*********************
The Sound of Goodbye
"Melancholy caught in my throat
Sadness alone would never change me
But someday
Yeah, maybe someday soon
You won't have to find me
When my world began to fall
I had to turn and run
When my world began to fall
My cries echoed on and on"
The wet streets were glimmering with the traces of rain, the many breaks in its asphalt threatening to open further and drink down the remaining moisture. Staring quietly towards the sky, abandoned buildings impassively rose to meet the misty promise of the clouds. No sound echoed in the streets, save the lonely dripping of water off a roof.
Falling to the ground in a suicidal dive, every drop smacks lightly into the sidewalk, each laughing merrily at the conclusion of their dance. They gather in a puddle, joining all their fellows and waiting eagerly for the reunion with those yet to take the plunge. Their second leap in the air, should a playful child or weary adult chance to splash in their midst, sets them chortling yet again. Perhaps they know that the movement is but a shadow next to their heavenly origin.
Days like this are for staying inside, for board games and forgotten projects. They are days to rediscover the decayed secrets of a basement. Rain is a patron of the imagination as well as the nurturer of life. Some may watch the world from the comfort of home, cheek wistfully pressed against the cold glass, wishing for the poetic beauty of the rainfall to linger. Others draw their bedcovers around them, glaring out the bedroom window to summon the sun they had cursed but a day before. But for all its gray, there was some comfort to be found in the rain, should one be brave enough to forsake their tangled knot of hot beverages and quilts.
Walking along the quiet roads of LA, he delighted in the rain, but it was for different reasons. The soggy gloom of his surroundings completed him. Somewhere deep inside him was a little corner the sun could never dry, a perpetual damp that never caused him to shiver. Nonetheless, he wasn't much for getting wet, and so was forced to mimic everyone else in seeking shelter while the sky wept. But the period that followed the storm was his favorite; so much could be done.
Opportunities and sullen landscapes were waiting; simple pleasures available just for him. He halted under a rainspout, letting his hand get drenched in the icy fluid. His exhaled breath blew out in clouds to mingle with the biting air. He grinned seeing this, somehow feeling victorious over the day colder than he was. Cupping the water in his callused hands, he tipped the drink into his waiting mouth, unconcerned by the excess that spilled over his clean-shaven face.
The droplets slipped down his throat like old friends, rejuvenating every inch of him with joy he could not describe. He would have been content lingering under the rainspout and waiting for words for the rest of his life. To his dismay, however, the sudden moistness in his throat prompted a rumble from his stomach. With a sigh, Spike turned from his lonely path to seek food.
At least it would be fresh and warm-he had gone to Africa and successfully gotten his damn chip removed. It had almost been thirty years since then, but he still relished the novelty of the kill. Nothing like a good spot of violence to redefine yourself.
With the surety of a city native, he slipped through the roads and alleys. Nonchalantly jumping any fences in the way, he finally reached his goal. A solitary metal door stood, painted black in stark contrast to the wall around it, a mysterious portal swathed in bold neon graffiti. Little attempt had been made to conceal the entrance, for the alley was empty. Not so much as a discarded soda can remained. It was obvious that precautions were no longer necessary to hide the activities inside, and Spike nearly chuckled at the signs of moral decay. Almost, but not quite. Without further hesitation, the vampire grabbed the tarnished door handle and ducked inside. There was no other place to go but in.
Negotiating his way past the low ceiling, he made his way to the stairwell before straightening to his full height. The steps were not as well maintained as the outside door, for trash was thrown everywhere, proof that no self-respecting janitor would be on this side of town. Or perhaps they were not on duty when they came to visit, as many 'responsible' adults would. Civilized and respected during the day, they always found themselves drawn to the dangerous seduction of darkness. The curiosity of most was sated by just a taste of this world, but it was not impossible to find the few who would embrace it forever without protest.
Many drug-induced paintings were on the wall, invariably drawing guests downstairs. Torn between his curiosity and hunger, he compromised and gave the art a cursory glance. Most was unrecognizable, and some could very well have been inappropriate, but it was hard to tell without questioning the artist. However, in this building of drugs and death, they were very likely beyond the point of conversation. It was common knowledge that the club was a haven for demons, vampires, and drug dealers. Quite the triple threat.
He liked the drawings though. They gave the establishment a surreal touch that had not been there when he had last visited. Had it only been five years? It is amazing how slow time goes when you have to contend with all of it.
He descended three flights before encountering the only and final door. It was also midnight black, but its severity was lightened by the words "Enter Eternity" scrawled in bright orange paint. He did so, wincing in preparation for the force of the music inside. He had never been able to get used to it, even after daily visits.
Just as he had anticipated, the driving techno music hit him like a slap to the face, shattering the peaceable companionship of the rain. The bass reverberated through his skull, pounding over and over again to make its assaulting presence known. Though the large mass of people inside the underground club were already victims of its' feral rhythm, it greedily would accept one more. His senses were only further overwhelmed by the crowd of humanity.
Writhing, bumping, and entwining with each other, the heart of mankind resided and thrived under here; buried but not forgotten. They were blissfully oblivious to the outside world. Glimmering in the darkness, these listless excuses for people were the tumor under the unblemished complexion of Los Angeles, yet the pumping blood in its' veins. There was a corrupt world hiding behind the façade of every city, and everyone knew it. The fact was just conveniently overlooked by those wishing to keep their power.
Sauntering through the mass like the predator he was, his blue eyes glittering with something dark, fierce, and deadly. The appeal of this hunt was not in the chase, but in the choosing. Looking the part of the panther in his new black duster, (the old had finally grown too old for use), he carefully worked his way through the crowd, weeding out the careless from the wary. He could afford to be patient in his search, for a hastily taken meal could have consequences.
He had learned that the hard way the last time he had visited Eternity, and fed off a girl who had just taken a hit intravenously. Though he had never learned what it was, he did know that the aftereffects of that meal had stayed with him awhile. He'd had no taste for the narcotic in her bloodstream. For all that he would live forever, Spike still held to his preferences on how he would get his kicks. He was in the habit of being many things but a drug addict was not one of them.
Suddenly his head whipped around, eyes widened in instinctive caution. He could sense that there was another powerful hunter here, and they were not trying to hide their claim on the club. Their scent of power had permeated the room, tangible to any demon. His nostrils flared as he took a deep whiff. Never had he experienced this kind of power. It was like rotten meat wrapped around a core of pure white paper, a black rosebud closed up tight to protect its' green heart, thorns dripping with the vivid smear of blood.
Most demons he had encountered possessed a power balance in the other direction, lulling any opponents to confidence. You suspected there was something evil beneath that alluring smile, but were drawn in nonetheless, happy to the last, even as the cheerful lips parted to reveal wicked fangs which tore to your very soul. Even the race of men did as such, breaking each other's hearts on a daily basis under the pretense of caring. Life, love, and death are the closest of siblings after all is said and done.
Yet for all its' unadulterated badness, he could tell that the rogue hunter was being delicate about their display. By not exuding full power, the other demon was practically challenging any others who ventured in their territory to find out the extent of their adversary's prowess.
His eyes narrowed and darkened, silently accepting the dare. As his body tensed, his attention easily shifted to a new target. He continued his scrutiny of the crowd, agilely sliding between people as needed. He mingled amongst the ravers, but somehow stood apart, a haunting figure. The master vampire's silvery bleached hair was a shock of color next to his black-clad body, but he now knew that he was not the only one dressed to kill.
Spike easily followed the trail of the other demon. Already overwhelmed by bloodlust and the crowd around him, the revelation of the power's source sent him reeling further. The vision in front of him filled him with equal amounts of rapture and dread. Staggering under the weight of her gaze, though it was not directed towards him, he leaned up against a wall. Déjà vu draped itself around his shaking shoulders in awed familiarity. It was hissing memories in his deaf ears, unheeded while his eyes were riveted on her. It seemed that they always had been.
"Dreaming comes so easily
'Cause it's all that I've known
True love is a fairy tale
I'm damaged
So how will I fly?"
The ethereal music was still resonating throughout the room, spiraling around and through the crowd, apathetic to any dance but its' own. He ignored it, struggling to recollect his thoughts, far too jumbled for any author to attempt recording. It had been thirty years, and she looked barely a day older than the last time he had seen her. Spike trembled in shame as that particular memory came back.
Buffy clutched her torn robe tightly to her body, eyes watery with the force of her unexpressed anger. His body was already aching from being tossed across the bathroom but he disregarded it, willingly surrendering to the consequences of their actions. It takes two to tango but only one to blame.
"Ask me again why I could never love you!" she condemned him with a stubborn set to her face.
It was not her rage or words that truly cut to his heart, but the horror deep in her eyes. All self-delusions that she saw him as a man died in one crushing instant. All ideals he had struggled so long to regain were abandoned under the heat of her gaze . He couldn't stand himself or the sight of her pain. Dealing with his own anguish had taken enough of a toll. He brushed past her hurriedly, fighting back tears. Why was it he only wept when she was lost to him forever?
And she was, even if he had to make it so. As he fled the scene of his defeat, he vowed that he would do anything to avoid those eyes, however his heart might yearn for their warmth. Returning to his chip-less, destructive self had not helped matters as much as he thought it would. In spite of all her assertions he was a unredeemable monster, he had changed himself to the point which no amount of violence would erase his pain. Damn, and it had always worked before.
He was pulled out of the painful memory by the additional blast of power she released. Obviously, she sensed his presence as he did hers, and was sending out a warning. However, it was apparent that she hadn't seen him yet. He shakily drew his demonic aura to the inside, hoping both to escape detection and strengthen himself. He had to come to terms with the demons of the past before he could confront the demons of the present.
If she wasn't one of the monsters now, damned if he had any more theories. She had her energy wrapped around her like a dark cloak, every thread and seam of it malignant. He could faintly detect the spark he had loved her for, struggling to break through the endless oppression of night. If it had not been there, he would have doubted his senses and memory. But he knew it was her as surely as he knew and embodied death. As it was, Buffy had quelled the life inside her to the most extreme level possible, entombed beneath layers of leather, a vicious smirk, and expendable flesh. Yet he made little attempt to ponder why she still looked so young. The greatest of his strengths and weaknesses was his masculinity, and her appearance was having the effect she had intended it to have on the Y chromosome in general. Machismo only could only endure so much in the face of sexuality.
Her face young enough to blend in with the average age of the crowd, she appeared to be in about her mid-twenties. 'My own age when I was turned' he recollected, and the memory was not altogether pleasant. He watched her join energetically with the music, making full use of her lithe body as if she would never get the opportunity to use it again. If the path she seemed to be treading was any indication, it could very well be her last night.
There were strobe lights of all colors flashing around the room, highlighting random ravers as temporary stars in the obscure drama. But for now, the radiant illumination seemed to join the shadows of the room, both precariously revolving around her tight curves. She could have sent the same message by holding a neon sign over her head, flashing "Warning: Slippery When Wet". But she didn't need to go to the effort of making such a beacon, for her presence was as electric.
Her delicate feet were clad in plain black dress sandals, their only marked feature a deadly set of stiletto heels. The shoes forced her slim legs up, aiding the illusion of height at the expense of comfort. But comfort was not her goal, for she wore her sin easily, a teasing immorality that masqueraded as black leather. So tight they looked painted on, the pants concealed nothing they were supposed to.
Her top did not cover much else, made like an oversized bandana which fastened around her neck and mid-back. The material clung to her breasts like an ardent lover or second skin. But luckily, it was thick enough that from the front, it was not discernible as to whether she was wearing a bra. Of course she wasn't, but the illusion was part of her tantalizing game. The garment was also leather, dyed the darkest of blues to complement the pale canvas of her exposed sides and back. Silver glitter had been applied liberally all over her body, accentuating her every movement as it caught the light.
Her hair was glorious in itself, almost its' own entity. On the top of her head, it was braided into immaculate cornrows, then gathered at the nape of her neck to fall in a loose ponytail. Throughout her blond tresses were streaks of purple, red, blue, and black. They became even more striking when the light hit them, furious little exclamation marks of color. The entire effect intrigued him-old habits tend to die hard. Her body made one sheer line, leaving little to the imagination. The whole ensemble was fitting and becoming, in every sense of the two words.
He had yet to closely study her face, afraid of what he would find there. He finally managed to work up the courage, inwardly cursing his apprehension. Raising his own azure eyes, the first thing that leaped out to him was her pair of crystalline hazels, an exceptional feature of her luminous face. Outlined in thick black eyeliner and mascara, they made her look as though she was suffering a hangover. The effect was not relieved by the daubs of silver eyeshadow over each lid. To him, such heavy makeup only made her look more ethereal and fragile than before. He doubted her weakness was visible to anyone else-he just had the gift and curse of seeing the real her. Buffy had done a brilliant job covering up her insecurities in the impish twist of her maroon lips, stark eyes, and sway of her scantily clad hips. But neither beauty nor power can help you sleep with yourself at night.
And throughout all his scrutiny she had not ceased her lissome dance, moving with even more grace than he remembered to be possible in life. Or perhaps he had never seen her move this way-brute force and poise use two different sets of muscles. But he soon realized that there was more than a physical aspect to her motion. The confidence had always been there, but now it was multiplied; the attitude of the seductress, fresh out of hell and looking for a fight. Spike leaned smoothly against a wall, casually crossed his long legs, and waited for her to unleash the pandemonium she kept locked inside. Maybe for once he wouldn't be its' target.
One stoned raver soon attempted to scale the aloof walls she had put up around herself. Bending over until his greasy dreadlocks brushed across her face and breast, he put his hand on the crotch of her pants, roughly feeling her up. She just smirked disdainfully at his belief that she would join in the mass orgy, swiftly kneeing him in the groin. He bent down in temporary pain, and she gave him a hand up, angelically smiling as if she wasn't the one who put him in his place. 'What?' her beautiful face seemed to ask, 'I'm not the haughty bitch who just shunned you.but how about some candy, little boy?'. He naively believed the act, taking her up on the offer and following her to the back room.
For once, Spike regretted that there was no clock in the room, but time was of no importance to one who lived forever, or for one who lived for the now. He was both, an living and dying enigma. With nothing else to do, and hunger forgotten, he waited patiently without really knowing why. It suddenly seemed vital to learn Buffy's secrets. He knew demon when its' power ran rampant through his brain, but there were still too many questions. So there he stood, a perfect statue with only the insignificant rise and fall of his chest to give away his existence.
Her nameless ravager never came back from the paradise she had dangled in front of his unfocused eyes. She did return though, striding into the room like she owned it for that night only. A flush of color decorated her gaunt cheeks, and her lips, previously a shade of dark red, still held their bloody tint. However, her mouth was also swollen, like she had just emerged from a lengthy make-out session. But some observant voice in Spike's head told him it was more likely that the junkie had met a sinister end, because for all her flaws, she was still not a woman of casual lusts. She would freely give her body to achieve an ulterior motive. In the rare case that emotions were involved, the action would have to be seriously considered long before it took place. That at least had changed.
The realization only caused him more confusion. Did she, now a complete stranger, have feelings then? Where would he fall in her categories? He understood that soon, he would have to face her, and was terrified of what the outcome would be. Baring his soul to his cold reason, he realized that he loved her still, even with mistrust of what she had become. For her part, nostalgia could very well be the one thing she still remembered from life. Spike knew the senses of pain and loneliness remained, for they haunted him every moment. He had heard a line from a song, once. The simply chosen words had struck home to fit his way of life. How had it gone? Ah, yes. You cry when you're wounded and you laugh when they bleed.
"I'm scared
And I'm alone
I'm ashamed
And I need for you to know"
Moving impulsively, he grabbed Buffy by the arm as her sauntering path intersected his temporary fortress. The gesture was that of a drowning man struggling to reach the elusive light on the water's surface. Just beyond that dancing glimmer was a revelation of fresh air, the swimmer's last chance for life. In no small way sympathizing with the plight of the drowner, Spike wasn't able to move from his vantage point of the shadows. It was as if every muscle and tendon in his body had lost its' energy, burned in the fire of her spirit. His eyes still roved over her form, helplessly drinking in all the small details. Half-amused, Buffy just stood, tolerating her unseen observer.
Erratic scars trickled down her compact arms, each telling their own dark tale of self-infliction. Their silent testimony would go ignored, as more of their fellows would be obscured by new wounds more irritable than the old. The slashed landscape of her arms ended in delicate hands, graced by long, scarlet talons. They obviously had been of more use than satisfying her vanity. In many places the paint was chipped, the fingernail sharp and jagged. He peeked up at her face again, having to reassure himself there was some part of Buffy Summers inside the demon.
Up close, her features looked even more life-like than they had from a distance, but perhaps that was due to her recent feeding. The only facial difference between the Slayer of his dreams and the demon in front of him was a single piercing of her right eyebrow. No lines of age or battles marred her beauty, but she still carried the burden of the past. That particular weariness was evident in the tired set of her shoulders and eyes. He tentatively raised his hand to her haggard face, trying to smooth out the frown lines, but she only glared more in the face of his wonderment.
When his palm didn't move, she shoved herself away from his touch, entire body tensed from veins popping out of her arms to narrowed eyes. He knew what she wanted of him, but in some cowardly urge, did not want to move out of the anonymity and solace of the dark. He fought her when her hand landed on his forearm, her grip so tight he should bruise. But then, she let go and smiled, an act that relieved her empty face. Without even knowing the reason for the song on her lips, he moved his face into the blazing light so he could catch a few notes. He missed the incredulity that flashed across her face by leaving his eyes downcast, but she gently raised his chin.
The smile had faded, but the slight curve her mouth made upward was no less dazzling. Gravely, he compelled her to look at him directly, asking for answers through the troubled gleam in his eyes. In reply, she laid a gentle kiss on each of his eyelids, closing them and willing that he would finally abandon all questions of the past. The revelation of now should only belong to the now. He wearily complied, letting her guide him to the fringe of the dancefloor, a borderline outside of even these dregs of society. They stood there, one pair in a sea of flailing arms and grinding hips, swaying on the edge like it was where they had always belonged. Burying his face in her thin shoulder, he relaxed into her embrace, battered from Life's blows. Perhaps the past could offer him some solace.
As they moved, her face was blank, despite her sensual smile. She was bewildered on the inside, and found no way to express it. Her face had been frozen in impassivity for so long, only a shock could trigger a change in her. It had been so long since anything had overwhelmed her. As he found his way home in her arms, she wondered if this meant some part of her was thawing. Even if she were, was it that he was her only link to better days? Was it feelings stirring the withered corpse of her heart? She wasn't sure of anything now, and so contented herself by trailing her hand over the exposed half of his face. Fingers dancing across time, his cheekbones, and their memories, she could almost reach her innocence, but pulled back. Touch is the true method of recollection. Many live through sight, peering fearfully from behind their self-constructed masks, but that cannot be called living. The only way to do so is to experience, feel, and know life. Know life until it leaves you raw and ripped apart. Overcome with panic in the face of resurrected memories, she pulled her hand away with a silent snarl. He made no move as she tried desperately not to make a fissure in her lifeless fortress.
All the same, he sensed her resigned air to the knowledge that she wanted him, or some intangible quality he unwittingly possessed. Truth be told, he had felt the same of her so many years ago, and still was trying to find that spark. It had been hard to define before, and now was impossible to unearth. They both were near disgusted at their state. But an hour ago both had been confident, ruthless killers, and had been reduced to broken bodies, crawling towards an escape they had no faith in.
"I've been saying all the things I wanted to say
That I can't take back
That you've been taking away
'Cause I feel you
Oh, I feel you need me"
In a daze, Spike raised his head from her body and realized they had worked their way out of the club. He had not noticed, fascinated by the syncopation of the music and its' alignment with the room. He could practically hear the heartbeats of the dancers conform with the beat. The heady scent of their humanity dizzied him.
But this psychological high did not fade as they walked up the stairs to the open air. She was too real for that, a potent aura of sex, drugs, and death. A promise which lured many and killed even more. He tasted this energy, trying to grasp her. Taking careful sips, he endeavored not to choke on it, but she abruptly realized what he was doing and shut him out. He gagged from the sudden lack of power, much like one who has been shoving to open a door when it is opened from the other side.
His 'fall' didn't last long, for she drew his senses back to reality with a bittersweet kiss on the lips. Startled, he drew back, searching her face for a motive, any at all. There was nothing he could discern. By shutting him out of her aura, she had likewise wiped her face of emotion. Aching to be buried alive in her eyes, he saw nothing but blankness. Just eyes after all, in a true state of inertia wherein nothing reacted but instinct.
She had accomplished this state to some degree the many nights they spent together when she was alive, but the void was complete in her stillness. The rejection in her reticent features only stung the more for the past. He remembered piercingly the quiet slide of his front door over the stone floor. Then the shamed tread of her feet, gliding to his embrace. He had been fool enough to think the bed their sanctuary, but fucking was as meaningless as the respect she gave him. He may have been dead to Buffy, but he was not the stiffer of the two.
And now it seemed roles had been reversed in the bitter dance of Fate. He had come to her, giving her the role of aggressor and his shivering heart with no protest. For once, she gave him what he had no pride or words for. They lowered themselves down to the ground, like withered leaves using the last of their grace to crumble together. Embracing the wet pavement, irony escaped them both.
Near apathetic, he let her make free with his body, childishly trusting in the torture she had seen and caused. He could respond only to the pain her lips brought. Teeth melting into fangs, they tore at each other's mouth desperately, hunger not sated by blood alone. She finally pulled away, moving her head to his chest and curling her tongue teasingly around a male nipple. His arm curved hesitantly over her back, stroking along the shoulders. He had also been contenting himself with cleaning her delicate fingers of blood, but stopped with a gasp as her free hand deftly slipped into his jeans and traced down his already-stiff cock. Her skilled touch only heightened his sweet torment.
She smiled in satisfaction as he groaned. When he attempted to slide his slender hips on top of hers, she stopped him with a glance and a brush of her lips on his forehead. He was puzzled, but lay submissive again, letting her erase the wrinkles of confusion from his brow. Soon after that, neither could recall anything but abstract details. Amid cries of passion and each others names, he realized that their clothes were mysteriously gone. Her hair whispered across his face as she lacerated his sweat-slick back with her nails. Both immersed in animalistic pleasure, she relinquished the dominant position to him without thought. Driven mad by her closeness, Spike shoved himself inside her ready body, pumping out an violent rhythm to her throaty laughter. They became mere flesh, incapable of higher thought.
Each stroke brought him closer to her core, that haughty space inside. He needed more than anything to know that she was not empty, but sexual release washed over him before his answer found him. Eyes unfocused, Buffy clutched him still tighter to her body, riding the climax like a wave of carnal bliss. The air was suddenly suffocating for the pair, thick and oppressive, a heated weight around their cold bodies. Their cries of pleasure shook the intense atmosphere away. When it was finally over, Spike went limp, resting his body on top of hers while still sheathed. Eye to eye, they watched each other. Her face was feverish yet held a pensive expression. Her thoughts were hidden from him, as they always had been.
He allowed himself a brief moment to wonder at this. Had times changed enough to make up the differences they had always had? Sex had been a bridge she promptly burned. But maybe she was still open to emotion. Or, he realized in a sudden revelation, she had finally learned how to accept it. What was different? Could she feel? God knew he did.
"Feeling comes so painfully
And it chills through the bone
If there's anyone close to me
I'm damaged
Without your kindness"
He was lost. Time was dancing teasingly, out of his reach and only stooping over his icy body when he was too spent to grab at it. Buffy was still there too, not teasing, but somehow just as distant. He didn't know how long they had been in the alley, but sometime between the first time and now, they had moved behind some crates. The wood offered little modesty, but he clutched one of the box slats, needing the painful awareness tiny splinters gave him.
She lingered above him, straddling his groin and lowering that pale, otherworldly beauty to meet the masculine planes of his face. In the feeble moonlight, everything about her glowed eerily. He greedily accepted her lips, kissing her like he was trying to consume her, drink down anything that she offered to him.
At the same moment he felt he could hold no more, she produced a knife. He idly wondered how it had been concealed in her tight leather pants, but there were more important things to think about. He gasped suddenly as she trailed the blade down his side, cutting him right on the fine line between shallow and deep. The intense pain was almost pleasurable, like a fire that would warm him if he was brave enough endure the flame's bite. She lowered her bare torso over him, but his gaze was riveted on her eyes, full of savage bloodlust. Still, there was something else there, a tiny light that screamed out against the rest of her being. Was this the spark he had loved her for? It was extinguished as briefly as it had taken Spike to recognize its presence.
She dipped her fingers in the wound on his side, bringing her hand up to his full lips and tracing a line of the fluid from the corner of his mouth to his throat. He weakly tasted his own blood, and it rolled through his body all the more for her causing it to be there. Without bothering to clean her hand of blood, she cut him the exact same way on the other side in a quick slashing motion. The sadistic smile on her face never faded as she leaned down and laid tiny kisses along the wound, drinking blood as she went. He groaned, caught between waves of ecstasy and agony. It had been so long since sex had been like this.
Soon, even the pain receded as a vision came to him. He didn't know if he was delusional, and he struggled against his own mind, oblivious to the fact that no amount of writhing would stop him from seeing it. His eyes went unfocused as he finally gave himself over to what the blood loss would force him to remember.
Buffy withdrew, still clutching the bloody knife and looking at him with interest. She could still hear the driving music from within the club, and distractedly noted the tempo increase as the DJ segued into another song. This observation was of little importance to her, but her senses were so attuned to her world, the tiniest bit of her attention caught on to the music. The rest was for her lover. His eyes rolled violently in their sockets, hands twitched as if trying to grab onto the damp ground. She cradled his unconscious body and waited, unaware he was suffering through a nightmare that was not his own.
"Every face I see is cold as ice
Everything I touch is pale
Ever since I lost imagination"
The platinum-blonde vampire looked around his surroundings, completely lost. Still standing in an alley, he no longer seemed to be in LA. He looked down at his body, and he was a shining thing, his skin unmarred. Touching his chest with quiet wonderment, his hand went straight through, testimony of his ghostlike state. Panicked footsteps echoed in the alley and he jerked his head up, looking around to see what was happening.
It was Buffy who ran into the deserted alley, panting from exertion. She looked similar to the monster he had just left, but the figure here carried much less grief and stress in her face. Time had not yet bested the younger woman who stood before him. Her eyes roved frantically over the alley, and when they didn't stop at him, he realized he was not visible to her. It made sense. After all, this was not his past.
With a growl, another vampire leapt onto the stage which claimed Spike as its only audience. The Slayer immediately threw herself at him, a blur in jeans and a white tank top. A quiet sob took Spike's attention away from Buffy and the vampire she was fighting, and he looked to his left in horror. He was not alone as he had assumed.
The cry had come from another ghostly figure, but it also seemed unaware of his presence. It was hidden from Buffy as he was, but nothing in this little melodrama was hidden from him. The visitor's body looked lifelike in its color, but the quality of the image was watery, only clearing up for a few seconds at a time. He looked closer, trying to recognize the person next to him. As he realized who it was, he fought not to retch. It was Dawn, or so he assumed by the wealth of straight hair that still hung down her back-her face was a ruin he couldn't bear to look at. Her eyes had been gouged out, skin mutilated and removed in strips. What little flesh remained was marred by acid burns. And she was not the only victim. As he watched, other misty figures filed into the alley, forming a circle around the combatants, who had no idea they had company. Dreading to do so, Spike forced himself to look around the silent company, his eyes bleak. Tara and Joyce had gotten off easy.
Willow could barely stand, one leg bent at an awkward angle. Mist swirled darker around deep whip-cuts on her body, and the gaping hole where her heart had been torn out. Xander's scalp was singed, hair almost completely burned off. He lacked a voice, as his neck had been pierced straight through with a sloppy, jagged cut. Giles had been castrated, or so he assumed by the copious amount of blood on his pants. The Watcher also carried nails in his wrists and ankles, victim of some perverted crucifixion. Anya was little more than a head and mangled torso punctured by multiple knives, but still her eyes glared accusingly at the people inside the ring.
Sickened by their tortured bodies, he turned back to watch Buffy, and perhaps figure out what stake these silent spirits had in her battle. Then, as he saw who the Slayer fought, all became clear. It was Angelus, Angelus with the penchant for killing loved ones. It was genius in its simplicity. By severing the Slayer's ties to humanity, he caused more pain to his nemesis than any amount of physical pain could.
As the gruesome remainder of Buffy's friends and family watched, she was thrown up against a wall. Valiantly righting herself, something dark flashed across the Slayer's face, and she made no further move. A moan rushed from the parched lips of the ghosts, but they showed no sign of moving. Spike wasn't sure whether her friends sought justice or companionship in the afterlife.
The Slayer's death wish was shining in her eyes, so perhaps she also wished to join them. Arms open to her lover and foe, she barely flinched when he crashed into her, driving her body even harder against the wall. Angelus buried his fangs in her neck, and she embraced him to her breast, breathing heavily as he drank. The wait seemed interminable, but finally she summoned enough strength to kick him away. While the vampire growled in his hungered daze, she staked him, his dust soon scattering to the winds. The act had taken the last of her willpower and she collapsed, leaning against the brick wall.
Her torn throat hissed as she drew breath, a bloody hole gaping at the ruin in the alley. Lifeblood soaked her clothing, and she could do nothing but laugh throatily. Spike started at that laugh. It was only a shadow of what it would become, a delicate melody tainted by bitter notes, but he could now link this Buffy to her future self. The blood gathered in a dark pool, and she dabbed a finger in the fluid, idly tasting it. Her eyes closed with exhaustion for only a moment, then she forced them open. Using her last breath of energy, she crawled into a dark corner where the sun would not venture, even during the day.
He watched her for what seemed an eternity, not even noticing when the mute spectators drifted off as unobtrusively as they had come. He knelt by her side, mourning the youngest of the martyrs. Even in death, her face was stern, lacking the peace it should have had. The sun passed on its usual course, but Spike took little notice, impervious to its effects. Running his airy hand over her hair, he wished he could touch her face.
In a random moment, she woke, her eyes opening a nightmarish yellow and bones rearranging in her face. Though he had heard the sound many times, it still sickened him. She rose fluidly and her vampiric countenance seemed to stare right at him. He reached for her in sympathy and found himself dizzily pulled back to the present.
Outside the club, she was riding him brutally, jerking him back to reality . Half-stuck in the past, he cried out in pain, consumed in the flames of Sunnydale. His eyes focused on her face, the face of the arsonist who laughed as her memories were destroyed. It was the classic case of Nero fiddling while Rome burned. He almost felt he would weep at the irony, but instead screamed hoarsely, coming in a rush of blood and cold seed. He passed out, unable to remember more. He was as completely broken as she had been when she decided to die. There was more than one reason orgasm was referred to as a small death.
"Like a stream that flows into the sea
I am lost for all eternity
Ever since you took your love away from me"
He was awakened purely by chance, the mild gray sky above them threatening to shed light into his closed eyes. It was near enough to dawn that the sun would be a real problem. He was supported on her slim shoulder, his boots being dragged on the pavement. Still, her trip to get them shelter was effortless. She had always held deceptive strength in her small frame.
Forcing himself to bear his own weight, he coughed painfully and hacked blood all over the pavement. She stopped as well, smirking. One of her arms was under his, offering support if he needed it. No words had been spoken between them and he was too tired to question anything. Removing her arm, he gestured for her to continue. They were already at their destination, for Buffy only had to move a few steps to open a nearby door. She beckoned him inside, and he moved to do so, his stiff body screaming from disuse.
Her place was a three-room apartment, two flights of stairs underground. The walls in the sitting room were black, draped with vivid cloth and splatters of neon paint. Some of the marks on the wall might have been blood but he could not be sure in his exhaustion. He stooped to remove his shoes, letting his feet bury themselves in the thick, dark gray carpet. The place was tasteful in its own morbid way.
She led him to the bedroom, done in dark blue and silver. He fell down onto the cobalt bedspread, sore all over from the sex and hard pavement. His black shirt was torn along one side in her haste to remove it earlier, and dried bloodstains were visible, a darker patch against the dark fabric of the shirt. Buffy left the room, and he heard the shower running, and her gasp as the cold water sluiced over her frigid body. It was like the touch of the dead, impassive and painful. He could imagine the combined pleasure and torture she found in its embrace, as she had once experienced in his arms. A trembling set into his body, and he forced his mind to go blank, thinking of nothing but rest.
Ten minutes later, she came back into the room, padding like a cat in a blood-red satin robe. The garment tapered as it went down her body, emphasizing narrow hips. Her long hair was unbraided, falling to her mid- back in wet curls. It swayed behind her in a calculated effect as she sauntered towards the bed. She leaned over him, still smelling of vanilla, with the zest of death beneath. He had propped himself on his side, supporting his head with his elbow as he watched her show. With a gentle hand, she rolled him over to lay with his back facing her, flat stomach pressed into the bed. She removed his shirt to get a better look at his wounds. The scores on his back from her nails gleamed in the dim light of the room, and she traced them wistfully.
Reaching for the nightstand, she grabbed a first-aid kit. She disinfected everything first with cleaning alcohol. He hissed at the sting it caused, but made no move. Perhaps his most grievous wounds were the jagged cuts on his side, so she impassively wrapped bandages around his torso. He watched her, peeking through the circle of his arms. Her movements were precise and skillful, but a tiny gleam in her eyes belied her hard face as she covered the tender gashes.
"Proud of your handiwork, luv?" he said, breaking the silence they had imposed on themselves.
Spike rolled over lazily to see her reaction, but she just laughed, a flawed sound not unlike melodious choking. The sound was soon smothered as she forced herself to wipe all expression off her face. Emotion wasn't something she could afford to show anyone, and she had grown adept at hiding it over the years. Until now, she had been secure in her indifference.
Unaware of her inner dilemma, he stared at her face, saddened by the lack of humanity in her icy green eyes. The creature in front of him bore little resemblance to Buffy Summers. He sighed, sitting up gingerly so he didn't destroy her careful bandages.
"Sometimes
The sound of goodbye
Is louder
Than any drumbeat"
Divining his thoughts, Buffy vamped out and shoved him back down onto the pillows. She knew she couldn't soften any more without risking a life of constant pain. She loathed the past, but couldn't let him slip away from her too. It was emotions that had weakened her, but they had to be his. She was too callused to open herself to hurt again.
He was merely looking up at her, eyes understanding and somewhat afraid. His attraction to her was fatal, and inevitable.
"Spike," was all she would say, flashing an alluring pout and glimpse of fangs.
Sure she could entice him into staying, she drew her robe off slowly. The ploy worked, his eyes caught on the view of her skin. It was still smooth and golden, but now had a pale cast to it. He reached up to kiss her, and they shifted positions in the frenzy of dueling tongues. She had forgotten many things from her other life, but kissing was not one of them. His hands were holding her face still while he ravaged her mouth, and she used her hands to slip inside his jeans, expertly getting him erect. He slid into his vampiric face with an anguished groan.
Reaching under one of the many pillows, she produced handcuffs, and he, smirking knowingly, used them to bind her beneath him. He drew closer to her face to kiss her again, and could smell stale blood under the mint of her toothpaste. Somehow it enabled him to put off thoughts of sex. He was finally able to see that what she had become was not what he loved.
The spark of morality and life was gone from her eyes, changed into a mockery of itself. She was a bloodthirsty, masochistic monster. He hadn't seen a mirror of himself in three centuries, and the revelation unnerved him. She was smirking his smirk, stretching his muscles, walking his walk, and killing his emotions. He couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing here. Shuddering, he rubbed his head against his own shoulder, like a trapped animal. His face was again human when he got control of himself.
He leapt off the bed as if scorched by the sun, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Like he was trying to protect himself from something. Buffy changed back to her other face and looked at him with eyebrows raised in polite confusion. His eyes hid nothing, showing that his conscience was finally clear. Defeat was creeping out of every pore of his body, and they both knew it. He put the key in her bound hand, gripping it with both of his palms. He raised their hands to his chest in apology and she gasped, not from the contact, but the vision it brought her. Channeling each other was spreading like an unusual affliction. Spike watched her as intently as she had watched him earlier, unsure what she was seeing.
Warm African air eddied around her ankles, and she smiled, the most real smile she had given in thirty years. She looked above her in wonderment-the sun was out and she was walking in it. The beautiful moment was soon spoiled as a scream of pain echoed around the desert landscape. She looked around for its source. It was a cave in the side of a mountain, circled by lazy vultures. Trepidation filled her, but nonetheless, she walked forward to enter the cavern. As soon as she had stepped into the shade, the scene before her eyes blurred and changed.
It was a room deeper in the cave, and Spike was there, locked in deadly combat with a man whose hands burned with fire. The vampire's hands were charred, so she assumed the scream had been his as he tried to grasp the fists of his assailant. She rushed forward to aid her lover but her punch passed right through the man. Bewildered, she retreated, just a spectator in these games. To her relief, Spike managed to snap the man's neck in a matter of minutes. He dragged the corpse to a larger demon, whose green eyes glowed. The light in its' large eyes intensified with surprise, but it nodded at the dead body, and escorted the vampire to a pitch black room.
Tied onto a wall, pleading voices and sounds of agony surrounded Spike. She didn't know if the noises had any significance to him, but they affected him nonetheless. She was almost touched by the voices, and found herself cringing in a corner. He cried helpless tears for their fate, nearly driven insane with grief. He growled violently, struggling against his ropes to give the mysterious voices aid. Finally his bonds snapped and he rushed toward the noises, and found only a door. Whatever else had been in that dark room with him had vanished, leaving no trace.
Wordlessly, Buffy followed him through the door, and they found themselves in another room, a deep oubliette with light shining from above. A rope hung down from the top, beckoning to Spike to climb it to escape the pit. Buffy found herself able to float, taking little effort to get to the top. She hovered in midair waiting for the vampire to begin his ascent, but he was looking elsewhere in the room, face blanched with horror.
The rope did indeed lead to the top, but the other end was fastened around someone's neck. Drusilla. The vampiress' feet and arms were tied together, and she had been placed on a ledge too high for the vampire to reach. If he were to climb the rope, his weight would surely strangle her, or mercifully snap her neck. Either way the outcome was the same. He cursed violently, seeing no way out of this predicament.
His choice was made for him, as the bottom of Dru's skirts began to burn. Whatever he did, Dru would die, strangled or burnt. She was already screaming in agony, no longer aware Spike was there. There had to be blood, payment for the favor he was asking, and self-sacrifice was not an option.
He leapt onto the rope, jerking it hard so the vampiress would get instant death. He owed her that mercy. Climbing adeptly, he soon reached the top and clambered out, face grim and empty. Buffy realized with her dark knowledge that it might not have been the real Dru in that dark well, but also that Spike had scoured the earth for her after leaving Africa, and had been unsuccessful. In his own way, Spike had endured as much emotional torture as she had. They had both killed their lovers, and ended up with each other. For the second time.
Heavy footsteps drew both their attention away from the tragedy that had just occurred. It was the demon of the cave, but Spike didn't relax, expecting another challenge. He stood up, assessing how much more damage his aching body could handle. The demon said nothing, just reached for Spike's skull and plunged his hand deep into the vampire's head. His face contorted in pain as the demon pulled out the chip, allowing himself to scream only when the demon pulled the device out. Buffy numbly stood against the opposite wall, unable to comprehend the events.
"Such a little thing for so much trouble," the demon said pensively, still holding the bloody chip.
"What the hell are you blathering on about?" Spike asked in a rasping voice, trying to be flippant in the face of his torturer.
The demon chuckled, an unpleasant grating sound, and launched a ball of sickly yellow energy at the vampire. Spike rocked back with the momentum of the blow and struck his head sickeningly on the stone wall. When he came to, the demon was gone and he was still sore all over, but the pain was concentrated in his chest. With alarm, he found his long-dead lungs and heart were struggling to function.
Concentrating on the rhythm of breathing, he finally got the hang of it and tried to get up. The exertion was too much though, and he collapsed, twisting into his demonic face as a bloody wound in his bare chest reopened. He was confused. He was still a vampire, yet his heart beat. Then he dissolved into insane laughter at himself. He had been unique before, now he was a bloody oddity. Curled in the same cave, Buffy heard him chuckling, and crawled over to see what had happened, resting her ghostly head on his chest and hearing the heartbeat with shock.
The timeless rhythm of his heart got louder and louder until she found herself back in her bedroom, gasping on the bed. She was drowning in the sound, the steady beat echoing in her ears, pounding out her dead ideals. She bashed her head against the silken sheets, trying to clear her ears of the accusing heartbeats.
He held her head still, brow creased in confusion, and brushed a hand across her face. Oddly, this helped her focus, and she stopped moving, looking at him with sad eyes. She reached out, placing a cold hand over his heart and he suddenly understood what part of his life she had seen. But it was not a time for regret. There was nothing he could do to make her understand that their lives had been full of pain, but they had gone different ways after experiencing it.
"I tried," he whispered contritely, closing her fingers around the handcuff key and stepping away.
The door closed behind him softly as he left, holding one of her thicker wall draperies over his head to protect himself from the sun. She closed her eyes in sudden despair, unable to clean up after another mess in the long line of ruin she had made of her life. A bloody tear slid its lonely way down her ivory cheek.
"Tell me again why I didn't love you," she said, voice colored with a regretful yearning.
She spared only a tremble and a glance towards the closed door before unlocking herself with shaky hands. Curled up in bed, she tried to shelter herself from the pieces of her world that tumbled down on her every night, as she mocked true death.
Spike somberly walked away, casting the drapery since the sky was still overcast. The sun was in danger of being extinguished by torrents of wasted tears. The air smelled like more rain, and the vampire longed for it to drench his emotions. He moved on, leaving the bleak sky to its own ends.
"Sometimes
The sound of goodbye
Is louder
Than any drumbeat"
-Features two trance songs (I just recently got into this genre.. it's awesome stuff!) They are Damaged by Plummet, and The Sound of Goodbye by Perpetuous Dreamer. The beginning lyrics are of "This Sadness Alone" by Reach the Sky. I make an indirect reference to 'Defeat You' by Smashmouth. Yes, I'm a music freak, and am probably listening to something right now. I admit it, so there. :-D
-And just to clear up any possible confusion: I embellished a little on the supernatural capacities of demons-here, they have an aura of power which can be felt, hidden or displayed. And I added those visions of the past because they just seemed to add a nice touch to the story. So that's my AU...thank you much.
I think that's about it from this end.hope you enjoyed the story! And reviews are the best-I need a little feedback now and then to complete my day! (It makes me all warm and tingly inside!) LOL.
"Melancholy caught in my throat
Sadness alone would never change me
But someday
Yeah, maybe someday soon
You won't have to find me
When my world began to fall
I had to turn and run
When my world began to fall
My cries echoed on and on"
The wet streets were glimmering with the traces of rain, the many breaks in its asphalt threatening to open further and drink down the remaining moisture. Staring quietly towards the sky, abandoned buildings impassively rose to meet the misty promise of the clouds. No sound echoed in the streets, save the lonely dripping of water off a roof.
Falling to the ground in a suicidal dive, every drop smacks lightly into the sidewalk, each laughing merrily at the conclusion of their dance. They gather in a puddle, joining all their fellows and waiting eagerly for the reunion with those yet to take the plunge. Their second leap in the air, should a playful child or weary adult chance to splash in their midst, sets them chortling yet again. Perhaps they know that the movement is but a shadow next to their heavenly origin.
Days like this are for staying inside, for board games and forgotten projects. They are days to rediscover the decayed secrets of a basement. Rain is a patron of the imagination as well as the nurturer of life. Some may watch the world from the comfort of home, cheek wistfully pressed against the cold glass, wishing for the poetic beauty of the rainfall to linger. Others draw their bedcovers around them, glaring out the bedroom window to summon the sun they had cursed but a day before. But for all its gray, there was some comfort to be found in the rain, should one be brave enough to forsake their tangled knot of hot beverages and quilts.
Walking along the quiet roads of LA, he delighted in the rain, but it was for different reasons. The soggy gloom of his surroundings completed him. Somewhere deep inside him was a little corner the sun could never dry, a perpetual damp that never caused him to shiver. Nonetheless, he wasn't much for getting wet, and so was forced to mimic everyone else in seeking shelter while the sky wept. But the period that followed the storm was his favorite; so much could be done.
Opportunities and sullen landscapes were waiting; simple pleasures available just for him. He halted under a rainspout, letting his hand get drenched in the icy fluid. His exhaled breath blew out in clouds to mingle with the biting air. He grinned seeing this, somehow feeling victorious over the day colder than he was. Cupping the water in his callused hands, he tipped the drink into his waiting mouth, unconcerned by the excess that spilled over his clean-shaven face.
The droplets slipped down his throat like old friends, rejuvenating every inch of him with joy he could not describe. He would have been content lingering under the rainspout and waiting for words for the rest of his life. To his dismay, however, the sudden moistness in his throat prompted a rumble from his stomach. With a sigh, Spike turned from his lonely path to seek food.
At least it would be fresh and warm-he had gone to Africa and successfully gotten his damn chip removed. It had almost been thirty years since then, but he still relished the novelty of the kill. Nothing like a good spot of violence to redefine yourself.
With the surety of a city native, he slipped through the roads and alleys. Nonchalantly jumping any fences in the way, he finally reached his goal. A solitary metal door stood, painted black in stark contrast to the wall around it, a mysterious portal swathed in bold neon graffiti. Little attempt had been made to conceal the entrance, for the alley was empty. Not so much as a discarded soda can remained. It was obvious that precautions were no longer necessary to hide the activities inside, and Spike nearly chuckled at the signs of moral decay. Almost, but not quite. Without further hesitation, the vampire grabbed the tarnished door handle and ducked inside. There was no other place to go but in.
Negotiating his way past the low ceiling, he made his way to the stairwell before straightening to his full height. The steps were not as well maintained as the outside door, for trash was thrown everywhere, proof that no self-respecting janitor would be on this side of town. Or perhaps they were not on duty when they came to visit, as many 'responsible' adults would. Civilized and respected during the day, they always found themselves drawn to the dangerous seduction of darkness. The curiosity of most was sated by just a taste of this world, but it was not impossible to find the few who would embrace it forever without protest.
Many drug-induced paintings were on the wall, invariably drawing guests downstairs. Torn between his curiosity and hunger, he compromised and gave the art a cursory glance. Most was unrecognizable, and some could very well have been inappropriate, but it was hard to tell without questioning the artist. However, in this building of drugs and death, they were very likely beyond the point of conversation. It was common knowledge that the club was a haven for demons, vampires, and drug dealers. Quite the triple threat.
He liked the drawings though. They gave the establishment a surreal touch that had not been there when he had last visited. Had it only been five years? It is amazing how slow time goes when you have to contend with all of it.
He descended three flights before encountering the only and final door. It was also midnight black, but its severity was lightened by the words "Enter Eternity" scrawled in bright orange paint. He did so, wincing in preparation for the force of the music inside. He had never been able to get used to it, even after daily visits.
Just as he had anticipated, the driving techno music hit him like a slap to the face, shattering the peaceable companionship of the rain. The bass reverberated through his skull, pounding over and over again to make its assaulting presence known. Though the large mass of people inside the underground club were already victims of its' feral rhythm, it greedily would accept one more. His senses were only further overwhelmed by the crowd of humanity.
Writhing, bumping, and entwining with each other, the heart of mankind resided and thrived under here; buried but not forgotten. They were blissfully oblivious to the outside world. Glimmering in the darkness, these listless excuses for people were the tumor under the unblemished complexion of Los Angeles, yet the pumping blood in its' veins. There was a corrupt world hiding behind the façade of every city, and everyone knew it. The fact was just conveniently overlooked by those wishing to keep their power.
Sauntering through the mass like the predator he was, his blue eyes glittering with something dark, fierce, and deadly. The appeal of this hunt was not in the chase, but in the choosing. Looking the part of the panther in his new black duster, (the old had finally grown too old for use), he carefully worked his way through the crowd, weeding out the careless from the wary. He could afford to be patient in his search, for a hastily taken meal could have consequences.
He had learned that the hard way the last time he had visited Eternity, and fed off a girl who had just taken a hit intravenously. Though he had never learned what it was, he did know that the aftereffects of that meal had stayed with him awhile. He'd had no taste for the narcotic in her bloodstream. For all that he would live forever, Spike still held to his preferences on how he would get his kicks. He was in the habit of being many things but a drug addict was not one of them.
Suddenly his head whipped around, eyes widened in instinctive caution. He could sense that there was another powerful hunter here, and they were not trying to hide their claim on the club. Their scent of power had permeated the room, tangible to any demon. His nostrils flared as he took a deep whiff. Never had he experienced this kind of power. It was like rotten meat wrapped around a core of pure white paper, a black rosebud closed up tight to protect its' green heart, thorns dripping with the vivid smear of blood.
Most demons he had encountered possessed a power balance in the other direction, lulling any opponents to confidence. You suspected there was something evil beneath that alluring smile, but were drawn in nonetheless, happy to the last, even as the cheerful lips parted to reveal wicked fangs which tore to your very soul. Even the race of men did as such, breaking each other's hearts on a daily basis under the pretense of caring. Life, love, and death are the closest of siblings after all is said and done.
Yet for all its' unadulterated badness, he could tell that the rogue hunter was being delicate about their display. By not exuding full power, the other demon was practically challenging any others who ventured in their territory to find out the extent of their adversary's prowess.
His eyes narrowed and darkened, silently accepting the dare. As his body tensed, his attention easily shifted to a new target. He continued his scrutiny of the crowd, agilely sliding between people as needed. He mingled amongst the ravers, but somehow stood apart, a haunting figure. The master vampire's silvery bleached hair was a shock of color next to his black-clad body, but he now knew that he was not the only one dressed to kill.
Spike easily followed the trail of the other demon. Already overwhelmed by bloodlust and the crowd around him, the revelation of the power's source sent him reeling further. The vision in front of him filled him with equal amounts of rapture and dread. Staggering under the weight of her gaze, though it was not directed towards him, he leaned up against a wall. Déjà vu draped itself around his shaking shoulders in awed familiarity. It was hissing memories in his deaf ears, unheeded while his eyes were riveted on her. It seemed that they always had been.
"Dreaming comes so easily
'Cause it's all that I've known
True love is a fairy tale
I'm damaged
So how will I fly?"
The ethereal music was still resonating throughout the room, spiraling around and through the crowd, apathetic to any dance but its' own. He ignored it, struggling to recollect his thoughts, far too jumbled for any author to attempt recording. It had been thirty years, and she looked barely a day older than the last time he had seen her. Spike trembled in shame as that particular memory came back.
Buffy clutched her torn robe tightly to her body, eyes watery with the force of her unexpressed anger. His body was already aching from being tossed across the bathroom but he disregarded it, willingly surrendering to the consequences of their actions. It takes two to tango but only one to blame.
"Ask me again why I could never love you!" she condemned him with a stubborn set to her face.
It was not her rage or words that truly cut to his heart, but the horror deep in her eyes. All self-delusions that she saw him as a man died in one crushing instant. All ideals he had struggled so long to regain were abandoned under the heat of her gaze . He couldn't stand himself or the sight of her pain. Dealing with his own anguish had taken enough of a toll. He brushed past her hurriedly, fighting back tears. Why was it he only wept when she was lost to him forever?
And she was, even if he had to make it so. As he fled the scene of his defeat, he vowed that he would do anything to avoid those eyes, however his heart might yearn for their warmth. Returning to his chip-less, destructive self had not helped matters as much as he thought it would. In spite of all her assertions he was a unredeemable monster, he had changed himself to the point which no amount of violence would erase his pain. Damn, and it had always worked before.
He was pulled out of the painful memory by the additional blast of power she released. Obviously, she sensed his presence as he did hers, and was sending out a warning. However, it was apparent that she hadn't seen him yet. He shakily drew his demonic aura to the inside, hoping both to escape detection and strengthen himself. He had to come to terms with the demons of the past before he could confront the demons of the present.
If she wasn't one of the monsters now, damned if he had any more theories. She had her energy wrapped around her like a dark cloak, every thread and seam of it malignant. He could faintly detect the spark he had loved her for, struggling to break through the endless oppression of night. If it had not been there, he would have doubted his senses and memory. But he knew it was her as surely as he knew and embodied death. As it was, Buffy had quelled the life inside her to the most extreme level possible, entombed beneath layers of leather, a vicious smirk, and expendable flesh. Yet he made little attempt to ponder why she still looked so young. The greatest of his strengths and weaknesses was his masculinity, and her appearance was having the effect she had intended it to have on the Y chromosome in general. Machismo only could only endure so much in the face of sexuality.
Her face young enough to blend in with the average age of the crowd, she appeared to be in about her mid-twenties. 'My own age when I was turned' he recollected, and the memory was not altogether pleasant. He watched her join energetically with the music, making full use of her lithe body as if she would never get the opportunity to use it again. If the path she seemed to be treading was any indication, it could very well be her last night.
There were strobe lights of all colors flashing around the room, highlighting random ravers as temporary stars in the obscure drama. But for now, the radiant illumination seemed to join the shadows of the room, both precariously revolving around her tight curves. She could have sent the same message by holding a neon sign over her head, flashing "Warning: Slippery When Wet". But she didn't need to go to the effort of making such a beacon, for her presence was as electric.
Her delicate feet were clad in plain black dress sandals, their only marked feature a deadly set of stiletto heels. The shoes forced her slim legs up, aiding the illusion of height at the expense of comfort. But comfort was not her goal, for she wore her sin easily, a teasing immorality that masqueraded as black leather. So tight they looked painted on, the pants concealed nothing they were supposed to.
Her top did not cover much else, made like an oversized bandana which fastened around her neck and mid-back. The material clung to her breasts like an ardent lover or second skin. But luckily, it was thick enough that from the front, it was not discernible as to whether she was wearing a bra. Of course she wasn't, but the illusion was part of her tantalizing game. The garment was also leather, dyed the darkest of blues to complement the pale canvas of her exposed sides and back. Silver glitter had been applied liberally all over her body, accentuating her every movement as it caught the light.
Her hair was glorious in itself, almost its' own entity. On the top of her head, it was braided into immaculate cornrows, then gathered at the nape of her neck to fall in a loose ponytail. Throughout her blond tresses were streaks of purple, red, blue, and black. They became even more striking when the light hit them, furious little exclamation marks of color. The entire effect intrigued him-old habits tend to die hard. Her body made one sheer line, leaving little to the imagination. The whole ensemble was fitting and becoming, in every sense of the two words.
He had yet to closely study her face, afraid of what he would find there. He finally managed to work up the courage, inwardly cursing his apprehension. Raising his own azure eyes, the first thing that leaped out to him was her pair of crystalline hazels, an exceptional feature of her luminous face. Outlined in thick black eyeliner and mascara, they made her look as though she was suffering a hangover. The effect was not relieved by the daubs of silver eyeshadow over each lid. To him, such heavy makeup only made her look more ethereal and fragile than before. He doubted her weakness was visible to anyone else-he just had the gift and curse of seeing the real her. Buffy had done a brilliant job covering up her insecurities in the impish twist of her maroon lips, stark eyes, and sway of her scantily clad hips. But neither beauty nor power can help you sleep with yourself at night.
And throughout all his scrutiny she had not ceased her lissome dance, moving with even more grace than he remembered to be possible in life. Or perhaps he had never seen her move this way-brute force and poise use two different sets of muscles. But he soon realized that there was more than a physical aspect to her motion. The confidence had always been there, but now it was multiplied; the attitude of the seductress, fresh out of hell and looking for a fight. Spike leaned smoothly against a wall, casually crossed his long legs, and waited for her to unleash the pandemonium she kept locked inside. Maybe for once he wouldn't be its' target.
One stoned raver soon attempted to scale the aloof walls she had put up around herself. Bending over until his greasy dreadlocks brushed across her face and breast, he put his hand on the crotch of her pants, roughly feeling her up. She just smirked disdainfully at his belief that she would join in the mass orgy, swiftly kneeing him in the groin. He bent down in temporary pain, and she gave him a hand up, angelically smiling as if she wasn't the one who put him in his place. 'What?' her beautiful face seemed to ask, 'I'm not the haughty bitch who just shunned you.but how about some candy, little boy?'. He naively believed the act, taking her up on the offer and following her to the back room.
For once, Spike regretted that there was no clock in the room, but time was of no importance to one who lived forever, or for one who lived for the now. He was both, an living and dying enigma. With nothing else to do, and hunger forgotten, he waited patiently without really knowing why. It suddenly seemed vital to learn Buffy's secrets. He knew demon when its' power ran rampant through his brain, but there were still too many questions. So there he stood, a perfect statue with only the insignificant rise and fall of his chest to give away his existence.
Her nameless ravager never came back from the paradise she had dangled in front of his unfocused eyes. She did return though, striding into the room like she owned it for that night only. A flush of color decorated her gaunt cheeks, and her lips, previously a shade of dark red, still held their bloody tint. However, her mouth was also swollen, like she had just emerged from a lengthy make-out session. But some observant voice in Spike's head told him it was more likely that the junkie had met a sinister end, because for all her flaws, she was still not a woman of casual lusts. She would freely give her body to achieve an ulterior motive. In the rare case that emotions were involved, the action would have to be seriously considered long before it took place. That at least had changed.
The realization only caused him more confusion. Did she, now a complete stranger, have feelings then? Where would he fall in her categories? He understood that soon, he would have to face her, and was terrified of what the outcome would be. Baring his soul to his cold reason, he realized that he loved her still, even with mistrust of what she had become. For her part, nostalgia could very well be the one thing she still remembered from life. Spike knew the senses of pain and loneliness remained, for they haunted him every moment. He had heard a line from a song, once. The simply chosen words had struck home to fit his way of life. How had it gone? Ah, yes. You cry when you're wounded and you laugh when they bleed.
"I'm scared
And I'm alone
I'm ashamed
And I need for you to know"
Moving impulsively, he grabbed Buffy by the arm as her sauntering path intersected his temporary fortress. The gesture was that of a drowning man struggling to reach the elusive light on the water's surface. Just beyond that dancing glimmer was a revelation of fresh air, the swimmer's last chance for life. In no small way sympathizing with the plight of the drowner, Spike wasn't able to move from his vantage point of the shadows. It was as if every muscle and tendon in his body had lost its' energy, burned in the fire of her spirit. His eyes still roved over her form, helplessly drinking in all the small details. Half-amused, Buffy just stood, tolerating her unseen observer.
Erratic scars trickled down her compact arms, each telling their own dark tale of self-infliction. Their silent testimony would go ignored, as more of their fellows would be obscured by new wounds more irritable than the old. The slashed landscape of her arms ended in delicate hands, graced by long, scarlet talons. They obviously had been of more use than satisfying her vanity. In many places the paint was chipped, the fingernail sharp and jagged. He peeked up at her face again, having to reassure himself there was some part of Buffy Summers inside the demon.
Up close, her features looked even more life-like than they had from a distance, but perhaps that was due to her recent feeding. The only facial difference between the Slayer of his dreams and the demon in front of him was a single piercing of her right eyebrow. No lines of age or battles marred her beauty, but she still carried the burden of the past. That particular weariness was evident in the tired set of her shoulders and eyes. He tentatively raised his hand to her haggard face, trying to smooth out the frown lines, but she only glared more in the face of his wonderment.
When his palm didn't move, she shoved herself away from his touch, entire body tensed from veins popping out of her arms to narrowed eyes. He knew what she wanted of him, but in some cowardly urge, did not want to move out of the anonymity and solace of the dark. He fought her when her hand landed on his forearm, her grip so tight he should bruise. But then, she let go and smiled, an act that relieved her empty face. Without even knowing the reason for the song on her lips, he moved his face into the blazing light so he could catch a few notes. He missed the incredulity that flashed across her face by leaving his eyes downcast, but she gently raised his chin.
The smile had faded, but the slight curve her mouth made upward was no less dazzling. Gravely, he compelled her to look at him directly, asking for answers through the troubled gleam in his eyes. In reply, she laid a gentle kiss on each of his eyelids, closing them and willing that he would finally abandon all questions of the past. The revelation of now should only belong to the now. He wearily complied, letting her guide him to the fringe of the dancefloor, a borderline outside of even these dregs of society. They stood there, one pair in a sea of flailing arms and grinding hips, swaying on the edge like it was where they had always belonged. Burying his face in her thin shoulder, he relaxed into her embrace, battered from Life's blows. Perhaps the past could offer him some solace.
As they moved, her face was blank, despite her sensual smile. She was bewildered on the inside, and found no way to express it. Her face had been frozen in impassivity for so long, only a shock could trigger a change in her. It had been so long since anything had overwhelmed her. As he found his way home in her arms, she wondered if this meant some part of her was thawing. Even if she were, was it that he was her only link to better days? Was it feelings stirring the withered corpse of her heart? She wasn't sure of anything now, and so contented herself by trailing her hand over the exposed half of his face. Fingers dancing across time, his cheekbones, and their memories, she could almost reach her innocence, but pulled back. Touch is the true method of recollection. Many live through sight, peering fearfully from behind their self-constructed masks, but that cannot be called living. The only way to do so is to experience, feel, and know life. Know life until it leaves you raw and ripped apart. Overcome with panic in the face of resurrected memories, she pulled her hand away with a silent snarl. He made no move as she tried desperately not to make a fissure in her lifeless fortress.
All the same, he sensed her resigned air to the knowledge that she wanted him, or some intangible quality he unwittingly possessed. Truth be told, he had felt the same of her so many years ago, and still was trying to find that spark. It had been hard to define before, and now was impossible to unearth. They both were near disgusted at their state. But an hour ago both had been confident, ruthless killers, and had been reduced to broken bodies, crawling towards an escape they had no faith in.
"I've been saying all the things I wanted to say
That I can't take back
That you've been taking away
'Cause I feel you
Oh, I feel you need me"
In a daze, Spike raised his head from her body and realized they had worked their way out of the club. He had not noticed, fascinated by the syncopation of the music and its' alignment with the room. He could practically hear the heartbeats of the dancers conform with the beat. The heady scent of their humanity dizzied him.
But this psychological high did not fade as they walked up the stairs to the open air. She was too real for that, a potent aura of sex, drugs, and death. A promise which lured many and killed even more. He tasted this energy, trying to grasp her. Taking careful sips, he endeavored not to choke on it, but she abruptly realized what he was doing and shut him out. He gagged from the sudden lack of power, much like one who has been shoving to open a door when it is opened from the other side.
His 'fall' didn't last long, for she drew his senses back to reality with a bittersweet kiss on the lips. Startled, he drew back, searching her face for a motive, any at all. There was nothing he could discern. By shutting him out of her aura, she had likewise wiped her face of emotion. Aching to be buried alive in her eyes, he saw nothing but blankness. Just eyes after all, in a true state of inertia wherein nothing reacted but instinct.
She had accomplished this state to some degree the many nights they spent together when she was alive, but the void was complete in her stillness. The rejection in her reticent features only stung the more for the past. He remembered piercingly the quiet slide of his front door over the stone floor. Then the shamed tread of her feet, gliding to his embrace. He had been fool enough to think the bed their sanctuary, but fucking was as meaningless as the respect she gave him. He may have been dead to Buffy, but he was not the stiffer of the two.
And now it seemed roles had been reversed in the bitter dance of Fate. He had come to her, giving her the role of aggressor and his shivering heart with no protest. For once, she gave him what he had no pride or words for. They lowered themselves down to the ground, like withered leaves using the last of their grace to crumble together. Embracing the wet pavement, irony escaped them both.
Near apathetic, he let her make free with his body, childishly trusting in the torture she had seen and caused. He could respond only to the pain her lips brought. Teeth melting into fangs, they tore at each other's mouth desperately, hunger not sated by blood alone. She finally pulled away, moving her head to his chest and curling her tongue teasingly around a male nipple. His arm curved hesitantly over her back, stroking along the shoulders. He had also been contenting himself with cleaning her delicate fingers of blood, but stopped with a gasp as her free hand deftly slipped into his jeans and traced down his already-stiff cock. Her skilled touch only heightened his sweet torment.
She smiled in satisfaction as he groaned. When he attempted to slide his slender hips on top of hers, she stopped him with a glance and a brush of her lips on his forehead. He was puzzled, but lay submissive again, letting her erase the wrinkles of confusion from his brow. Soon after that, neither could recall anything but abstract details. Amid cries of passion and each others names, he realized that their clothes were mysteriously gone. Her hair whispered across his face as she lacerated his sweat-slick back with her nails. Both immersed in animalistic pleasure, she relinquished the dominant position to him without thought. Driven mad by her closeness, Spike shoved himself inside her ready body, pumping out an violent rhythm to her throaty laughter. They became mere flesh, incapable of higher thought.
Each stroke brought him closer to her core, that haughty space inside. He needed more than anything to know that she was not empty, but sexual release washed over him before his answer found him. Eyes unfocused, Buffy clutched him still tighter to her body, riding the climax like a wave of carnal bliss. The air was suddenly suffocating for the pair, thick and oppressive, a heated weight around their cold bodies. Their cries of pleasure shook the intense atmosphere away. When it was finally over, Spike went limp, resting his body on top of hers while still sheathed. Eye to eye, they watched each other. Her face was feverish yet held a pensive expression. Her thoughts were hidden from him, as they always had been.
He allowed himself a brief moment to wonder at this. Had times changed enough to make up the differences they had always had? Sex had been a bridge she promptly burned. But maybe she was still open to emotion. Or, he realized in a sudden revelation, she had finally learned how to accept it. What was different? Could she feel? God knew he did.
"Feeling comes so painfully
And it chills through the bone
If there's anyone close to me
I'm damaged
Without your kindness"
He was lost. Time was dancing teasingly, out of his reach and only stooping over his icy body when he was too spent to grab at it. Buffy was still there too, not teasing, but somehow just as distant. He didn't know how long they had been in the alley, but sometime between the first time and now, they had moved behind some crates. The wood offered little modesty, but he clutched one of the box slats, needing the painful awareness tiny splinters gave him.
She lingered above him, straddling his groin and lowering that pale, otherworldly beauty to meet the masculine planes of his face. In the feeble moonlight, everything about her glowed eerily. He greedily accepted her lips, kissing her like he was trying to consume her, drink down anything that she offered to him.
At the same moment he felt he could hold no more, she produced a knife. He idly wondered how it had been concealed in her tight leather pants, but there were more important things to think about. He gasped suddenly as she trailed the blade down his side, cutting him right on the fine line between shallow and deep. The intense pain was almost pleasurable, like a fire that would warm him if he was brave enough endure the flame's bite. She lowered her bare torso over him, but his gaze was riveted on her eyes, full of savage bloodlust. Still, there was something else there, a tiny light that screamed out against the rest of her being. Was this the spark he had loved her for? It was extinguished as briefly as it had taken Spike to recognize its presence.
She dipped her fingers in the wound on his side, bringing her hand up to his full lips and tracing a line of the fluid from the corner of his mouth to his throat. He weakly tasted his own blood, and it rolled through his body all the more for her causing it to be there. Without bothering to clean her hand of blood, she cut him the exact same way on the other side in a quick slashing motion. The sadistic smile on her face never faded as she leaned down and laid tiny kisses along the wound, drinking blood as she went. He groaned, caught between waves of ecstasy and agony. It had been so long since sex had been like this.
Soon, even the pain receded as a vision came to him. He didn't know if he was delusional, and he struggled against his own mind, oblivious to the fact that no amount of writhing would stop him from seeing it. His eyes went unfocused as he finally gave himself over to what the blood loss would force him to remember.
Buffy withdrew, still clutching the bloody knife and looking at him with interest. She could still hear the driving music from within the club, and distractedly noted the tempo increase as the DJ segued into another song. This observation was of little importance to her, but her senses were so attuned to her world, the tiniest bit of her attention caught on to the music. The rest was for her lover. His eyes rolled violently in their sockets, hands twitched as if trying to grab onto the damp ground. She cradled his unconscious body and waited, unaware he was suffering through a nightmare that was not his own.
"Every face I see is cold as ice
Everything I touch is pale
Ever since I lost imagination"
The platinum-blonde vampire looked around his surroundings, completely lost. Still standing in an alley, he no longer seemed to be in LA. He looked down at his body, and he was a shining thing, his skin unmarred. Touching his chest with quiet wonderment, his hand went straight through, testimony of his ghostlike state. Panicked footsteps echoed in the alley and he jerked his head up, looking around to see what was happening.
It was Buffy who ran into the deserted alley, panting from exertion. She looked similar to the monster he had just left, but the figure here carried much less grief and stress in her face. Time had not yet bested the younger woman who stood before him. Her eyes roved frantically over the alley, and when they didn't stop at him, he realized he was not visible to her. It made sense. After all, this was not his past.
With a growl, another vampire leapt onto the stage which claimed Spike as its only audience. The Slayer immediately threw herself at him, a blur in jeans and a white tank top. A quiet sob took Spike's attention away from Buffy and the vampire she was fighting, and he looked to his left in horror. He was not alone as he had assumed.
The cry had come from another ghostly figure, but it also seemed unaware of his presence. It was hidden from Buffy as he was, but nothing in this little melodrama was hidden from him. The visitor's body looked lifelike in its color, but the quality of the image was watery, only clearing up for a few seconds at a time. He looked closer, trying to recognize the person next to him. As he realized who it was, he fought not to retch. It was Dawn, or so he assumed by the wealth of straight hair that still hung down her back-her face was a ruin he couldn't bear to look at. Her eyes had been gouged out, skin mutilated and removed in strips. What little flesh remained was marred by acid burns. And she was not the only victim. As he watched, other misty figures filed into the alley, forming a circle around the combatants, who had no idea they had company. Dreading to do so, Spike forced himself to look around the silent company, his eyes bleak. Tara and Joyce had gotten off easy.
Willow could barely stand, one leg bent at an awkward angle. Mist swirled darker around deep whip-cuts on her body, and the gaping hole where her heart had been torn out. Xander's scalp was singed, hair almost completely burned off. He lacked a voice, as his neck had been pierced straight through with a sloppy, jagged cut. Giles had been castrated, or so he assumed by the copious amount of blood on his pants. The Watcher also carried nails in his wrists and ankles, victim of some perverted crucifixion. Anya was little more than a head and mangled torso punctured by multiple knives, but still her eyes glared accusingly at the people inside the ring.
Sickened by their tortured bodies, he turned back to watch Buffy, and perhaps figure out what stake these silent spirits had in her battle. Then, as he saw who the Slayer fought, all became clear. It was Angelus, Angelus with the penchant for killing loved ones. It was genius in its simplicity. By severing the Slayer's ties to humanity, he caused more pain to his nemesis than any amount of physical pain could.
As the gruesome remainder of Buffy's friends and family watched, she was thrown up against a wall. Valiantly righting herself, something dark flashed across the Slayer's face, and she made no further move. A moan rushed from the parched lips of the ghosts, but they showed no sign of moving. Spike wasn't sure whether her friends sought justice or companionship in the afterlife.
The Slayer's death wish was shining in her eyes, so perhaps she also wished to join them. Arms open to her lover and foe, she barely flinched when he crashed into her, driving her body even harder against the wall. Angelus buried his fangs in her neck, and she embraced him to her breast, breathing heavily as he drank. The wait seemed interminable, but finally she summoned enough strength to kick him away. While the vampire growled in his hungered daze, she staked him, his dust soon scattering to the winds. The act had taken the last of her willpower and she collapsed, leaning against the brick wall.
Her torn throat hissed as she drew breath, a bloody hole gaping at the ruin in the alley. Lifeblood soaked her clothing, and she could do nothing but laugh throatily. Spike started at that laugh. It was only a shadow of what it would become, a delicate melody tainted by bitter notes, but he could now link this Buffy to her future self. The blood gathered in a dark pool, and she dabbed a finger in the fluid, idly tasting it. Her eyes closed with exhaustion for only a moment, then she forced them open. Using her last breath of energy, she crawled into a dark corner where the sun would not venture, even during the day.
He watched her for what seemed an eternity, not even noticing when the mute spectators drifted off as unobtrusively as they had come. He knelt by her side, mourning the youngest of the martyrs. Even in death, her face was stern, lacking the peace it should have had. The sun passed on its usual course, but Spike took little notice, impervious to its effects. Running his airy hand over her hair, he wished he could touch her face.
In a random moment, she woke, her eyes opening a nightmarish yellow and bones rearranging in her face. Though he had heard the sound many times, it still sickened him. She rose fluidly and her vampiric countenance seemed to stare right at him. He reached for her in sympathy and found himself dizzily pulled back to the present.
Outside the club, she was riding him brutally, jerking him back to reality . Half-stuck in the past, he cried out in pain, consumed in the flames of Sunnydale. His eyes focused on her face, the face of the arsonist who laughed as her memories were destroyed. It was the classic case of Nero fiddling while Rome burned. He almost felt he would weep at the irony, but instead screamed hoarsely, coming in a rush of blood and cold seed. He passed out, unable to remember more. He was as completely broken as she had been when she decided to die. There was more than one reason orgasm was referred to as a small death.
"Like a stream that flows into the sea
I am lost for all eternity
Ever since you took your love away from me"
He was awakened purely by chance, the mild gray sky above them threatening to shed light into his closed eyes. It was near enough to dawn that the sun would be a real problem. He was supported on her slim shoulder, his boots being dragged on the pavement. Still, her trip to get them shelter was effortless. She had always held deceptive strength in her small frame.
Forcing himself to bear his own weight, he coughed painfully and hacked blood all over the pavement. She stopped as well, smirking. One of her arms was under his, offering support if he needed it. No words had been spoken between them and he was too tired to question anything. Removing her arm, he gestured for her to continue. They were already at their destination, for Buffy only had to move a few steps to open a nearby door. She beckoned him inside, and he moved to do so, his stiff body screaming from disuse.
Her place was a three-room apartment, two flights of stairs underground. The walls in the sitting room were black, draped with vivid cloth and splatters of neon paint. Some of the marks on the wall might have been blood but he could not be sure in his exhaustion. He stooped to remove his shoes, letting his feet bury themselves in the thick, dark gray carpet. The place was tasteful in its own morbid way.
She led him to the bedroom, done in dark blue and silver. He fell down onto the cobalt bedspread, sore all over from the sex and hard pavement. His black shirt was torn along one side in her haste to remove it earlier, and dried bloodstains were visible, a darker patch against the dark fabric of the shirt. Buffy left the room, and he heard the shower running, and her gasp as the cold water sluiced over her frigid body. It was like the touch of the dead, impassive and painful. He could imagine the combined pleasure and torture she found in its embrace, as she had once experienced in his arms. A trembling set into his body, and he forced his mind to go blank, thinking of nothing but rest.
Ten minutes later, she came back into the room, padding like a cat in a blood-red satin robe. The garment tapered as it went down her body, emphasizing narrow hips. Her long hair was unbraided, falling to her mid- back in wet curls. It swayed behind her in a calculated effect as she sauntered towards the bed. She leaned over him, still smelling of vanilla, with the zest of death beneath. He had propped himself on his side, supporting his head with his elbow as he watched her show. With a gentle hand, she rolled him over to lay with his back facing her, flat stomach pressed into the bed. She removed his shirt to get a better look at his wounds. The scores on his back from her nails gleamed in the dim light of the room, and she traced them wistfully.
Reaching for the nightstand, she grabbed a first-aid kit. She disinfected everything first with cleaning alcohol. He hissed at the sting it caused, but made no move. Perhaps his most grievous wounds were the jagged cuts on his side, so she impassively wrapped bandages around his torso. He watched her, peeking through the circle of his arms. Her movements were precise and skillful, but a tiny gleam in her eyes belied her hard face as she covered the tender gashes.
"Proud of your handiwork, luv?" he said, breaking the silence they had imposed on themselves.
Spike rolled over lazily to see her reaction, but she just laughed, a flawed sound not unlike melodious choking. The sound was soon smothered as she forced herself to wipe all expression off her face. Emotion wasn't something she could afford to show anyone, and she had grown adept at hiding it over the years. Until now, she had been secure in her indifference.
Unaware of her inner dilemma, he stared at her face, saddened by the lack of humanity in her icy green eyes. The creature in front of him bore little resemblance to Buffy Summers. He sighed, sitting up gingerly so he didn't destroy her careful bandages.
"Sometimes
The sound of goodbye
Is louder
Than any drumbeat"
Divining his thoughts, Buffy vamped out and shoved him back down onto the pillows. She knew she couldn't soften any more without risking a life of constant pain. She loathed the past, but couldn't let him slip away from her too. It was emotions that had weakened her, but they had to be his. She was too callused to open herself to hurt again.
He was merely looking up at her, eyes understanding and somewhat afraid. His attraction to her was fatal, and inevitable.
"Spike," was all she would say, flashing an alluring pout and glimpse of fangs.
Sure she could entice him into staying, she drew her robe off slowly. The ploy worked, his eyes caught on the view of her skin. It was still smooth and golden, but now had a pale cast to it. He reached up to kiss her, and they shifted positions in the frenzy of dueling tongues. She had forgotten many things from her other life, but kissing was not one of them. His hands were holding her face still while he ravaged her mouth, and she used her hands to slip inside his jeans, expertly getting him erect. He slid into his vampiric face with an anguished groan.
Reaching under one of the many pillows, she produced handcuffs, and he, smirking knowingly, used them to bind her beneath him. He drew closer to her face to kiss her again, and could smell stale blood under the mint of her toothpaste. Somehow it enabled him to put off thoughts of sex. He was finally able to see that what she had become was not what he loved.
The spark of morality and life was gone from her eyes, changed into a mockery of itself. She was a bloodthirsty, masochistic monster. He hadn't seen a mirror of himself in three centuries, and the revelation unnerved him. She was smirking his smirk, stretching his muscles, walking his walk, and killing his emotions. He couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing here. Shuddering, he rubbed his head against his own shoulder, like a trapped animal. His face was again human when he got control of himself.
He leapt off the bed as if scorched by the sun, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Like he was trying to protect himself from something. Buffy changed back to her other face and looked at him with eyebrows raised in polite confusion. His eyes hid nothing, showing that his conscience was finally clear. Defeat was creeping out of every pore of his body, and they both knew it. He put the key in her bound hand, gripping it with both of his palms. He raised their hands to his chest in apology and she gasped, not from the contact, but the vision it brought her. Channeling each other was spreading like an unusual affliction. Spike watched her as intently as she had watched him earlier, unsure what she was seeing.
Warm African air eddied around her ankles, and she smiled, the most real smile she had given in thirty years. She looked above her in wonderment-the sun was out and she was walking in it. The beautiful moment was soon spoiled as a scream of pain echoed around the desert landscape. She looked around for its source. It was a cave in the side of a mountain, circled by lazy vultures. Trepidation filled her, but nonetheless, she walked forward to enter the cavern. As soon as she had stepped into the shade, the scene before her eyes blurred and changed.
It was a room deeper in the cave, and Spike was there, locked in deadly combat with a man whose hands burned with fire. The vampire's hands were charred, so she assumed the scream had been his as he tried to grasp the fists of his assailant. She rushed forward to aid her lover but her punch passed right through the man. Bewildered, she retreated, just a spectator in these games. To her relief, Spike managed to snap the man's neck in a matter of minutes. He dragged the corpse to a larger demon, whose green eyes glowed. The light in its' large eyes intensified with surprise, but it nodded at the dead body, and escorted the vampire to a pitch black room.
Tied onto a wall, pleading voices and sounds of agony surrounded Spike. She didn't know if the noises had any significance to him, but they affected him nonetheless. She was almost touched by the voices, and found herself cringing in a corner. He cried helpless tears for their fate, nearly driven insane with grief. He growled violently, struggling against his ropes to give the mysterious voices aid. Finally his bonds snapped and he rushed toward the noises, and found only a door. Whatever else had been in that dark room with him had vanished, leaving no trace.
Wordlessly, Buffy followed him through the door, and they found themselves in another room, a deep oubliette with light shining from above. A rope hung down from the top, beckoning to Spike to climb it to escape the pit. Buffy found herself able to float, taking little effort to get to the top. She hovered in midair waiting for the vampire to begin his ascent, but he was looking elsewhere in the room, face blanched with horror.
The rope did indeed lead to the top, but the other end was fastened around someone's neck. Drusilla. The vampiress' feet and arms were tied together, and she had been placed on a ledge too high for the vampire to reach. If he were to climb the rope, his weight would surely strangle her, or mercifully snap her neck. Either way the outcome was the same. He cursed violently, seeing no way out of this predicament.
His choice was made for him, as the bottom of Dru's skirts began to burn. Whatever he did, Dru would die, strangled or burnt. She was already screaming in agony, no longer aware Spike was there. There had to be blood, payment for the favor he was asking, and self-sacrifice was not an option.
He leapt onto the rope, jerking it hard so the vampiress would get instant death. He owed her that mercy. Climbing adeptly, he soon reached the top and clambered out, face grim and empty. Buffy realized with her dark knowledge that it might not have been the real Dru in that dark well, but also that Spike had scoured the earth for her after leaving Africa, and had been unsuccessful. In his own way, Spike had endured as much emotional torture as she had. They had both killed their lovers, and ended up with each other. For the second time.
Heavy footsteps drew both their attention away from the tragedy that had just occurred. It was the demon of the cave, but Spike didn't relax, expecting another challenge. He stood up, assessing how much more damage his aching body could handle. The demon said nothing, just reached for Spike's skull and plunged his hand deep into the vampire's head. His face contorted in pain as the demon pulled out the chip, allowing himself to scream only when the demon pulled the device out. Buffy numbly stood against the opposite wall, unable to comprehend the events.
"Such a little thing for so much trouble," the demon said pensively, still holding the bloody chip.
"What the hell are you blathering on about?" Spike asked in a rasping voice, trying to be flippant in the face of his torturer.
The demon chuckled, an unpleasant grating sound, and launched a ball of sickly yellow energy at the vampire. Spike rocked back with the momentum of the blow and struck his head sickeningly on the stone wall. When he came to, the demon was gone and he was still sore all over, but the pain was concentrated in his chest. With alarm, he found his long-dead lungs and heart were struggling to function.
Concentrating on the rhythm of breathing, he finally got the hang of it and tried to get up. The exertion was too much though, and he collapsed, twisting into his demonic face as a bloody wound in his bare chest reopened. He was confused. He was still a vampire, yet his heart beat. Then he dissolved into insane laughter at himself. He had been unique before, now he was a bloody oddity. Curled in the same cave, Buffy heard him chuckling, and crawled over to see what had happened, resting her ghostly head on his chest and hearing the heartbeat with shock.
The timeless rhythm of his heart got louder and louder until she found herself back in her bedroom, gasping on the bed. She was drowning in the sound, the steady beat echoing in her ears, pounding out her dead ideals. She bashed her head against the silken sheets, trying to clear her ears of the accusing heartbeats.
He held her head still, brow creased in confusion, and brushed a hand across her face. Oddly, this helped her focus, and she stopped moving, looking at him with sad eyes. She reached out, placing a cold hand over his heart and he suddenly understood what part of his life she had seen. But it was not a time for regret. There was nothing he could do to make her understand that their lives had been full of pain, but they had gone different ways after experiencing it.
"I tried," he whispered contritely, closing her fingers around the handcuff key and stepping away.
The door closed behind him softly as he left, holding one of her thicker wall draperies over his head to protect himself from the sun. She closed her eyes in sudden despair, unable to clean up after another mess in the long line of ruin she had made of her life. A bloody tear slid its lonely way down her ivory cheek.
"Tell me again why I didn't love you," she said, voice colored with a regretful yearning.
She spared only a tremble and a glance towards the closed door before unlocking herself with shaky hands. Curled up in bed, she tried to shelter herself from the pieces of her world that tumbled down on her every night, as she mocked true death.
Spike somberly walked away, casting the drapery since the sky was still overcast. The sun was in danger of being extinguished by torrents of wasted tears. The air smelled like more rain, and the vampire longed for it to drench his emotions. He moved on, leaving the bleak sky to its own ends.
"Sometimes
The sound of goodbye
Is louder
Than any drumbeat"
-Features two trance songs (I just recently got into this genre.. it's awesome stuff!) They are Damaged by Plummet, and The Sound of Goodbye by Perpetuous Dreamer. The beginning lyrics are of "This Sadness Alone" by Reach the Sky. I make an indirect reference to 'Defeat You' by Smashmouth. Yes, I'm a music freak, and am probably listening to something right now. I admit it, so there. :-D
-And just to clear up any possible confusion: I embellished a little on the supernatural capacities of demons-here, they have an aura of power which can be felt, hidden or displayed. And I added those visions of the past because they just seemed to add a nice touch to the story. So that's my AU...thank you much.
I think that's about it from this end.hope you enjoyed the story! And reviews are the best-I need a little feedback now and then to complete my day! (It makes me all warm and tingly inside!) LOL.