A Real Corker
On the sixth night—the night—he went to Willies to stay out
of the way of her patrol. He knew he’d
pay for it later, but he just didn’t want to see her, before he saw her later in her bedroom that evening
after patrol.
(Hee hee twirl the
mustachios)
“--Swear to god don’t
know how she finds me like some bleedin’ radar for the blighted cautionary tale
that I am…”
He muttered all this
even while he looked up knowing he would see her coming through the door of the
bar.
The room stilled.
“Missed you…” She called out to him as she walked up.
“No you didn’t…can’t
miss something you never had…poor empty pussy…that where you miss me?”
Amidst the laughter of the
nearby sundry assortment of demons she walked casually up grabbed the back of
his head and by the scruff of his neck, glad slammed his head down on the bar
narrowly missing his drinking glass.
Silence in the bar
again.
“What’s that?”
Face held against the
bar, pinned down but simply, simply couldn’t stop talking:
“Poor Slayer, all fists
and no fucking…no wonder…no wonder you all die young…puttin’ all your spunk in
the wrong place--you consider whoring yourself out an’ there’s not a demon in
here that won’t swing over to your side.
Whattaya say mates?”
This he tossed out to
the listening crowd and heard competing with the sound of falling blows and
crunching bones the sounds of guttural agreement and sincere sighs and lots of
“yeah…yeah…suck me off and I’ll be on your side for five days…”
‘Great reviews’--his
last thought…
….Laughter--his last
sound…before the pummeling made him pass out
~
` ~
Just couldn’t keep his
mouth shut. All his plans, almost
everything that had ever come undone in his unlife was due to his wicked,
wicked tongue.
Even now, being dragged
through the streets of Sunnydale half in and half out of consciousness it was a
struggle not to comment on the quality of the ride.
‘Bloody hell’ kept
competing with ‘saints alive’ and they both broke from him unbidden and
indiscriminately as pain and pleasure were blurry things and one expletive
often addressed the contrary impetus.
Pain, as small hands perused
his rib cage could ring out a call for a heavenly benediction, and when the
same hands rested gently on this chest stroking skin, accidentally grazing a
nipple—ah bloody hell! He was fifteen
years old again and discovering the pleasures of the flesh and going straight
to hell. He was thinking of the lass,
the daughter of the cook and when she bent over the wood pile and her skirt,
her skirt went clear up past her ankles, and he had had to touch himself, had to
do it and was now going straight to hell on wheels…
He saw the lass,
remembered her blonde hair, small petite body, perfect proportions, one body
part singing hello to another, her hair swaying like that when she turned her
head fast—No NO. That was the slayer
that was the SLAYER…Buffy…He was remembering it wrong but it felt so
right. Pain or pleasure it didn’t matter
as long as she kept touching him.
Her fingers, her hands,
her light warm curious touch, at first the curiosity was medicinal, about the
medical exam—just what kind of damage had been done to Slayers investment? And then, and then…the fingers slowed…found a
cause and effect relationship. If she
touched him…just so…see? Listen to
that? Was he purring? She stroked his
chest, fingers dipping to follow the concave of abdomen. His hard pectoral muscles--Spike
growled--Buffy’s hand froze in mid motion.
Was that a growl of warning or welcome?
Her hand eased back up to his belly button and dipped a little finger
experimentally into the recess. The
growl ground down into a whimper…oh my god.
Spike?
Is this what he
wants? Is this how to get through to
him? Double Duh and cliché me.
She leaned down close,
and asked him directly, curious.
“Spike, is this what you
want…?”
Her fingers gently
experimented now with touching his chest and the sensuality of her warm
inexperienced fingers had a narcotic effect far, far greater than the hottest
whore with the most mileage. It was the
complete innocence in her touch that spoke to him, awoke William in
hiding. Her equal in purity. Her innocence made him innocent again.
It was pure white light
burning his black from the inside out--he cried out in pain and she stopped…
“Sorry, did I hurt you?”
An absurd question under
the circumstances and he started to laugh, well…chuckle really…
After a moment, she
joined him…
“Yeah…well, you know…”
But the moment had
shifted into something else. And she
pulled her hand away.
No, no, no,
He caught her left hand
with his good left hand, arm still operational and brought it back to rest over
his heart
“This what you
want?” She asked almost puzzled
“Or…this?”
And her hand, her right
hand rested lightly over his groin. She
was easily aware of the very hard swelling under the cloth of his jeans and
absolutely without preamble; she unzipped him, reached inside like fishing for
something lost in a handbag and brought him out.
“Is this what you want?”
He was held by the hilt
in some hot secret place that could only pull the truth out of him…
“….Yes…god…yes…”
The secret just held him
close, stroked him a little, just a little, just a little forward, and a little
back, and squeezed, carefully lovingly on his throbbing member…”
The secret pulled him
forward… (Groan at new different pressure…poor throbbing man hood…) and
whispered again, kindly…
“This what you want
Spike?”
Gentle squeeze. Her hot breath on his neck kept him quiet; he
inclined his head toward hers but said nothing. He said nothing and waited;
poor dead heart so far away from light for so long leaning in for a…
Reading his body
language, the secret leaned in close and grazed his cheek with a kiss.
“This what you want?”
She kissed again closer
to his mouth…or (gentle squeeze…)
“Sex?”
Squeeze.
No answer.
“No?”
Hot Slayer scent leaned
in close, sweet warmth moving through his cool body dropping a spot of heat in
his heart, white light blazing a trail—first pain, then relief, almost like he
could breath again. Yes that’s it;
that’s what he wanted; he wanted to breathe again…
He inclined his head,
his mouth just a hair, just a hair toward hers but it was enough it was…
“Love?”
She asked in subdued
surprise.
She kissed him softly
now, just next to his mouth…
“Love? You want love Spike? You do anything for love?”
A small quiet tear
slipped from his eye from his right eye and might have gone unobserved if it
hadn't grazed her cheek on the way down.
She turned her head to
look at him and then pressed her cheek sympathetically up against his.
“I believe you…”
She removed her hand
from where she had gripped him tight and held his face with both her hands.
She rested her cheek
against his, forehead to forehead and then kissed him gently on the mouth. “I believe you Spike. Slayer says I need you, that you have
something inside better than gold. Slayer believes in you Spike.”
She kissed him again;
sweet warm languid peace flowed between them.
Peace, no more running, finally… peace.
Mouths still tingling,
place of contact connected again.
She kissed him gently as
he slid in and out of consciousness sometimes coming out with a gasp of
pleasure as she stroked and enjoyed the feel of him. Funny.
Talking to him gently, kindly through the night encouraging him, rewarding
him with quiet kisses and small sweet orgasm.
She had beaten him up pretty badly so she didn’t want to risk making any
of his wounds worse. Just sat there as
peaceful as you please filled. Finally
filled. Spike was right.
“Missed you…” she whispered kissed his ear when he was
conscious again.
And she did miss
him. Having a him inside her.
Well he could only blame
himself--it had been his idea after all.
Slayer can take
suggestions.
~
` ~
And so the best laid plan
turned into the best lay of his life.
And it wasn’t the sex, he’d had hair bending and better sex--no, it was
the feeling of…being loved.
Can’t be faked nor
simulated or whatnot. He had felt love
for others so he knew what it should feel like--that gift so hot in your hands,
you need pass it on before it burns you.
He knew the feeling…just never had it…well…never had it handed back….to him…toward him, that’s all.
He had never been loved
before. Dru’s broken version was an
attempt, her best attempt true but only a mock trial.
This genuine concern for
him, the tender care wrapped around his cock undid him. Torture, he could take. Humiliation hey he’d
been there and back again…but love…or at least tender concern…he had started
sobbing somewhere around sunrise. He had cried when Buffy finally came. She had been riding him quietly, kissing him
gently, making love to him--when he had leaned forward, some of his strength
returning, he nuzzled her chest, pushing the cloth of her tank top aside with
his nose, his lips, his eyes, relishing the feel of her skin against his
face. As his mouth kissed her breast
gently, she had gasped and when he fastened his mouth on her nipple to suckle
she screamed. She wrapped her arms
around him digging her nails into his flesh and screamed out her pleasure--her
body suddenly jackknifed and she screamed out again in surprise now, her body
shaking and trembling, her orgasm triggered his and he came with her--together
they came and went over the river and through the wood, they came and became
one being. No need for two. Economize!
She leaned her head
against his shoulder, and trembled, and then she had said something, she
breathed this against his neck:
“…Thank you…”
He wasn’t really strong
enough to move much but that had broken something inside him loose, until it
scrambled sharp and hard into his throat and he began to sob.
She pulled herself off
him--suddenly bereft where she had been redoubled his sobbing. She gently kissed the side of his head--and
held him until he quieted.
When he fell asleep,
Buffy pulled on her slacks and left without a backward glance.
~ ` ~
She felt like she’d been
on a bender--a three day weekend that had lasted three months, a real corker, a
monsoon mayhep, a liquid lunch…an honest to god bender. Now she knew why they called it a bender, as
in ‘going around the…’
Unseen now the part of
you known now gone.
She brought her hand to
her mouth and stopped walking. She was
in the cemetery, just a ways from Spike’s crypt. It was morning, just dawn and the golden
sunlight streaming over a brand new day made everything look like a great idea.
She wanted to vomit.
She leaned up against a
tombstone--it was Milly Peterson--she looked, oh good, died June 2, 1980,
before her time, she noted absently.
Buffy very liked hadn’t had to kill her…to make her dead again. It was all right to rest here a bit, Milly
wouldn’t mind.
“Ah Milly…as one silly
name to another…where you ever a silly person?”
Silly didn’t cover what
she was feeling. It was the morning
after hangover and she felt sober and it was as if she could see herself
hitting the bottle with her good drinking buddy the First Slayer, for the past
three months or so. And the heady, liberated
feeling of being high was suddenly replaced by one of overwhelming
responsibility. The cold assessment of
deeds done all brought to the tangy top by the tingling she still felt in her
body that sung out the fact that she had just had sex. Mind blowing sex. (No, lovemaking)
With a demon.
She barfed.
Upchucked it all,
retched until she was wrung out and still her body hummed the contented tune of
deep of languor, of peace, of a euphoria that was at direct opposites with the
assault from her mind. Her poor confused
senses; peace and pleasure on one side, dread and misgiving on the other made
for an inspired nausea. The corkscrew
theme park ride spinning her, spilling her guts.
Her mind was in
distress…but not her soul. Her mind
argued, chastised and her soul just went…ah…well, la, la, la…
Because she had been
aware. She couldn’t argue she had been
possessed, unless you argue possession of a certain kind of drunkenness. But as with a drunk, she was the one to reach
‘for the bottle’, she was the one to call upon the First Slayer. And she remembered those few days with Faith
when she had lost herself, when she had became inebriated with power, heard the
call from the wild side--of following one’s whim and whammy every and all in a
play for dominion. And this wasn’t like
that--it wasn’t. First Slayer’s advice
and support had been, was, genuine and helpful and she, Buffy still saw reason
in her logic…just not in the methods. She trusted the source of her intuition
that said Spike must be on her side, Buffy, after all, had sensed that
already--a very good part of the reason he wasn’t a dusty dude long ago. After, the chip, that is.
So it wasn’t like that
time with Faith--but it was a screaming reminder of the oceanic reservoir of
unaddressed issues of what it meant to be The Slayer.
(And a Buffy craving
affection.)
The power, the madness
and The Mission. So Slayer may have been
dead right on target with Spike and after last night she didn’t second guess that for a moment.
It’s just, it’s just…the
method…well let’s just say it wouldn’t have been Buffy’s first choice.
Or not?
Well obviously something
had changed last night--and she may not be acting just like herself or was she
finally, really acting just like herself?
After beating Spike up
in the bar--she couldn’t leave him there to be trounced by every and all, as
she knew he would be. No, inside Slayer
said ‘take him’. And so after beating
him up to the hushed awe of the crowd she had thrown him over her shoulder
fireman style and had taken him back to his crypt.
And even then she hadn’t
been thinking it--sure, what he had said had been rankling at her and rattling
around pulling boards off the safe house she lived in. It wasn’t until he was lying on the floor and
she had a good look at his body. First
she was checking for injuries, and then it was curiosity. Arms, chest, washboard abs and the small
trail of hair leading down there…into
his jeans. Sure, she had seen it…happy trails.
And when the time came she followed the road south and unbuttoned his
top button and unzipped him without thinking twice. Slayer wanted. Slayer took.
And whether his strange
breakapart now joy now pain was due to being held in her arms or held in her
hand she couldn’t tell. She would have
to find out, wouldn’t she? The offer of
sex or love and been a genuine one. He
could have sex from her or friendship and respect, but not both together in the
same place. She was surprised when he
chose love. Genuine, quite Ingénue as
she was in the world how could she guess a demon would choose love? Or friendship, whatever. She didn’t know she was going to make love
with him--it had come from the moment, inspired by his huge beautiful eyes
taking they’re last look at her before being slowly shut with swelling
tissue.
And it would just be
that once.
Slayer said.
But he had felt
good. Really good. Maybe that was what was really getting to
her. She had enjoyed it. Just solid and empty no more and, and didn’t
even realize she had been until he was filling her--yeah definitely good…and
…and it had become something more than she could handle at the end there. That’s when that remote feeling of watching
herself had dissolved and she had found herself alone at last…well…that
is…alone with Spike, First Slayer had wanted no part of being touched, of the
sharing that had occurred. And had left--or had Buffy suddenly kicked her out
and claimed this for herself?
He was not what she had
imagined he would be…at all…no…Spike had responded to her touch her like he
really cared…like he loved her…that’s
what had gotten to her. And that’s what had brought her racing back to
herself. Love. She had spent the evening loving him. His need for survival, his strength, his fast
mouth, intelligence and yes…even cunning.
And she had loved that
he loved her.
She had found herself to
be suddenly starving and had run gasping into his eyes for a
Thanksgiving…well…before they had swollen shut that is…
And now she was dizzy sick
confused with it. What in heavens name
was she to do now?
And the answer, sudden
and strange shook her: Nothing.
The nights work had been
done, the investment made (Slayer reasoned with Buffy)--so just don’t do it
again.
‘You shouldn’t do it again’
she spoke inside her. He was tapped now,
seed sown. And besides, it could go
nowhere…if he had picked sex--she maybe might have never come down from her
high and just rode him out to whatever.
But love. Well, love was her god.
And she wouldn’t, in her eyes defile it with a demon. She wouldn’t make love with him. That is, again.
She wouldn’t lower
herself.
(Good, said Slayer)
Besides, no reason to
give him hope but oh my god that look in his eyes…
Another big reason why
there would be no more. False hope was
worse than no hope…(for him…and for her--cuz there was no way she was going to
fall in love with a soulless demon, that was just too twisted for Twister.…so
no more…she wouldn’t use him…at least not that way. If he had voted for sex—she reasoned again,
she would have…but he did not. She would
be his friend and be honest. That’s
it. That’s the solution. She would just ‘show up’, buddy up and let
him down easy…
(…’but still dangle
it…just a little’…Slayer advised…)
And maybe, just maybe
she had made an alliance that could keep more people alive. It had to do with the small amount she
understood about vampires and the thrall of sexual connection and clan.
Slayer and Buffy hummed
together and with a gentle goodbye pat on Millie’s tombstone she resumed
walking, nay, strolling through the early morning cemetery setting--better get
him some blood--forgot to check his fridge.
He wouldn’t be able to be up and about for a while.
Maybe it would be all
right; maybe she had handled him right. Broke it all the right way. Slayer wanted him broken--any which way as
long as he was firmly on her side--and she had tried doing it with
violence. But perhaps Willow was right,
violence wasn’t the way to bust Spike open. Love. And suddenly remembering Dru. Well double Duh…but that’s o.k. everything
was on track now.
On track for what? Something was coming and Slayer was setting
up her players and Spike was one she needed--but he needed to be totally broken
in--a weapon at her command. It could work.
For a moment Buffy
considered whether she should give the Slayer so much sway--again…she was a
tough nut task master--but what were the choices? Her instincts were screaming reinforcements
and what the hell, the world was hard and she wasn’t ever going to lose, be
unprepared or fall down harder than she ever had to again. The Master, Angelus, the Mayer, The Fly,
Adam--it was getting crazy hard--and Slayer says something worse is coming. Somehow, some part of first Slayer had stuck
by from dream a rama. And Buffy didn’t
mind the company. She needed the presence of someone who didn’t judge her. Who understood, even if they didn’t always
agree--a sister. Truth was--no one knew
a Slayer like a Slayer, (except maybe Spike…he knew Slayers…well good then…he’ll
understand…) And it was good to not be alone.
To be a part of a whole. And
Slayer kept her fire stoked. She reminded her about the Mission. It was always all about the Mission.
And so like Spike
said--if she had to whore herself to command the energies of every demon around
her she would do it. Something was
coming, and she needed an army. And if
she had to pay them from her own personal pussy she would do that too. But something told her if she well and truly
had Spike watching her back it wouldn’t be necessary. Slayer was pleased with Buffy’s agenda and
rewarded her with another rush of endorphins from that morning’s orgasm.
*
Vampire Logic
~
` ~
He was lying by the
fridge when his body staring tingling, flesh singing—she was coming. He had
drained what little he had left and had
laid down where he sat, passed out on the floor. Good a place as any.
Her scent tickled him,
already commanded his body to serve, to sit up follow the scent. He moved slightly as she approached.
“No…no Spike don’t
move…ah…I’m sorry…I really didn’t realize how bad off you were…you…I was a
little distracted….here…”
She put the blood under
his nose--his eyes were almost swollen shut.
“Brought you some--“
He slipped into game
face and growled.
“Don’t have to get
grabby. There’s nobody here that’s gonna
take it from you.”
She watched him suck
down the blood. And when he finished,
gave him a second bag.
“I’m putting the rest in
your fridge...one, two…three…there are seven bags of pig’s blood. Should help.
“Slayer…”
It was the first words
he had spoken since…
She said nothing, she
waited.
“It’s my arm. Broken in two places--you’ll have to set
it--just straighten the bone as best you can--as long as the bone is lined
up--then it’s just time.”
Shoot. She had broken his arm?
How had she missed
that? Well…got a little sidetracked.
Without a word she
pulled him up against the wall so she could have leverage. Sat down on the floor facing him and put her
right foot in his right arm socket and holding his elbow steady lined up his
humorous and with a crack bent the bone back into shape.
He winced and passed out
but cried not a sound.
No wonder Slayer wanted
him. This vamp had balls. Well she knew that and in a couple of
different ways too. While he was passed out.
She considered. If she took him
downstairs he would be too far away from the blood in his fridge and might be
too painful for him to climb up the ladder.
And she couldn’t baby-sit him all day. Dawn was home by her self after
school and she was supposed to check in.
No, leave him here. Bring up some pillows, bring the TV in
close--show she could be very accommodating, how ‘friendly’ that is, in a non
sexual way she could be when he behaved himself.
When he came to, he
found the Slayer sitting beside him watching TV munching a sandwich with a
packet of blood on her lap. Still almost
completely blinded he put this bizzrro puzzle together through, scent and
sound.
She seemed so cozy
sitting next to him it would have been surreal, absolutely beyond ‘Eraser
Head’, if she hadn’t been so completely relaxed. She was setting the mood; he fell in where he
could and attempted to play his old part.
“Having a picnic are
we?”
“Huh…watch for the
ants…or whatever they are…” she said, looking nervously at the ground.
“Oi eh! That’s good. Slayer afraid of a few buggers…”
Ignoring him she said
between crunching lettuce…”Here’s your catsup…”
She handed him the blood bag.
He took the bag and
murmured quietly, testing the water… “I’d rather sup on a different cat…”
Uh oh. Okay, here it
was. How was she going to handle
this? Remember Parker, (remember the
investment…) be kind.
He didn’t drink the blood
but waited listening to her heart beat--watching its pattern. It had speed up but now evened out a bit. He
tilted his head in her direction. She
spoke quietly, kinda casual, kinda friendly like.
“I’m sorry about last
night really, but you pissed me off…you know that right?”
He nodded slightly. (She was sorry?) He couldn’t see her, but she was aroused, he
could smell it--what the hell was she doing to him? He couldn’t think clearly with her juice so
near to him. Had to taste…had to…
He looked so sad, plan
out the window she leaned in and kissed his tortured bruised mouth. Lightly so lightly. Chaste but potent. A spiral, a web of intoxication chased the
spiders that lay deep inside his being into the sun to burn. He was bright, she made him be bright.
She got up to leave,
“Bye Spike, sorry about that…”
“Buffy…”
It was the first time he
had ever spoken her name.
Ever.
It startled her and sent
a small shiver of pleasure through her body dropping a spot of heat on her cool
heart. Buffy pushed Slayer aside and
held onto the slim heat. Puzzled, she let his voice warm her heart. Something was changing. Spike.
She knelt back down and stroked his hair.
(…Oh god when she
touched him he was fourteen again, he was pure and wild and…and…and...)
She could feel his body
ball and tense as he coiled himself, hard now and ready to come--she leaned
back and looked at him
Her boy, her comely boy
would be able to come at her lightest touch.
Oh my god.
He lay on the floor,
gasped, his left hand reached for her—
--She took his hand and
guided it back to his side.
“You chose, Spike…I’ll
be your friend…but…Slayer says only one road, love or sex but never both, never
again…”
She kissed the side of
his head.
And then she left.
His unlife was so
fucked. It had only been one night, one night and he was her willing
slave. Never again? Was she bonkers? Walking away from that? She had wanted him, badly; she had wanted him
and had walked away. Never again? Is that what she said?
How would he stay
sane?
~ ` ~
She came back but wasn’t
alone. Willow was with her. Apparently from the conversation he overheard
from the first floor, Willow wanted assurance that she hadn’t killed him. He was downstairs now, lying on the bed. He really hadn’t been strong enough for the
move--but he had felt vulnerable up there--with anyone walking in. So he had tucked his shirt in his slacks
grabbed four bags of blood put them in his shirt and made the trek.
He was lying on his bed
now too tired to move. Just drink blood,
heal, wait, and smell the traces Slayer still on him. Just lay here and wonder…when in hell had he fallen in love with the
Slayer?
It wasn’t last
night. Last night just brought it to the
fore. It had been there for a
while. Looking back to find the
beginning of it--he could see it went back a long while. Last night, breaking
apart like that--it hadn’t been the sex it was…the feeling of being loved. She had been courting him violently for
months but the possibility that she might love him had brought his own deep
secret heart roaring to the meet her.
Clean bright girl riding him for hours.
Loving him. He had felt it.
She was being
indifferent toward him today. (Sorry?) But he had felt it last night--in her
touch--he had.
She was climbing down
the hatch. Willow following.
“See…” She gestured toward the prone figure on the
bed. “Fine…”
“Fine?” Willow stammered as she approached the
vampire. “Spike can you even see me?”
Spike said nothing.
“Oh he’s fine…watch…”
She threw a wooden stake
at his heart and his left hand reached up and snatched it out of the air.
“See?” Slayer was so proud of his trick.
Willow wasn’t completely
sure--but, could Buffy be under a spell?
Or was this The First Slayer from their dreams come back to raid her
life?
“Spike?” Willow crossed and sat next to him on the
bed. She spoke low for only his ears. “I
don’t think Buffy is…well…herself…I think the Slayer is…well taking over and I’m
looking into it…but just…don’t think this is Buffy…cuz…”
He looked so
pitiable. Willow took his left hand.
Buffy watched them
sitting so cozy together and a small involuntary growl rolled from her chest--
Spike cocked his head and
corner of his mouth twitched a sorta smile.
Willow turned around sharply to look at her. What was that?
“We better let him
sleep.” Buffy instructed firmly and then
led the way up the ladder and up out the hatch
And Spike thought to
himself--‘…maybe, maybe Buffy…could love
me…she just needs time…’
It was vampire logic.
Pushing Daisies
~ ` ~
Oh, it is so true. One does indeed have to be very careful what
one asks for. Indeed.
All these years. From the first one almost up until it finally
happened, Giles had hoped for a workable version, a print friendly format of
the Watchers textbook definition of The Slayer.
“Somewhere,” he often fantasized, “Somewhere between the cold methodic
technically perfect execution of Kendra, the wild spirit of Faith and the
fortitude and improvisation of Buffy lay his ideal. His dream Slayer. His Grace Kelly dreamboat. Princess girl, chosen royal and perfect
killing machine. Slayer
extraordinary. And when she distilled,
when she percolated down after years of trials and terror and attacks on body,
mind and soul, when she had been brewed and born now from sad experience and
terrible trials, now that she was here…he had no idea how to talk to her.
How to be with her.
His slayer, his
Buffy…almost all the way distilled now into cold purpose--and he had no common
language except that of warfare. She
could talk to no one as an equal except another warrior. And he, Giles, the Ripper was a warrior, as
was Willow and even Xander. To be such,
required a state of mind as much as matter.
But it was Spike she kept at her right hand, and he, Giles, had been
moved to her…left.
Left behind.
Not that Spike gloated
or made it difficult; in fact he seemed cool and strangely impervious to any power
play. For him it was not about increased
power or working the way the up the hierarchy of a clan. It was about Buffy. Giles could see Spike loved Buffy. They all could see it but no words were
spoken…it was too terrible to release into the air with language. As if speaking it would make it real and
alive and he understood the principles of magic well enough to understand that
the general physics of ‘speaks its name and it will appear’ applied to ordinary
day to day life as well.
Baffling. Completely baffling.
Both of them.
In Spike’s case he had
never heard of such a thing in all his years of research. Now, he had suggested once to Spike that
perhaps there was a higher purpose in his being chipped. And of course that was Giles at his secret heart--that
the world held windows and doors of opportunity, that there was rhythm beneath
the chaos. But after observing Spike in
the year following his internment he had given that notion up. Spike was helpful and handy but had made low
common choices what with his alliance with Adam and various other
offenses. Spike just didn’t appear to be
an original thinker. And now this. Payments to him now were token, or barely
remembered; he helped them, because it helped her. It was disturbing. And remembering his small hope for a higher
purpose in regard to Spike, he heard that tired phrase chit chanting at
him: ‘be oh so careful what you ask
for.’
As for Buffy, well.
She was not under a
spell or under the control of the First Slayer--the spirit of first slayer
appeared to be guiding her, but Buffy was willing, she would take the advice
offered or not. She had demonstrated
that she still maintained free will. She
had quite simply and finally become what he had always wanted her to be.
Buffy the Vampire
Slayer.
He felt like
crying. Bereft of Buffy. Not that he blamed her. Blow by blow he had watched her shape herself
to bounce against the wall of the world.
Each hard knock leaving her harder to know.
Riley gone--and, he
suspected, sent away by Buffy because her relationship with him had upset
Spike. She and Spike didn’t appear to be
sexually involved, thank god, that would have been tempting evidence of
insanity, but neither would she let anything or anyone come between them.
Of course having a hell
god in your back yard hunting for your sister was a caution. And he had respected her need to have someone
equally as strong as she watching her back--but, Spike?
Maybe he should call
Angel. He hated the thought, could
never, ever disconnect Angel from Jenny’s death but having a soul made him
something a little closer to human…one of
them. He might be the lesser of two
evils. Literally. The opportunity came in the most terrible
way.
Joyce was killed in a
car accident. An accident of all
things. Besting terror and mayhem daily
and done in by happenstance and a drunk driver.
An accident. And no amount of slayer
training, prophetic vision, magic or Spiked reinforcement had been able to
stop…bad luck.
It was a small mean blow
and instead of breaking Buffy she had tucked more of herself undercover,
buckled down and bucked off any condolence that crept in too close. She would not cry.
Giles had called Angel.
And there had been a
terrible moment at Joyce’s grave.
Well, that’s
understated.
It had been an overcast
day. The sky was crying because Buffy couldn’t.
And Angel had come and
he had been welcomed…initially. Giles
had briefed Angel on the situation but had dreadfully underestimated the
animosity that existed between the two vampires.
Spike had positioned
himself on the outskirts of the mourners in a flanking position and so had been
unobserved by Angel when he first arrived.
Apparently when Angel had noticed Spike circling the gravesite--it had been
too much and he had detached himself from the main group to approach Spike and
had asked him to leave. It seemed Angel
had thought Spike’s black leather and evil soulless presence was upsetting
people. Needless to say, Spike wouldn’t
leave and it soon became apparent that the commotion, yes that commotion over
there under the statue of St. Mary was a fight to the death.
Within seconds of
conversation Angel had gone for a killing blow and Spike took the note and now
they were engaged in all out. But Angel had underestimated Spikes progressed
and developing skills--combat, was his art form and he was, after all, a master
assassin of Slayers, but Angel still held him in his mind like a childe to be
punished and so had gone for a quick blowout and had expended too much energy
in the initial five minutes and now he was in trouble.
With a sideways eye,
Buffy had watched Angel approach Spike and had stood frozen slack jawed
astonished as she watched Angel go for first strike--a killing blow.
Why had he gone for the
kill? She had told him how important
Spike was to her.
She had told him how important Spike was to her.
Fuck. Vampires.
But this was not
funny. Angel had no idea how brilliant
Spike was, and Angel would be bested, not at once, but eventually. Shit.
What to do? She had to be careful not to interfere too soon--if she
distracted Spike at the wrong moment, Angel would seize the slightest opening
and kill him, Spike may be the best warrior Buffy had ever known but Angel was
no slouch and killing Spike was so not going to happen. Or so help her she would….
No, she had to wait for
the terrible last moment.
When Xander and Giles
stepped forward, Buffy held them back and shook her head ‘no’ silently. And Giles had murmured,
“Buffy…Angels’ in
trouble…”
“Don’t you think I can
see that?” She snapped softly. “But Spike will not be killed. I will not let that happen-- don’t distract
them. Willow can you do anything? A separate maybe?”
Willow stretched her
senses out: “No…two master vampires…it’s
like they’re in a maelstrom or something…already a force of nature. It’d be like trying to stop a typhoon with
rain…”
Alright then. Buffy moved a little forward and waited.
“Nobody move, nobody
says anything…”
They watched.
Angel had gone game face
but Spike had retained his human visage.
That was good, very good. Well,
good and bad, he was in that depersonalized zone; Buffy had seen him slip into
once or twice over the past few months.
It was a place that kept him unemotional, focused but so steadfast he
couldn’t stop until every enemy in his path was dead. A Mona Lisa berserker. So he was not so far gone into roaring
gameface violence that he wouldn’t be able to hear her, but was so far into his
zone--he may be on autopilot and unable to stop.
Sshh no thinking now…she
sensed it was coming, she felt the rhythm of their battle shifting now--she
knew Spike, he wouldn’t play with Angel now--the gauntlet had been thrown, he
would go for the first opportunity.
Her heart hurt at the
sight of the blood streaming openly now down Angel’s face, it hurt, but my god,
Spike was beautiful to watch…
Spike risked a
roundhouse kick to the upside of Angels head, connected solidly and then rolled
with the blow before Angel could grab his leg--on the ground Spike spun one leg
round connecting with Angel’s knee.
Angel cried out. It was the first
sound either of them had uttered since this had begun.
Buffy shivered, it was a
sound of pain and rage at falling.
Spike did not hesitate,
on his feet and using a small tombstone as a springboard he landed on Angel’s
back only three seconds after he had hit the ground. He wrapped his right arm around Angel’s
neck--Buffy recognized it as the rip the head off show stopper--as his left
came around to provide the physical torque—
“SPIKE!”
He froze, left hand
poised, right there…right there…so close…have to…need to…
He heard, soft now, for
his ears only.
“Spike…no…”
“Tell him to get down on
the ground…” Spike gritted out
“Angel, get down…”
He didn’t move--Spike,
still locked on his back
Stubborn ass. Buffy moved to Angel and kicked his knees out
from under him.
Without switching a beat
the killing lock moved to a chokehold and Spike followed Angel all the way down
to the ground. Pushed up against the
earth, rendered temporarily immobile, Spike released him and stepped up. Buffy stood sentry where Angel could see her
in case he got any cute ideas about kicking out at Spike as he backed off.
Spike stepped back and
ignoring Angel and the rest of the group present he quietly addressed
Buffy. Voice low but deadly so she
wouldn’t mistake his sincerity.
“He ever…ever…says
anything like that to me again…He so much as looks at me sideways, moves too
fast to pick up a napkin…and I’ll kill him.”
And with that said he
turned and left.
Buffy sighed. He was still alive.
And then she started,
surprised about whom it was she was relieved to still have with her.
At her side.
~
` ~
Needless to say Angel
went back to Los Angeles.
Buffy had made it clear
to all who she wanted watching her back.
Who she would back in a fray. And
if it freaked anybody out, well they would just have to deal. There was a fricking hell god on her trail
and Spike was on board and they would all just DEAL.
AND. There would be no killing of Spike. If anyone including Angel went for his throat
again, as far as she was concerned he had full license to defend himself. To kill if he had to…It may seem insane but
her insides were screaming it so. She
didn’t have time for vendettas, family feuds and Richard Dawson was booked and
doing time in Las Vegas, there was no one to MC this medieval meltdown except
her. (The Knights of Byzantium for gods
sake?!)
No parent. Not even First Slayer. There was her, and then there was her.
She didn’t think Angel
would be a problem--he had his own stew brewing in L.A, besides she had point
blank asked him to leave. She didn’t
want him around messing with Spikes head.
The whole no sex thing
was creating enough tension as it was.
And not only on Spikes side.
She would catch herself
watching him, following his body as he moved, no flowed. And that small drop of heat in her heart
would burn again and she would be relieved, reminded that she was still alive,
still human, still could feel something. Even if it was a splatter.
But a splatter could
turn into a spring, into a torrent, into torment, into terminal. Deadly decisions for everyone. A clear head is what’s needed. Stay impersonal.
Spike.
It just couldn’t be
done. She couldn’t afford the
attachment. If she lost one more person
she loved, just one more…it would be over for her. She would be done. So she would kill and
continue killing and every time she killed something, anything, she lost a bit
more of herself and loved life just a little less. So she would chop her self up, lesson her
soul bite by bite BUT not lose. Not lose
one more person she loved to an unhappy ending.
The world would not be less one more Scooby.
So she would not be
intimate with Spike again…even that once might have been too much now in
retrospect…cuz it haunted her…it did…she dreamt of him. Often.
But in her dreams, as with that
time--she picked up a cold sliver from him. Something cold and hard and sharp
from the demon that stung at her heart and…and…she had felt something of her
slip into him in turn. In her dreams it
was bad enough, wanting him, but having him meant absorbing some of his evil
nature and…and…it diminished her. For a
bit. She could get herself back to full
slayer strength, but even the small energy they exchanged in dreams cost her,
even as it seemed to benefit Spike. He
just appeared to love her more and more and the way he touched her in her
dreams was evidence of his love reaching out through time and space.
And in awake time? Well, sex with him in awake time would be way
more that what she could afford and be possibly addictive as well. Imagine, after having been of service to the
world for so long--the temptation to just take something back, just take a
little something back for herself. And
so like an alcoholic staring at a vat of vodka, she dealt him day to day.
So she would not let him
in again…or near her heart now either.
Now it was no sex and no love.
Because…because…well…the way he was fighting these days--so, so amazing,
he burned so black, he was the darkest before the dawn and she didn’t think
anyone who fought so brilliantly, at such a personal peak, would be long for this
world. And no matter how much she missed
him…in that way…it would be so much worse, oh so much worse, to miss him
more…
~
` ~
He was not going to get
any more sex from her. That was clear now.
It had been a one time deal. And he wanted it.
Badly.
He needed it to express
himself properly with her. It was one of
the things he did best. Killing and
fucking. And as good as he was at fucking;
lap dogging it was his forte. His fort
in storm Darla that had kept him alive in her presence.
He wanted it, especially
since Angel had come and been sent packing--that had to mean something didn’t
it? And he needed to claim her. To calm her and she needed it as much as he
did. He knew it. Could feel it.
And he wanted to please
her, to pleasure her, but she would have none of it. And she
wanted him. He knew it, could smell
her arousal whenever she came near him.
It was a puzzle.
But she let him kill for
her. Wanted him to kill for her and so
he put all his creative energy into the other thing he could do so well. Soldiers were trained, but warriors were
born. Intuition and timing that couldn’t
be bought or taught.
Death was his gift. To her. Spike the cat dragging back the rats
plaguing her. Doing his best to keep
Black Death at bay. She would point him
like a gun and he would go.
But no reward, no
sex. He had to find his own reason for
continuing. And she, for her part
accepted his service without question or thanks. She had accepted his service as something…well…as
part of the payroll due the Slayer in her terrible task. Like Willow or Xander or Giles or even Dawn
he was just another given. The least the world could do to help her
deal the deck.
She treated him fairly
well. He would catch her watching him with a strange mix of curiosity and
caution as if waiting for him to do something interesting, change color or
something.
She had loved him that
night--he’d swear to it. And now it was gone or undercover or shifted into
another shape. But Spike was constant
and monogamous and couldn’t grasp a changeable nature.
He knew all this, all
this and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t
stop. And make no mistake, he certainly
didn’t want to risk his standing with her--the trust she had placed in him…it’s
just.
She had loved him that night.
She did. She had loved him when he was inside
her. And…and…well…he was frustrated
almost beyond his endurance and thought if only…if only he could make her feel
it again, make her feel it on some level, any
level--it would be there, she then would let it happen between them.
So he broke the
conditioning to obey her and climbed through her window at the darkest part of
the evening and while she was in the deepest part of sleep. He checked under the bed--the poppy was still
there.
He sat on the side of
her bed looking at her sleeping body.
Her blond hair tossed up
and around her head like an aria.
Something had to change.
He pulled down her
blanket and sheet all the while studying her face for any shift toward
consciousness. No. Still deeply asleep.
He stopped when he saw
her pajamas--cute little daises printed on.
He gently pulled her
bottoms down over her hips and gasped.
He had never seen her naked body.
Her body was so beautiful it made him cry. Really.
Big wet tears. He undid the
buttons on her top separated the material and his joy was complete.
“Buffy.”
Those little
flowers. Her body a flower.
Buffy.
With one arm thrown up
over her head.
“…Buffy…Buffy luv…” he whispered
“…Love…”
Buffy in her sweet
little daisy pajamas.
He put her jammies back
on careful not to touch her skin; that would be too much. He placed a gentle kiss on her lips and left
quickly, very quickly.
New Ball Game
~ ` ~
He had changed. Even after just one night and one decision he
knew he had changed. He felt more solid
somehow. Steadier. And…stupider. If that was a word. It was self respect and self control that
steadied him and it was his love of her that kept him stupid. He knew that.
His love for her would kill him and he didn’t care. Love kept him in service and fear kept his
head up, eyes straight ahead. It was
fear of his own weakness that kept him from looking down…at her body. Kept his head up, eyes ahead--posture
straight. Ironically upright.
The presence of the
sleeping flower bothered him. He was of
two minds--leave it so she could continue to get some solid deep sleep and the
other mind that instructed him about the dangers of falling asleep on duty. Of being too deep to wake in case of
danger. And there Dawn was in the next
room. And of course…temptation…
The answer was simple of
course.
After five days of
sitting in the chair watching her sleep he had changed drastically enough for
not only Buffy but the others to notice as well. And it’s not that he wouldn’t run errands or
do whatnot anymore for small change it’s just--they couldn’t…well…ask. His aura had become so strong he was becoming
impervious to small requests. He was
moving from led to…leader.
Willow found her self
asking his opinion on a spell. He had
such a wide working knowledge of Latin and all the dead languages not to
mention demon ones--he helped correct her before she made a terrible
mispronunciation.
Xander actually asked
his assistance on how to work the cross bow--and how did he do that fast
reloading thing?
By now of course sex
with new enhanced Spike was out of the question. It would be too much a tangle between
equals. So whatever lingering lust Buffy
still possessed she clamped down hard and thought of him as her second in
command. You don’t have sex with your
second in command. Definitely not done. And he was her second in command. Buffy had made that clear. There was Buffy, then Spike then the abyss.
If she were to fall in battle--he was at bat.
So no sex. But there was respect and the friendship of
comrades. And Buffy being first and
foremost a warrior--gave him that. They
were going into battle soon with Glory and god knows what would happen and all
the while the Slayer screamed ‘SEE! YES!
I WAS RIGHT ABOUT HIM.’ Him the Lion that he was now--Slayer was well
pleased to have him at her back but Buffy couldn’t help but miss, just a little
bit the--not cowardly--perhaps immature lion--cub he had been.
So no sex but she relied
on him in so many more new ways. The way
he was with Dawn for example, god, it was like she could be buffeted on both
sides; almost parented, bookended by her protectors Buffy and Spike. Relief.
Too small a word.
Plus there had been
those strange dreams of drowning and Spike keeping her afloat. Just hang on Slayer let me swim for you.
Spike, her Spike.
~`~
By sleeping in the chair
day eight--Spike couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t watch her, couldn’t consider
her sleeping under the influence of drugged poppies even for the benefit of
seeing her sleep deeply. She was
sleeping--but it still didn’t belong completely to her. He didn’t want her to be in a false
sleep. No pretend anything anymore.
Because he had watched
her closely this past week and he knew.
He knew now and almost
without question, and here he was even amazed that he might have considered the
possibility that she might love him.
She didn’t love him.
She would never love
him.
She was all about the
mission. Slayer had recognized traits in
him that would bind him to her--saw purpose in having him on her side. And then did whatever it would take to get
it. Hadn’t she told him as much?
So Buffy had opened her
heart it had been real--but then…Slayer closed it again…
A remarkable
facility. Necessary, he supposed in a
leader--but one he would never want to emulate.
Watching her, and who she made herself be--going against her nature, her
own needs, well…it made him almost glad to be the way he was; after more than
century, he was almost content to just be able
to love, even if unrequited. If he cut
love out of himself, if he did that, he would just become smaller and smaller
until he was so small nothing would fit inside.
He would be mean in the olde English.
Small and low and…common…and…and…the way he used to be. No. didn’t want to go back. Couldn’t somehow.
He had changed; it was
cliché but too true. Love had changed
him. Being next to her daily. The holy hum that came from his Buffy,
conducted itself, vibrated inside him, fed him daily. He may never see heaven but he would keep the
particular hell that was himself as far away from himself for as long as he
could. She was his heart, his warmth,
she didn’t even need to try--it just came out of her. He knew the others thought she was becoming
cool and it’s true she was on the outside--but that’s not the energy that came
out of her body. She ran hot. And once he had given up all notions of sex,
he relaxed somewhat and accepted proximity as payment. Just being around Buffy
And there was Dawn. Dawn was a revelation. She was fresh and sassy and sweet and…liked
him. Really like him. Always had a quick word and a smile for him. It was something to hold onto.
So Spike loved Buffy and
Dawn loved Spike.
This was life. Strange tangle of hearts negotiating with
each other...
And Buffy had grown too,
this past month, changed. There was no
question now about who was running this show.
Her show. She was in full command
of herself and screamingly strong for all that. She would take advice, listen
to advice--but it was she who made the call and paid the bill when the buck
stopped.
And when she saw him
change--she acknowledged it. Gave him
back to himself. And if she hadn’t, he
would have taken himself back anyway at any rate. And so, no more hoping for
love, no more hint of sex and still he loved her. He did love her so. His body
sang, snatched at heaven when she was within ten feet of him. Part of it was chemistry, part of it was
having his own personal oven to warm his cold heart, but he also loved the
person she was. How she stood up under
the pressure of her Mother’s death--Glory--even the pressure to get rid of him
in favor of Angel. How could he not love
that? Except, of course it was probably
just to keep Angel safe while she used Spike as the first charge of the
Calvary. He knew that too.
But oh how tenderly
Buffy loved her sister and see how she would defend Dawn to the end of
time? And if she used Spike as a weapon
in her fight, it was to keep Dawn safe and so he went with that too. He loved who Buffy was--how her mind worked,
problem solved and how her beliefs took the place of her bones--how they held
her together and helped her stand.
A true believer.
And how she judged him
for who he was in the moment.
When he had changed,
become solid, a man--she had almost immediately given him a different kind of
attention.
It was in how she talked
to him now. As an equal. The respect due the warrior sent into battle
on your behalf.
And
As a warrior.
He had been paid.
In advance.
He sat in the chair next
to her bed
He studied her sleeping.
Just once.
He lay next to her on the
bed and held her while she slept.
~
`~
Dawn lay in the room
next door--a little concerned.
She had heard pacing the
past few nights and had peeked in her sister’s room to see Spike sitting on her
chair by the bed holding her hand. Buffy
had been lying on her side, maybe sleeping maybe not, facing Spike, back to the
door, to Dawn.
It looked like they were
having a serious conversation---holding hands?
Spike and Buffy? But they were so cool almost cold to each
other during the day. Man, they were
good. And he never even breathed a blink of it to her. She knew Spike adored Buffy, they all knew
but…maybe…maybe Buffy liked him back?
Sneakity sneaks. She was so gonna
get him.
She liked the thought of
him here. It was good having a
nocturnal…uh…person in the house at night.
He’d be alert…in case…you know…
Something seemed
different tonight.
Why so quiet?
Was he even here?
She quietly padded down
the hallway and opened the door to see Spike holding a sleeping Buffy, stroking
her hair. He looked up unsurprised. And made a ‘hushing’ gesture to Dawn. She
stood there quietly. She kept eye
contact with Spike and mouthed: ‘do you want some hot chocolate?”
His brow drew together
as he tried to puzzle out what she was asking.
She waved her hand in the air as if cleaning the slate to start
again. She pantomimed, pulling a cup out
of a cupboard, taking a packet of instant mix, ripping it open, dropping it now
shaking it all…got to get it all…now tiny bits of invisible nothings dropped
into the make-believe cup—
--what? Oh yeah marshmallows--
--She was really into it
now…pouring the hot water…uh oh…too hot…gonna scald your tongue little bit—
--she did…and dropped
the make-believe mug to the floor making quite the non existent crash.
By the time she looked
back to him he was smiling, body almost shaking with stifled chuckling, but
still his eyes looked so sad.
Dawn made the gesture
of: Well…you want?
She watched him consider
and then shake his head ‘no’. Dawn
shrugged, waved ‘night, night’ and then closed the door and tread softly away.
It would be so cool if
Buffy and Spike were together. She liked
him best better than anyone…but…still…
He had looked so sad.
Maybe they were breaking
up.
Maybe there were all breaking
up and he was just the first to go,
~
` ~
Spike left before
sunrise taking the enhanced poppy with him--just…just in case he weakened and
tried to come back for just one more night.
~
` ~
Buffy woke the next morning
with a single thought. Spike didn’t come
last night.
From the first night she
had been aware of his presence--she was the Slayer for goodness sakes did he
think he could sneak around her? She was aware of him and where he was in the
room but seemed to be seeing him from a long ways off. If she tried hard she could swim to where he
was to see what he was doing…but then soon she didn’t want to…very soon
sleeping next to him was better. He made
her feel safe. Like sentry duty was
taken care of and she could just sleep.
But he hadn’t come last
night--she didn’t think, and she hadn’t slept as well.
Maybe he should move in
to the house--he could always stay in the basement. Yeah she liked that idea, to have someone
around Dawn at all times.
She had better call him
on the cell she had given him to see what he thought about it and to make sure
he was o.k.
By the end of the day
Glory had taken Dawn.
New ball game.
The Coal Bin
Fear.
Old fashioned been there
now back again fear.
Spike was afraid. It held him inside, gripped him and if he
could breathe he wouldn’t be able.
The one person in the
whole of the world that loved him, and he knew, somehow that Dawn did love him
and he had absolutely no idea what to do.
Buffy’s frozen face, her
body locked in comatose silence spoke finally to anyone who might have wondered
that yes indeed she still had feelings, more and deeper than a sappy soap opera
character. Could anyone imagine
defending the world as she did without enormous conviction?
And now she was paying
for it.
He hadn’t tried to
connect with her--he left that to Red and Giles and Xander, even Anya. He knew she didn’t love him she wouldn’t come
if he called. He was the one on the end of
her leash.
(Shouldn’t a leash pull
both ways?)
He had to get of
here. He had to kill something.
~
` ~
Seven dusted vamps later
he felt better. Seven was the magic
number.
Seven was a magic number,
the world was created in seven days or was it six and on the seventh day god
rested? Well, it had been more than a
century since his catechism and rosary clutching. But that was something that was
universal. Seven.
Seventh heaven.
Hell.
They were in over their
heads. He leaned up against exterior
wall of the chapel. He knew it. Buffy knew it.
A Hell god.
He had fought her and
got plastered, had seen Buffy take her on and got smashed. Even if they took her together it wouldn’t be
enough. He wasn’t being
pessimistic. Just assessing. He wasn’t worried about Buffy snapping out of
her fugue state, she’d bounce back. The
question was what could they possibly do when she did come back? He had no idea.
It was desperate. What do you do when you’re desperate?
His back was
itching. It burned a little, he stood up
straight and turned around…well…bugger…must be some kinda of grand consecrated
chapel to make him itch like that.
He stared at the
chapel. Without thinking he walked up
the short stairs and opened the doors of the house of his nemesis.
He looked inside. Black.
Well that’s good, his favorite color.
Black, it was the cool velvet black of a coal bin interior. The darkness was sprinkled with small points
of light hovering next to the alter. It
was those little electric prayer candles.
Spike walked in and
strolled up to the alter. That was a
mistake wasn’t it? Switching from
candles to these little electric bulbs.
Everybody knew candles did a clearing--ah well not his look out.
He sat in the third
pew. As if the act of sitting in the
front or second contained just a shade too much hubris for this particular
blighter.
He sighed, and ran his
hands over his face, rubbing hard and spoke, the words running ‘round and ‘round
his mind until they just rattled out.
“…Ah god I love her…I
love her so much…” He said to himself,
shaking his head. He continued his
analysis outloud.
“She’s in over her head
this time, isn’t she then? Something’s
gonna break this time, I can feel it…just please…please don’t let it be
her…” He was praying now, quite suddenly
and without switching a beat he was talking to the silent old friend of his
William childhood, his coal bin companion.
And as it is with old friends, they spoke, as if no time had gone
by…just picked up where they left off…
“Don’t let it be her or the Bit…I know you can
do it…I’ll do it…I know I’m going to hell this isn’t about that or me it’s
about her…and I’ll do whatever it is, and here I am--and this is what you wanted? Innit?
Me on my knees, well here I am and I’ll do whatever it is that needs
doing …you know I will…”
“Why?”
The question was softly
spoken; it was Buffy up and about and walking slowly toward him.
She looked a little wore
out but otherwise all right. He knew she
had it in her.
“Why? Why would you ask for that?”
Buffy sat next to him on
the pew. Her eyes wide and innocent and
a little afraid. This was going much
farther then Slayer had ever told her it would.
This was way beyond sexual devotion or clan loyalty from a demon.
Spike watched her face,
watched the conflicting thoughts and feelings change places. It was alright, she needed to hear this.
“For shame Buffy…why
would a man do what he shouldn’t?”
They regarded each
other. She took his hand but said
nothing.
Funny, he didn’t really
want her touching him now. Her touch
felt much, much more like ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry for you’ than anything close to
‘I love you’ or even ‘Thank you…’ And
he wanted to pull away--didn’t want her pity.
She felt him withdrawing
but gripped harder. She moved closer to
him.
“I am sorry Spike, I
am…but not like you think…I’m so sorry I kept you so far away from me and now
we’re out of time. We gotta go…I need
you now, Dawn needs you. But I’m so sorry
I never let myself…know you…you…you--”
“--Thas’ s’alright…not
you’re equal an’ al’--“
“--You…you’re my
better…after what I just overheard from a soulless demon--I…I think you’re
my…better…”
She began to cry. The first water shed in over three years.
“Shh..shh luv nah…now
don’t do that…” He pulled her up against
him and let her rest her head on his shoulder.
“How you gonna kill
nasties with that kind of attitude? I’m evil, I am an’ al’ you got my number
a’right. It’s you that make me a
man. Buffy…you…are the best, most pure,
strongest spirit I’ve ever come across…an’ I been around a lot longer than
you…so you’re absolutely obliged to believe me.
Respect for your elders an’ al’.
Buffy, it’s you the world needs; you’re the sentinel, the last chance
gas before the misery of the desert. All
the deserters, all the non voters--you’re the one who picks up their slack
while the weak get their will screwed on tighter. Buffy, you’re the one.”
She mumbled something
against his chest that sounded something like “I don’t wanna…”
And Spike almost
chuckled. In so many ways she was still a child, still in her daisy pajamas.
“Yes you do.”
She pulled away and
looked up at him and shook her head.
“It’s the job that makes me so cold to you it’s—“
“--You want it. You may not want the job per se…but just sit
there and try to tell me, you don’t want the
job done. You want the job done very
badly. An’ thas’ all the world hears
when it’s looking for volunteers. You
want it a’right…”
They sat quietly. Spike’s attention was caught by the statue of
Mary the Mother of God. Huh. She looks a bit like Buffy. He studied the face of the statue, his
attention caught by the heart made of stone she held in her hands. Thick red drops of blood leaked from the
sacred heart and down over the fingers of the statue.
He cocked his head. Kind of graphic for a statue innit then? Huh.
Almost gory enough to pique ones appetite; looks oozy enough to eat--he
was on the verge of getting up to take a closer look when Buffy spoke. She had pulled herself together. Composed now, she said:
“Spike. We have to go. Are you…will you come with me?”
“Till the end of this
world, luv…and every alterative universe you can write and all the ones you
can’t.”
She smiled but said
nothing. Spike got the last word.
As they were leaving
Spike took one last look over his shoulder at the statue but now only noticed
the small loving smile of benediction.
Mother approves.
~
` ~
Blood.
They were talking about
blood.
Blood opening and blood
closing the porthole.
Blood was life.
Blood, blood, blood, all
these bleeding hearts, all this talk of blood…was, well making him
inappropriately hungry.
Xander shot him a look
when his stomach gurgled. Spike shrugged.
Dawn’s blood--it was the
talk of blood, Dawn’s blood combined with thoughts of bleeding hearts and the
ping of a hunger pang that sparked the beginning of an outrageous idea.
He looked at Giles’
straight firm line of a mouth and took him aside and told him his strange
idea--to ask his council, to get his advice, he simply had no idea whatsoever
if such a plan would work and also he wanted to give Giles something else to
think about to…to divert him from talk of killing Dawn, from thinking along lines
that would lead him to doing something irrevocably stupid.
Giles listened intently,
nodding. And as Spike concluded Giles
took off his glasses and wiped them--the beginnings of a tiny hope making a
flurry of his mind.
“Yes…yes…maybe…may be
possible--it would…it would have to be fast…incredibly fast…” Giles considered “A question of chemistry,
you see…yes…very fast…”
“No worries mate.”
“Chip?”
“Opiate. Heroin.
Poppies. Red could boil, toil and
trouble‘em down… ”
“Buffy?”
“I’ll tell her on the
walk to the house--she’ll see the logic.”
“Might I ask why?”
“No.”
Pause and then Spike
continued.
“And don’t do yourself
the disservice of pretending to care either.”
Pause.
“Fine.”
And with that Spike
turned and walked away.
~
` ~
They had reached the
house and Buffy thought ‘how strange’…this was their second walk plot war walk
down this street. And now, as then, she
thought--I can win. With Spikes help, I can win.
He had been crucial in defeating
Angelus and Druscilla and here, with what he now proposed, he became key--that
is, next to The Key. (…Slayer was
right…slayer was right…)
She said nothing but in
her silence was assent. It was, after
all, immensely logical. Dangerous but logical.
Thank you Spock I mean
Spike.
She led the way into the
house--he paused at the doorway.
“Come in Spike you know
there was no disinvite cast.”
He looked at her.
“Sorry Buffy…”
She stopped on the steps
and looked at him.
“For being an
idiot. I know you’ll never love me. I
should have known. But I’m not sorry
either--I…I’m not…”
What could she say to
that?
‘I’m sorry too? Sorry for spotting your weakness, for
breaking you at your old injury, your bad knee?’ She was The Slayer she wasn’t sorry anymore
there was a battle ahead but she was…grateful…so very grateful…
Hopefully it won’t be
necessary but…
She spoke it, whispered
it from her heart.
“Thank you Spike. Thank
you for this.”
It was enough.
He nodded his head. And went for the weapons chest.
~ ` ~
It became necessary.
Doc, the little man had
gotten in between Spike and Dawn with his large rather iron chef looking knife.
They had both been
pushed off the walkway in their struggle.
While the little demon had tumbled down to the ground, Spike was hanging
on with both hands when Buffy appeared on the walkway. She grabbed Spike by the scruff of the neck
with one hand while she pulled him up by the other. He swung his leg up, got purchase
and together they got him up and righted.
“Buffy--“
They turned in tandem
toward Dawn.
She was looking below
her in horror--“Buffy it’s begun…untie me…I gotta jump…”
“NO”
Buffy and Spike roared
together.
They stopped and looked
at each other.
Buffy’s mind moving
lighting fast--“Spike…it’s my blood too…I can stop it--I can feel it--“
“--No…It’s me…” (I’m the
cannon fodder) ”…you know it’s
true…’sides no time to second guess…if my way doesn’t work, do what you
need---“
Logic again.
Buffy undid Dawn’s ties
with shaking hands while murmuring--“Don’t be scared Dawnie…it’ll be o.k.”
Spike removed the
poppies Red had treated from his pocket and bit down on the stem breaking it in
two--the euphoric effect was instantaneous, he gripped Dawns shoulder to keep
from falling from the platform…
Buffy moved around her
right and holding on to Dawn as he moved, Spike took Buffy’s place at the end
of the walkway--fast--Watcher said this had to be fast.
Buffy standing behind
Dawn moved her long brown hair off her shoulders and embraced her, held her up
from behind while--
Spike leaned in and with
a grimace of pain, he sunk his fangs as gently as he could into Dawns
jugular--it had to be fast but clean or else no matter how much he took she would
bleed to death when he withdrew.
The pain was
excruciating, but the heroin helped and the blood itself helped--once coursing
through his veins strength called to strength and he could do this…he could…he
could do this because once, once, just once, for one evening…The Slayer…Buffy…
had been kind to him…had loved him…he had been loved…
He was fast--maybe less
than fifteen seconds--time so hard to tell.
Who would have ever, ever guessed the art of the quick suck, that the
infamy of William the Bloody would have been the practice necessary to pull
this off? It could burn a hole through
her sanity. Buffy stopped thinking and stared at her friend fastened onto her
sister’s neck. She reached out with her
left hand and touched the top of Spike’s right hand that gripped Dawns left
shoulder. Without looking up, he wove
his fingers through Buffy’s. They
gripped each other tight with Dawn sandwiched in-between. His family.
He kept his eyes closed
to stay focused on Dawns fading heartbeat--her weakening body held steady by
the Slayer. He was getting near the end
now and dared looking up into Buffy’s eyes, this would be good bye. His yellow feral eyes glowed with something like
love and glistened with something like tears--he closed his eyes…withdrew his
fangs gently--pain gone…almost bliss…he licked the bite marks sealing them
closed--for the moment at least, but she would have to be taken to a
hospital…fast.
Very low he spoke to
Dawn
“Bye bye little
Bit--take care of big sis for me will you then?”
He turned and jumped
into the porthole.
Abyss. Abysmal goodbye.
The air crackled and
hummed and was still almost at once.
It had worked.
Dawn’s blood in Spike’s
body had printed as KEY.
It had worked.
Spike. Buffy looked at the open space holding only
empty, she pushed the Slayer away and walked to the edge, her mind simple and
childlike she looked: Where did he go?
Mate missing.
She felt the beginnings
of a terrible tear…of some vital organ ripped out and transplanted to a dead
man. She stood there still as a statue
with her heart bleeding in her hands.
Spike.
Buffy was aware of the
commotion below. Looked down to see, hear them shouting up at her. Quickly now she gathered the limp Dawn up in
her arms and descended the tower.
“Xander…get your van we
gotta get to the Hospital NOW!.”
Anya puzzled
befuddled: “What’s going on…what
happened--“
“Spike?” Giles asked.
“Spike.” Buffy said softly and walked, no, ran to the
van.
~
` ~
He had fallen through.
Of course he had fallen through. And was
still alive because--hey already dead.
But many bones and been
broken and most of his blood was gone--sucked up sucked in, but enough of it
had been ‘Key’ to close the porthole.
Good.
Good. He did something good for someone he loved.
He lay on the pile of
discarded unused rubble under the tower.
Just another piece of the clockwork.
He lay there watching the sky lighten.
They had left. Of course they had left--had taken Dawn to
the Hospital.
But still.
Still.
He had hoped that there
maybe might have been some part of Buffy that had cared enough to post a sentry
to watch for him, just to be sure.
She didn’t love
him. She had used him mercilessly.
She had used him mercilessly.
As soldiers are,
granted. As she used herself,
surely.
And she would have
jumped without question. She would have.
This wasn’t personal.
This wasn’t personal.
He smiled…he was dying
the death of a true warrior.
He laughed, his heart full,
he would die laughing…
He had finally got what
he had asked for, finally, finally…
…Finally made it to a
peer level with all the unsung heroes on battlefields from everywhere and
anytime--to find, like so many before him…he was just another soldier…forgotten
by his General.
Spike lie watching the
sun peek, perk, perch and then come racing to burn another hole in his heart.
Epilogue
Dawn
Berkley CA 2003
It was her chosen profession
to be, that made her think of it, consider it or maybe it was him that made her
consider this profession which then in turn made her think of him.
Any which way round at
this point in time; Dawn was destined to be a caseworker. The pay was lousy, emotional cost
excruciatingly high, mountains of paperwork tedious and soul
crunching…BUT. But a certain kind of
injustice just burned her boat, got her goat and due to an accelerated program
liberating her from high school and come graduation from college in five years
time she would be fighting the good fight.
It was a stat she was
looking at now that fueled the click, click, click come and get it! Great idea.
Over sixty percent of
homeless people in the U.S. were veterans of a war. Over sixty. More than half the people too
busted up to move well in the world or to function above the tide--over half of
these people were veterans of a war. Any
war. Being right or wrong didn’t matter
to the mind, or the soul. Busted is as
busted done.
And the government that cried so much about
caring for its military members had just cut 8 billion, 8 BILLION dollars to
veteran’s benefits. For the
disabled. Emotionally scarred, physically
disabled and stuck out on the street.
She wasn’t making this up. It was
already done and being done to men and women who risked life limb and soul and
were applauded all the way out to the battlefield sure. But when it came to exit stage left--leaving
the theatre of war, well, there was just so many more destructive ways to use
the cash. We should take care of our
veterans and that’s all there was to it and of course this was about
Spike. It was all about Spike. Everything in her life paid homage to that
sub text.
Spike burning in hell
because he loved. If that didn’t just
beat the band to a bloody pulp, what would?
She pushed aside the
stats and research and let her gaze wander around the common reading room of
the university library. Beautiful
vaulted ceilings. Golden sunlight
falling in wherever, however it liked, as if it had all the time in the world,
and there was no pressure, not even the least little bit from the moon, to get
a move on…move the day along.
Dawn sighed. Time. Her left hand rested in her lap while
the other, the right one moved idly, a idiosyncratic Dawn gesture now, to
gently touch the scar at the base of her neck.
She did it now without thinking, didn’t even notice doing it at all
until she would see someone, Buffy maybe, Buffy looking suddenly pained like
she was going to cry for gods sake looking like she had just been smacked or
one of her friends, one of the
Scoobies would look at her oddly, get a little tense, a little tight and Dawn
would go” ‘What? Oh…” And then pull her hand down from Spikes mark
on her neck.
Feeling almost guilty,
somehow, like some BAD odd habit of sucking her thumb in public.
What was wrong with these people?
It wasn’t to be talked
about, referred to, second guessed or contemplated in any dry intellectual or
impassioned process that might have brought some of the truth out into the
open, simply, terribly true, but simply because no one had cared enough about
the guy who saved their necks and the world enough to find out…where he had
gone.
What had happened to
Spike?
Or. Or. They did know. Over the years Dawn began to suspect, that
they knew, Buffy, Willow, Giles, especially Giles--he was all about the info
gathering wasn’t he? So of course he
knew what had happened to Spike. Where
he had gone, how he had died. And if
they knew…then it could be known.
By her.
She was going to find
Spike.
And.
If he was in trouble, in
hell getting toasted daily on Buffy’s say so--if he was, then being back on
earth--even among people who didn’t care if you lived or died would have to be
better than that. Being a demon on
earth, couldn’t be great, but, Dawn thought, if her research was right that
is--if the thing about Darla was true, then there might be several different
ways to do it. Dawn would find him, she
would--she was the Key after all, that could open doors. She would find him and if she could,
if it was wise…she
would get him the hell outa hell.
She might be able to
forgive Buffy for not caring but she would never be able to live with herself
for not trying,
She would find him and
in whatever condition he was in—
She would bring him
back.
Win or lose, succeed or
fail--it was impossible after all, she knew that, she had done the research
after all and it didn’t look good, she should
fail, but maybe…maybe that didn’t even matter as much as having someone…of being someone who cared enough to
try.
~
` ~
Buffy
Sunnydale 2003
She would find herself
thinking this: ‘What would Spike do?’
What would have Spike
done?
She would be asked out for
a date, for a cup of coffee or a drink of alcohol and it would be: ‘Does he look at me the way Spike did?’
Can he love even a
fracture of a fraction in the way of a soulless demon?
Or even this: ‘Would he stand up in a fight?’
It was the lesson that
only, only hindsight teaches.
The truth is, when she
had closed her heart to Spike, it had created a pattern with men, a habit, a
habit of stiffness, of distance.
Of judgment that ended
always with: what does it mean that a
demon loved me more than I will ever love anything, ever? And then as if to preserve this place on the
pedestal where she had placed him, as if this was the only gift she could give
him--she was proving it daily. She
couldn’t seem to love.
Because…
She had taken a psych
course and even though now she was dropped out of college for good and all due
to scholastic ennui, she remembered well enough the basics, she knew about
Freud and the power of the sub conscious and what if, what if…her fear had made
her ‘forget’?
What if her fear of
loving…what if her fear of loving Spike made her forget him there under the
tower, made her leave him behind?
Terrible, terrible…
What if her subconscious
fear of him, of the change he was bringing into her life, her fear of pouring
affection into a soulless demon, and in her mind this was something akin to
loving a rattlesnake for being a rattlesnake but NEVER trusting a rattlesnake
because it was a rattlesnake--what if
all this was subterranean to…well…her not thinking clearly that night…the Freudian
slip behind making a bad battle call…
True, Dawn needed to be
rushed to the hospital and true she was flying high on adrenalin and
trauma--but she was a vampire slayer. She was Buffy the vampire slayer and she
just didn’t leave the fallen behind. When Giles had discovered and revealed through
the aid of the coven what exactly had happened--where Spike had gone…that is, how Spike had died. No amount of comforting comments about the
world being less one very dangerous and volatile demon could completely ease
her mind. Funny, the decision that it
should be he…that he should be the one to jump didn’t bother her. There were always casualties in war. It was
the other thing. It was the part of her
that said: You don’t drop kick a comrade through the goal posts and run off to
party. No.
Because it’s wrong.
Could she exploit his
ability to kill and then feel fine about him being released into hell for the
very same killing?
It was a test to her
beliefs, to the way she did business as Slayer in the world. She was newly made daily, always watching her
motives now and a better Slayer for all that…for all that she had done to
him…but what a cost…
And what was the cosmic
effect of a decision like the one he made?
Can love like that--and she knew Spike loved her, could feel the
softness coming out of him, the light burning up who he was, brightening his
black--could a love like that grow him a soul in the last hour? This is what she clinged to, hoped for--would
heaven be merciful?
It haunted her. He haunted her.
She was lying awake in
bed staring at the ceiling. It was night
but still bright enough for her to see the expanse of the blank ceiling. A clean slate. Her right hand gripped her left one…the one
that had gripped his and looking into
her wide canvas of the ceiling, she painted another picture, because she
couldn’t fall asleep, wouldn’t fall asleep, until she had replayed it
all--visualized the whole thing with a different ending.
The new scene would go
something like this:
She would take Dawn to
the hospital but leave Giles…no…no…Tara, yes, Tara and
Every night she would
see him safe.
Every night she would
save him.
©lizerrrbeathan
Contact: sekarsn@aol.com Oh yes, would always love it and appreciate
it.