His skin silver in moonlight
BTVS fanfiction by Dutchbuffy2305
Timeline; S7, after Beneath You
Disclaimer: The usual, Joss etc.
When Giles got out of his car, he was struck by the sweet smell of the air and the intensity of the silence. A huge moon was just rising above the houses on the other side of the street. It was almost orange and seemed to shimmer in the mellowness of the early fall evening.
Giles went in and immediately came out again, jacket shed, and a glass in his hand. He sat down on the porch to enjoy his whiskey in peace. He lifted the glass to his lips, but something stopped him. His head came up and he scented the air like a dog. Far away sounds drifted over to him on the glorious breeze: the baying of hounds, ululating women's voices…
Giles looked at his glass and made an instinctive decision. He went back in, and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of red wine and a glass. This evening's drinking was better dedicated to the ancient god of the grape. He poured out a generous libation on the Somerset soil and after refilling he lifted his glass to the moon as a salute.
Half a world away, and many hours later, Buffy found the moonlight and the clear skies a great asset to patrolling. The moonlight actually threw inky shadows on the ground, so bright was the light, and she could see every stealthy movement her prey might make.
Her spidey sense prickled, and she turned to intercept the incoming vampire. When she saw what, or more precisely, who pursued him, she climbed upon a high gravestone and gaped at the screaming mob of frenzied women pelting across the graveyard. Mrs. Cleaves, one of her old high school teachers, several Sunnydale business women she recognized but whose names she didn't know, Janice… All yelling gibberish at the top of their voices, hair loose and wild, breasts bared to the moon, and if she was not mistaken, bloody scratches on their bare skin, as if they had raked themselves like maniacs. The poor vampire, a fledgling by his clothes and muddy hands, didn't know what was happening to him. And Buffy didn't have a clue either. Giles could have told her what kind of homage women used to give to the god of wine frenzy, and that a male would pay the price…She stared after them. Well, this was one vampire she wouldn't need to stake tonight.
She sniffed the air. It smelled funny. Not like demons, but of wild strange perfumes she couldn't place.
A glint of moonlight on a white object drew her attention. She walked slowly towards it. It was a huge marble angel, a monument to one of Sunnydale's wealthier dead, presumably one with delusions of grandeur.
Something moved at the base of the angel's robes. It was the figure of a nude man with very pale skin and shiny platinum hair. He was kneeling as if in supplication, arms around the base of the statue, his face pressed to the marble folds. His body looked like a statue as well, one of those Greek ones, each muscle well defined but not over-developed, his spine made hollow by his stance. It reminded her of one Giles had shown her a picture of, some fallen hero, smitten down by the god's displeasure.
Buffy hissed in exasperation. Pity and revulsion warred in her. Was this display meant for her? He must know she'd pass this graveyard most nights.
A coldness came over her. She took the bow from her shoulders, notched an arrow and slowly drew it towards its apex. The ghostly white hounds at her side stood stock-still while she sighted her target. The arrow was now precisely pointed at its heart, and she loosed it.
A sudden presence at her side made her waver at the last moment, and the arrow went wide. Her quarry lifted its head, jumped up and ran, its white hide glinting in the swollen moon's light. She ran up to the marble angel and put her hand where her quarry's head had lain a moment earlier. The marble was wet. She licked her fingers: cold and salty, with a faint aftertaste of blood. She started running again, the silent white hounds at her heels. He might be fleet, but her divine fleetness was greater. The huntress overtook her prey and brought him down, helped by her hounds with teeth and claws. His blood was black in the moonlight.
The presence was at her side again. Are you sure, child, this is the aspect of me you want to carry? a majestic voice asked. This is not a night for the Huntress and her cold brother Reason. And though you are warrior without doubt, you are hardly qualified anymore for the Virgin aspect. Beware of her anger…
Buffy was kneeling over Spike, who had not yet uttered word or sound.
Then her mighty knees, dark blue, tinged violet in the cold light, pressed her victim in the soil. Her four clawed hands drew great black furrows through his back. The destroyer threw her head back and bared her teeth at mother moon.
Child, the voice sounded again, what anger is there in you. You are not the only one who has suffered loss. Do you presume to take on the Punisher and Devourer of souls? Your arrogance is great. Yet you have known the forgiveness of a mother's love. You feel maternal love towards you sister and friends. Cannot your heart be great enough to grant it to this trespasser as well?
Buffy felt the breeze chill the sudden tears upon her cheek. She lifted her face to the figure that stood at her side. It shifted and shimmered in the fickle cold glow of the observant moon. It's flowing robes and ample matronly figure reminded her now of Tara, then of Joyce, or statues of Mary she'd seen pictures of in art class. The smile on her face was the sweetest, most patient and most frightening smile she had ever seen.
The temptress bent over the supplicant at her feet, nipples straining against the gauzy fabric of her gown, thighs slicked wetly. She lifted him by his hair till he was kneeling again, and pressed his face against her belly. The arrow her cupid had shot at him so long ago still stuck out of his back, trails of dried blood streaking the ivory back.
The voice went on, still sounding inhumanly patient. Child…there are many ways to love. She and her companion are not appropriate aspects for you now. For her gifts to be fully appreciated you must first forgive those who have transgressed against you, and forgive yourself, who has sinned against them. Love, give, forgive. Tara smiled at her and said "I will forgive you, Buffy. Accept my forgiveness."
Buffy could hardly speak. She noticed she was kneeling too now, just like the other supplicant. The tears on his face shone like pearls.
"I forgive myself. Will you forgive me?"
Say his name.
"Spike, I forgive you. Will you forgive me?"
"I forgive you, Buffy", he whispered.
Can you forgive yourself, Spike? He shook his head.
The glowing figure took Buffy's hands in hers and put them on Spike's head in a gesture of blessing. He needs your help and love to forgive himself.
"Do I have to love him? " Buffy asked, voice strangled. "Don't I get a choice in that?"
Again you misunderstand. This is Agape, not Eros we are a talking about. You need not feel sexual love towards him. That choice is yours to make. But it is necessary for you that you extend the mother's love, the protective, caring love towards him. Your powers must be in balance: you've accepted The Warrior or Judge in yourself, but you hesitate to show your friends the sexual being or the destroyer. You have shown more aspects of yourself to this man than to anyone, but you have denied him respect and caring. Helping him heal, you will heal yourself. Fashion a new inner image for yourself, and the outer reflection will follow.
Struggling with an enormous reluctance and fear Buffy drew Spike's head towards her. She put a kiss on his forehead and whispered: "Forgive yourself." She felt him lean into her hands, the weight of his head unbearably heavy.
The presence slowly dissipated, leaving behind a chill and a feeling of melancholy. It smelled of the passing of summer, the waning of the year, another winter starting. Cloud started scudding across the moon, leaving them in darkness.
Buffy found herself kneeling on the damp soil of the graveyard, her arms clasped around the shivering naked form of Spike. He was still on his knees as well, his head on her shoulders, shaking and muttering into her skin, his hands clasped in a death grip around her upper body.
"Okay, not exactly in the plan, this." she said to herself. " Now what? Hm. Stop talking to self."
She tried to stand up, but Spike seemed to be completely oblivious, not cooperating at all. After some frustrating attempts to shift his position, she finally managed to sling him over her shoulder in a fireman's grip. Grunting with effort she stood up and started the long trudge to Revello Drive.
Plenty of time to think over the events of the evening. Here comes the hero, having fulfilled the quest, and carrying home the prize. Only princesses are real blondes, and we're both the wrong gender anyway. And he's not much of a prize. She must be a sight, a naked platinum-haired man slung over her shoulder, and she holding him in place with one hand on his ass. Fortunately, the citizens of Sunnydale had turned denial into an art form.
Apart from those four words of forgiveness, Spike had not uttered one understandable word all evening. Crazy Spike seemed to be an on/off thing, and he was definitely on tonight. Maybe he wouldn't remember what happened. If only she'd be so lucky! He'd been so creepily submissive, meekly accepting whatever her alter ego's or whatever had put on him.
Finally Buffy managed to wrestle a limp but heavy and unwieldy Spike into her basement. She nailed cardboard and sheets over the small window and straightened with a sigh. It was a lot of extra work, but she'd be damned if she put him up in her mom's bedroom. Give him the wrong idea. Crap, I'm starting to talk like him, she thought in disgust. Well, when I'm talking to myself , anyway. She'd put Spike on the ancient cot they'd never gotten around to throwing away. Okay, what next? Clothes, blanket, blood. Well, he'd have to live with wearing her old sweats. She didn't feel like going to both the all night butcher's and his basement.
She paused. Was that uncharitable? Nah, rescuing had its limits. Food, shelter, clothing were the basics. The things the powers had planned for her were far worse. Providing sympathy and a listening ear, giving respect, those were the punishments in store for her. Trust them to choose what she was least good at. Like she'd done such a great job with Dawn, now she should mother Spike? She looked down on him, poised to go upstairs.
Buffy turned around and walked to the prone figure on the cot again. A narrow beam of light shining down from the hall lay on his chest and face. She stood staring at him for a few heartbeats, then bent over and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. Not mothering Spike, never mothering. Something else. Maybe.