and ask "Fine. Wanna tell me what the hell you want?"
"Funny," she said, "I was about to ask you the same thing."
"What I want is for you to leave me alone."
"And beyond that? Dad rock, poetry, fistfights, booze, repeat for infinity?"
"Watch your tongue, Missy. The Ramones are - " He stopped. Something wrong. Something he'd forgotten. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes again, she'd put a newspaper clipping in front of him. JOEY RAMONE DEAD. 15 April 2001. That was - when? He grabbed her wrist and snarled, "OK, you'd better start talking. What the hell is going on here?"
"You tell me." She didn't flinch. He tried to stare her down, and found he couldn't; his eyes wandered back up to the stage, that had been so alive just a few moments earlier, and now was just - "No," she continued, "look at me, Spike. Remember."
His name. That was his name. It hadn't always been. He - where was - he closed his eyes again and shook his head, feeling like there was a jumble of memories he could almost see, somewhere just beyond something, something that was rippling and cracking and -
"Spike." He looked up at her. "You remember now, don't you?"
He groaned. "I think… Where am I? What did you do to me?"
She nodded slowly. "I'm sorry for being so cryptic. But you had to start breaking it down yourself. It looks like you've been trapped in an infinite loop in a dimension specifically catered to you, and not a very exciting one, either. It's all very pre-watershed, isn't it? From what I've heard of William the Bloody, he wouldn't go to a place like this and never even think about either eating or, ahem, dancing with any of the people here - her, for instance?" She nodded at the waitress, who seemed to have frozen in place along with all the other patrons. "Also, you wanna let go of my wrist now?"
"Oh." He looked down at his hand and let her go. "Sorry about - " Again, a mess of memories, the certainty that at one point he wouldn't have let her go. "How long have I been here?"
"Since you, well..."
"Since I died." He stared at her. Somehow he felt like this should have been more of a surprise. "So I'm in hell."
"Well, heaven, technically. You can tell by the amnesia, that's the price for eternal peace. It seems your atonement only got you one of the lesser heaven dimensions. The Doc-" She paused. "A friend of mine would have had this long hyperactive explanation for that, but the basic gist of it is, I happen to have a spaceship that can get you back to where you're from."
For a second, he almost forgot the confusion of chaos in his head. "A... spaceship."
"Yes."
"That can get into heaven."
"Sort of. Not all of them. Some heaven dimensions are easy to reach, others ... Vampire-eaten-by-dragon heaven isn't exactly, say, school-teacher-run-over-by-car heaven." A pained expression passed over her face and she took a sip of wine before carrying on. "It's not what I normally do, but I have ... some time to kill before an appointment, and I happened to owe an old girlfriend of yours a favour." (Another flash of jumbled-up memories made him groan and squeeze his eyes shut.) "She said she once told you about heaven, and she was very specific about not taking you out of here without your explicit consent. So if you're up for another few millennia of…" She gestured around the bar. "...this, let me know and I'll leave you alone. You should start forgetting this ever happened pretty much immediately. But ..."
Spike looked around the bar. All the graffiti on the walls had changed, he kept seeing images all over, a giant clutter of memories; of death, violence, so much of it caused by him. "And how do you know I won't simply kill you, chuck your drained corpse out the, whatchacallit, airlock and nick your ship? Seems like the sort of thing I'd do."
"Well, for one thing, I don't have an airlock. Or a pulse, for that matter." He realised that he'd known this, that he could hear and smell her lack of a heartbeat. Unlike anyone else in here who was just blank. "But if you think that's what you'd want to do, I suppose you could choose to stay here. I suppose that's the thing about life, it's - "
"Living."
She looked wistful. "Yeah. You don't get any guarantees. But at least you get a choice."
Spike thought about it. He still wasn't completely sure of everything that happened to him. How much he had changed. But he did know that if he heard another identical version of "I Wanna Be A Good Boy" right now he'd probably scream. "Bloody hell, my head hurts. Don't suppose you have coffee on that spaceship of yours?"
She grinned. "Now that I can guarantee."
intoabar, knowing there was one character I didn't think I could write but figuring what were the odds… Oh well. I hope I did Clara justice here.Previous
intoabar challenges I've written:A Product of Its Time (Angel walks into a bar and meets... Steve Harrington!)
How To Drain Your Flagon (Wesley Wyndam-Pryce walks into a bar and meets... Khal Drogo!)
Untimely (Drusilla walks into a bar and meets... Zoe Washburne!)
The Scrying of Lot 48 (Willow Rosenberg walks into a bar and meets... Ron Swanson!)
I Will Face My Fear (Dale Cooper walks into a bar and meets... Riley Finn!)
Title: Heaven Is Hell for Bad People
Author: Beer Good (
beer_good_foamy)Fandom: Buffyverse (post-"Not Fade Away")/Doctor Who (post-"Hell Bent")
Characters/Pairing: Spike, Clara Oswald, background Buffy/Spike
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~1300
Summary: Spike walks into a bar and meets… Clara Oswald!
The band in Heaven, they play my favorite song
They play it once again, they play it all night long
Heaven is a place
A place where nothing
Nothing ever happens
- Talking Heads
Heaven Is Hell For Bad People
The Ramones got on stage just as he stepped inside the bar, and they were just as great as always. Dee Dee yelled "ONETWOTHREEFOUR!" and the band kicked off with "I Don't Wanna Go Down To The Basement", and he could just dive into the crowd and go fucking mental. The Ramones were never better than they were here, with the same energy that they'd had back in the early days when he'd seen them at CBGBs, except they played the newer tunes he liked too; "Wart Hog", "Pet Sematary", "I Don't Wanna Grow Up"... Later, there'd be a poetry reading where he had something new to present, and probably a fight or two afterwards (funny how the slam poets were always more up for it than the punks) but nobody would get badly hurt, and in between he could just hang out at the bar and enjoy the scenery. As always, the bartender forgot to charge him. She just served him whatever he wanted and left him alone to work on his poetry while the DJ blasted "Sonic Reducer".
But then suddenly, there was this bird. Sat down next to him, ordered a glass of wine, looking completely out of place here; shiny hair, nice clothes, Blackpool accent. He shrugged, figured she'd realise her mistake soon enough and move on to wherever she belonged. Except she just kept sitting there, finger running around the rim of her glass, glancing his way until he had to -
"What?"
"Nothing, sorry," she said, not nearly as intimidated as he'd have thought. "I was just wondering… Were you here yesterday?"
"What's it to you?"
She smiled. It seemed, somehow, a well-practiced patient smile. "Call me naturally curious. Clara."
He studiously ignored her outstretched hand and ordered himself another drink, because he had to think about it. Had he been? He didn't seem to… He raised the glass in her general direction and grinned. "Who can tell, right? Few too many of these."
"That must be it, I suppose. The day before that, though? Or before that? When was the last time you weren't here?"
He stared at her, trying to come up with a snappy response, before finally settling on "Oh, shove off." He tossed back the bourbon, which tasted oddly flat somehow, and ordered another. He stared towards the empty stage, hoping that the band would do a second set, maybe play a few songs he hadn't heard yet. Which they never did, as far as he could remember. The girl continued sitting next to him, sipping her wine, not looking at him but obviously waiting for something. Eventually he had to turn back and ask "Fine. Wanna tell me what the hell you want?"
"Funny," she said, "I was about to ask you the same thing."
"What I want is for you to leave me alone."
"And beyond that? Dad rock, poetry, fistfights, booze, repeat for infinity?"
"Watch your tongue, Missy. The Ramones are - " He stopped. Something wrong. Something he'd forgotten. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes again, she'd put a newspaper clipping in front of him. JOEY RAMONE DEAD. 15 April 2001. That was - when? He grabbed her wrist and snarled, "OK, you'd better start talking. What the hell is going on here?"
"You tell me." She didn't flinch. He tried to stare her down, and found he couldn't; his eyes wandered back up to the stage, that had been so alive just a few moments earlier, and now was just - "No," she continued, "look at me, Spike. Remember."
His name. That was his name. It hadn't always been. He - where was - he closed his eyes again and shook his head, feeling like there was a jumble of memories he could almost see, somewhere just beyond something, something that was rippling and cracking and -
"Spike." He looked up at her. "You remember now, don't you?"
He groaned. "I think… Where am I? What did you do to me?"
She nodded slowly. "I'm sorry for being so cryptic. But you had to start breaking it down yourself. It looks like you've been trapped in an infinite loop in a dimension specifically catered to you, and not a very exciting one, either. It's all very pre-watershed, isn't it? From what I've heard of William the Bloody, he wouldn't go to a place like this and never even think about either eating or, ahem, dancing with any of the people here - her, for instance?" She nodded at the waitress, who seemed to have frozen in place along with all the other patrons. "Also, you wanna let go of my wrist now?"
"Oh." He looked down at his hand and let her go. "Sorry about - " Again, a mess of memories, the certainty that at one point he wouldn't have let her go. "How long have I been here?"
"Since you, well..."
"Since I died." He stared at her. Somehow he felt like this should have been more of a surprise. "So I'm in hell."
"Well, heaven, technically. You can tell by the amnesia, that's the price for eternal peace. It seems your atonement only got you one of the lesser heaven dimensions. The Doc-" She paused. "A friend of mine would have had this long hyperactive explanation for that, but the basic gist of it is, I happen to have a spaceship that can get you back to where you're from."
For a second, he almost forgot the confusion of chaos in his head. "A... spaceship."
"Yes."
"That can get into heaven."
"Sort of. Not all of them. Some heaven dimensions are easy to reach, others ... Vampire-eaten-by-dragon heaven isn't exactly, say, school-teacher-run-over-by-car heaven." A pained expression passed over her face and she took a sip of wine before carrying on. "It's not what I normally do, but I have ... some time to kill before an appointment, and I happened to owe an old girlfriend of yours a favour." (Another flash of jumbled-up memories made him groan and squeeze his eyes shut.) "She said she once told you about heaven, and she was very specific about not taking you out of here without your explicit consent. So if you're up for another few millennia of…" She gestured around the bar. "...this, let me know and I'll leave you alone. You should start forgetting this ever happened pretty much immediately. But ..."
Spike looked around the bar. All the graffiti on the walls had changed, he kept seeing images all over, a giant clutter of memories; of death, violence, so much of it caused by him. "And how do you know I won't simply kill you, chuck your drained corpse out the, whatchacallit, airlock and nick your ship? Seems like the sort of thing I'd do."
"Well, for one thing, I don't have an airlock. Or a pulse, for that matter." He realised that he'd known this, that he could hear and smell her lack of a heartbeat. Unlike anyone else in here who was just blank. "But if you think that's what you'd want to do, I suppose you could choose to stay here. I suppose that's the thing about life, it's - "
"Living."
She looked wistful. "Yeah. You don't get any guarantees. But at least you get a choice."
Spike thought about it. He still wasn't completely sure of everything that happened to him. How much he had changed. But he did know that if he heard another identical version of "I Wanna Be A Good Boy" right now he'd probably scream. "Bloody hell, my head hurts. Don't suppose you have coffee on that spaceship of yours?"
She grinned. "Now that I can guarantee."