She dreamed of his hands. Large, proportionally, to his taut, slender frame, and rock-solid. Brutal. Powerful. Hands that in their time had wrought pain, evil, ugly death … but which whispered feather-soft against her hot skin, skillfully coaxing her into acceptance, then desire, then need, in the dark early hours she permitted him (with sunlight's escape never far away). Strong, gentle hands pressing between her thighs until they surrendered and parted of their own accord, fingers tracing minute patterns on tender flesh, higher and higher, teasing and promising relentlessly until she grabbed for them and urged them further.
His hands knew every inch of her.
Sometimes, after, she would twine her own fingers, small and white and delicate—deceptive—through his and study the picture they made, all tangled together that way. Good and evil. Light and dark. Saint and sinner. It seemed that there was once a time when she'd been sure which words were hers, and which his.
She'd been so self-righteous then, so bound to her convictions and her black-and-white perspective of the world, her place in it, his lack of one. By the time she began to understand, began to see the gray and accept its existence, it was too late to convince him that things had changed. And then it ended in a burst of light amid crumbling walls.
No you don't. But thanks for saying it.
Buffy woke with a start and a sharp little gasp. Disoriented, she scanned her cramped surroundings, taking in the seatback in front of her, the narrow aisle, the neat row of dark windows, the lady next to her who clutched a dog-eared romance novel in one hand and a clear plastic cocktail cup in the other …
"He's alive," Buffy muttered, needing to hear the words before she could re-believe them after the fitful dream-collage of memories, and the woman afforded her a blandly inquisitive glance before returning her attention to her book.
Buffy tried to shake off the dream. No time for guilt-inducing naughty thoughts now. She'd be there soon. Evil Incorporated. She would see Angel, her first vampire lover, and she would see Spike, her last. With Angel there would be the requisite loaded conversation with its subtle shades of teenage angst, regret, nostalgia … something that kind of resembled love, or that she equated with it.
With Spike … with Spike there was just no telling. There had to be a reason he'd kept this from them. She'd replayed their last contact over and over in her mind since the news had fallen like a sledgehammer over what was becoming something of a normal life on the Buffy scale of bizarro. That scene with its apocalyptic weight. Maybe it should weigh less now, knowing that his blaze of glory hadn't been the end of him after all. Maybe it should mean less. It didn't.
Maybe Dawnie had found him by now, delivered her own brand of Summers retribution, extracted something that might translate to a Spike-ish version of apology. If so maybe Buffy could just show up, face him … throw herself into his arms. Maybe she could forego the "How could you"s and the "Why didn't you"s and the "Were you ever"s and just start making up for things.
There was a lot to make up for. Years.
She settled back into her seat and watched the tiny specks of city lights far, far below.
xXxXxThey'd reached a stalemate of sorts, but Dawn had a gut feeling he was going to cave first. Superpowers she might lack, but when it came to a battle of wills, Dawn Summers was the reigning champ.
"Dawn, I'm going to say this one more time. I have a meeting with a group of Lyvrak demons in fifteen minutes. Lyvrak demons, in case you don't know, are not known for their pleasant nature. You need to be somewhere that's not here. Now, I'll have someone take you upstairs to my apartment; you can relax, watch TV, take a nap, whatever, until I'm done here. Then we'll discuss what to do about getting you back to Buffy."
Dawn frowned dubiously. "You have a TV?"
He clenched his teeth. "It came with the place."
"Oh. Cable?"
"Yes, cable."
"Do you have any real food up there? You know, chips, cookies, Velveeta, anything that doesn't have … plasma?"
"Fred can take you up and get you settled; she'll bring some food, whatever you want. Do we have a deal?"
"Fred? Fred's a she?"
"Yes, Fred is a—Dawn. Let's stay on topic here. Upstairs, right? You'll stay there until I come for you?"
"Okay, but I have a better idea. How about I stay right here until you tell me where I can find Spike?"
Her blue eyes locked on his, and she felt a thrill go through her at the knowledge that she was rapidly wearing down a vampire, once one of the most powerful of his kind, through sheer stubbornness. It was no mean feat, even for her.
He pressed a hand to his temple and closed his eyes briefly in a gesture that was very Giles, and she bit back the smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth. Victory was sweet.
Harmony's disembodied voice cut through the loaded silence. "Boss, the Lyvraks are here. Want me to send them in?"
Angel glared at Dawn for a few long moments. "All right. Tell them I'll be with them in five minutes," he said at last. Then, glaring even harder, he added, "First, find Spike and tell him I need to see him. Right away. In my apartment."
There was a long pause during which Harmony tried to grasp the logistics. Finally she said with an almost audible shrug of her shoulders, "Sure thing, boss."
Dawn beamed at Angel, who glowered back. "I'll take you up."