He struggled and tossed. Thoughts of her crashed through his head like a thunderstorm. The memory of her flashing eyes, her passionate anger and her vicious grace. He still had bruises and could still feel the ringing mighty blow to his head, which had ended their last battle. How he longed to be there again. Close to her in any way even if in rage. Even if it was to fight and she caused him pain. That pain he would reel from again and only be reminded of her and want her more.
It was all truly getting on Spikes nerves. The tossing and turning and the mindless pent-up hours of dreaming of her. He had to act.
It was only a few hours until dawn, so he knew she would be sleeping. Unless some terrible fate had befallen her, and he slapped that thought away. Deep down he knew or liked to think if she was to come to an end that he would be there, close to her, unlike the first time she died. As a mortal he would have been amazed at the small amount of sleep a slayer needed to regenerate.
His mind raced as he begun to think of going to see her. Ruffled and beautiful he fought out of his tangled bed sheets and started to pace his cold, quiet crypt floor. The only sound was the gentle stir of dust his feet awoke. He briefly thought of what would happen to him if he was caught. If was to die again and finally, at least it would have been by her a worthy warrior, and near her. Killing is a very intimate act; Spike knew this better then anyone.
He left his candles burning and he draped his murky leather jacket over his pensive shoulders and it flared around him like water. The man, the vampyre, roughly shoved his worn army boots on, sockless and slipped through his ancient wooden door like the ghost he was.
A fading breeze disturbed the skeleton leaves on the ground. The air was cold but Spike could not feel it, Sunny Dale's streets were dead. The vampyre by now knew all the short cuts to her home; so he was there is less than ten minutes. The lonely moon shone through the bone broken listless trees. Their branches scaring the dusky sky. A moments hesitation, thoughts of staking, and her powerful flashing eyes and he scaled up the tree beneath Buffys window. Largely stepping from the tree to her window with minimal fumbling and cursing he crouched at her casing excited and wary.
Glancing in he saw her lying in perfect peace and safety, the light from the moon giving her an unearthly vampyric glow. It made her skin look ethereal and her hair lightly tumbled around her sultry shoulders like a naïve fire. It took his non-existent breath away. He held it until, as a mortal, he would have died, twice over.
Using his finely tuned breaking and entering skills; he softly crept into her room. Spike slinked over to her bedside and sat crouched, hands clasped and basked. She made him feel alive; it angered the demon within and frightened the man. She was his greatest triumph and his greatest weakness. But somewhere within him, where it hurt the most and he was the most afraid he felt wrathfully free.
It was the excitement of being near her that enticed him so. He only felt whole near her, like a puzzle piece. Snatching a battered sketching book from his jacket and a pitiful stub of a pencil he flipped through the various sketches of her, drawn from memory to a blank page. Spike didn't need to see her to do this but his pencil flew so quickly and skillfully that he didn't even look at the page. Then she moved, lolling in her dream, he tensed the started another sketch. The curve of her cheek, the line of her brow and the slope of her ivory curve, her neck. In two seconds she could be his. Although he knew he could never cause her pain, but as he thought of the possibility of her endless evil he blanched slightly and a chill quivered down his spine.
Spike could smell the sun, it was coming. Suddenly, Buffy moaned and stirred; tense and jumpy after sitting for so long he dashed to the open window when he heard her say. No, please no.... Slyly, he turned to realize she was having a nightmare. She was thrashing lightly and futily and he stepped over to her side. Petrified and delicate he boldly brushed a stray strand of her hair from out of her eyes. His fingers lightly brushing her skin and she quieted down instantly. Smiling shyly he slipped back to the window. Just as he was straddling the windowsill he heard Buffy mutter still asleep in a slight sigh Spike. Slightly embarrassed at having heard her and it taking all his self-control not to rush into her arms or to stay with her till she awoke he crept out of her window and soundlessly leapt from her sill, elated. Spike was so wrapped up he didn't even knowtice how close the sun.
As he floated to his cemetery haunt, his long dead body began smoking and had to make a flinging mad dash to his crypt. Sizzling he shut the door with a crash, day light purely streaming around him. Breathing heavy his imaginary breath he laughed loud, startling the doves in the dusty rafters, and slid uncaring down the door. Spike stumbled over to his bed giving one last unabashed look at his sketches; he slept and dreamt of her.
Buffy awoke with a start from a disturbing dream. Sun shone merrily over her form and unused eyes. She had dreamt of a consuming endless darkness but she had been saved. But by whom she could not remember.
There used to be a greying tower on the sea. You became the light on the dark side of me. Seal, Kiss from a Rose.
It was all truly getting on Spikes nerves. The tossing and turning and the mindless pent-up hours of dreaming of her. He had to act.
It was only a few hours until dawn, so he knew she would be sleeping. Unless some terrible fate had befallen her, and he slapped that thought away. Deep down he knew or liked to think if she was to come to an end that he would be there, close to her, unlike the first time she died. As a mortal he would have been amazed at the small amount of sleep a slayer needed to regenerate.
His mind raced as he begun to think of going to see her. Ruffled and beautiful he fought out of his tangled bed sheets and started to pace his cold, quiet crypt floor. The only sound was the gentle stir of dust his feet awoke. He briefly thought of what would happen to him if he was caught. If was to die again and finally, at least it would have been by her a worthy warrior, and near her. Killing is a very intimate act; Spike knew this better then anyone.
He left his candles burning and he draped his murky leather jacket over his pensive shoulders and it flared around him like water. The man, the vampyre, roughly shoved his worn army boots on, sockless and slipped through his ancient wooden door like the ghost he was.
A fading breeze disturbed the skeleton leaves on the ground. The air was cold but Spike could not feel it, Sunny Dale's streets were dead. The vampyre by now knew all the short cuts to her home; so he was there is less than ten minutes. The lonely moon shone through the bone broken listless trees. Their branches scaring the dusky sky. A moments hesitation, thoughts of staking, and her powerful flashing eyes and he scaled up the tree beneath Buffys window. Largely stepping from the tree to her window with minimal fumbling and cursing he crouched at her casing excited and wary.
Glancing in he saw her lying in perfect peace and safety, the light from the moon giving her an unearthly vampyric glow. It made her skin look ethereal and her hair lightly tumbled around her sultry shoulders like a naïve fire. It took his non-existent breath away. He held it until, as a mortal, he would have died, twice over.
Using his finely tuned breaking and entering skills; he softly crept into her room. Spike slinked over to her bedside and sat crouched, hands clasped and basked. She made him feel alive; it angered the demon within and frightened the man. She was his greatest triumph and his greatest weakness. But somewhere within him, where it hurt the most and he was the most afraid he felt wrathfully free.
It was the excitement of being near her that enticed him so. He only felt whole near her, like a puzzle piece. Snatching a battered sketching book from his jacket and a pitiful stub of a pencil he flipped through the various sketches of her, drawn from memory to a blank page. Spike didn't need to see her to do this but his pencil flew so quickly and skillfully that he didn't even look at the page. Then she moved, lolling in her dream, he tensed the started another sketch. The curve of her cheek, the line of her brow and the slope of her ivory curve, her neck. In two seconds she could be his. Although he knew he could never cause her pain, but as he thought of the possibility of her endless evil he blanched slightly and a chill quivered down his spine.
Spike could smell the sun, it was coming. Suddenly, Buffy moaned and stirred; tense and jumpy after sitting for so long he dashed to the open window when he heard her say. No, please no.... Slyly, he turned to realize she was having a nightmare. She was thrashing lightly and futily and he stepped over to her side. Petrified and delicate he boldly brushed a stray strand of her hair from out of her eyes. His fingers lightly brushing her skin and she quieted down instantly. Smiling shyly he slipped back to the window. Just as he was straddling the windowsill he heard Buffy mutter still asleep in a slight sigh Spike. Slightly embarrassed at having heard her and it taking all his self-control not to rush into her arms or to stay with her till she awoke he crept out of her window and soundlessly leapt from her sill, elated. Spike was so wrapped up he didn't even knowtice how close the sun.
As he floated to his cemetery haunt, his long dead body began smoking and had to make a flinging mad dash to his crypt. Sizzling he shut the door with a crash, day light purely streaming around him. Breathing heavy his imaginary breath he laughed loud, startling the doves in the dusty rafters, and slid uncaring down the door. Spike stumbled over to his bed giving one last unabashed look at his sketches; he slept and dreamt of her.
Buffy awoke with a start from a disturbing dream. Sun shone merrily over her form and unused eyes. She had dreamt of a consuming endless darkness but she had been saved. But by whom she could not remember.
There used to be a greying tower on the sea. You became the light on the dark side of me. Seal, Kiss from a Rose.