TITLE:
Darkest Before Dawn #16 "See you" NC17
AUTHOR:
Nmissi
PART: 16/?
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,
what makes you think I'd share him with you?
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's
going.
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.
Ben had not come at two o'clock. Eventually Buffy had called the hospital, and they now expected him to arrive sometime tomorrow, along with Giles. Even gods were constrained by last-minute shift scheduling, and airline delays.
Buffy had finally called her father at six that evening, and Hank was taking the first flight out of Heathrow tomorrow night. In the meantime, Buffy kept her vigil at Dawn's bedside, watching, waiting.
The surgeon's had induced the coma to protect her after the surgery. She had major swelling around the spinal cord, and there was some question as to how much feeling she might have retained. But that would be an unknown until she woke up tomorrow.
Spike watched Buffy from his chair. She could feel his eyes on her face, studying it. A month ago she'd have found it freaky; now it was comforting. He loved her. Amid the rushing waves of despair that kept threatening her, he was something to cling to, so she didn't go under.
She knew she was using him. She also knew he didn't much mind.
"It's getting late, Slayer."
She looked up at him, exhaustion in her eyes.
"I know, I know. I just- I don't like the idea of leaving her alone, Spike."
He put a hand on her shoulder. His voice was gentle, but firm.
"She won't be awake until tomorrow, pet. And I don't really think you can go another night sleeping in that chair."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"I bloody well know I can't."
Damn. She hadn't given his comfort a thought. She knew she was tired, and her back hurt, but she'd not thought that a vampire might become physically tired doing the sickbed ritual. It was strange, because she led such a physical life- but this sitting here hopelessly was draining. It made her bone weary. But she'd never thought it could affect him the same way. She'd never even thought to ask him if he wanted to go somewhere else, if he was tired, or
She startled.
"Spike, when did you eat last?"
He sighed.
"When we split the egg sandwich earlier, love. Remember?"
"That's not what I meant."
His eyes widened.
"Dunno. Guess it was yesterday."
She grabbed her purse and his coat, and leaned across her sister.
"We'll be back in the morning, punkinbelly,"
She kissed her forehead, and smoothed her hair.
"I love you."
She stepped back, and Spike stepped up to the bedside.
His voice suffused with affection, he squeezed her little hand in his larger one and spoke to her.
"Good night, Nibblet. Dream sweet, love."
Then they headed out.
The loud crack as he slammed the car door did little for her brittle nerves.
"Damn it, Spike. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. Look, It's not my fault they don't sell it at the Food Lion."
He was being unreasonable, and he knew it. But they'd been to three groceries, and not a single butcher would sell them a container of blood. They'd received weird looks, and a few suggestions to enquire elsewhere. Two other grocers had even lacked a butcher on staff; hiring their meat delivered prepackaged, and one would presume, pre-drained at some remote location.
He supposed Life On the Hellmouth had spoiled him; blood was sold right there in the refrigerator case alongside matching containers of organ meats.
She waited for him now at the elevator door, and he grudgingly hefted three plastic grocery sacks from the trunk.
At least there were weetabix in one of them, Spike consoled himself.
She tapped her foot at him and flicked ashes into an empty coke can, carried in her other hand. It'd been her excuse for why she didn't need to carry grocery sacks.
He began to regret ever picking her up in the car that night. Since then, he'd been beaten up, shot at, cried on, bled on, starved…
And the worst indignity of all- the bitch kept stealing his smokes.
"Come ON, 'William'."
He told himself he was NOT hurrying, however much it looked like it.
He joined her, and together they went up.
"I really am sorry, Spike."
He rolled his eyes at her.
"Yeah, right, you're really sorry I won't be running out to kill m'self something to eat."
"You're whining. It's not attractive."
He ignored her. Funny thing was, until she'd pointed out how long it'd been since he'd eaten, he hadn't really been very hungry. Only when she brought it to his attention, did he begin to feel weakness and hunger.
She'd been talking, but he'd missed some of it.
"Besides, you'll get mine later- You'd think you could be a little bit more grateful about it."
She was seriously offering to feed him?
He'd bitten her yesterday, that was true. But he'd not fed from her. He couldn't bring himself to do so, it was too much like the first time, when she'd pleaded for it, and he'd been able to feel her, wanting it, wanting him to drain her dry.
It had been as if she'd wanted him to kill her. And the thought of it, of her being that close to the edge, was no turn on.
They entered the apartment, and Buffy got the lights, while he trudged into the kitchen with the groceries.
"I'm going to get a bath and go to bed," she remarked, watching him heat up the stove.
His voice was terse.
"No, you're not. You're going to eat one of these things."
He flipped a steak into the skillet atop the melting butter pat, then added another alongside it.
"I'm too tired to eat. And we have to be back at the hospital pretty early. If I don't get in the tub now, I won't feel like it in the morning."
He turned those blue eyes on her, and there was pain in them. Oh, damn, she'd hurt his feelings again.
"I'm a decent cook, Slayer. The least you could do is try it."
She gave up. She was too tired to worry about ruffling his feathers. It'd just be easier to eat with him, so she sighed loudly and fetched plates from the cabinet, while he dragged out the bagged salad and tossed it with some mayonnaise.
They ate together in silence, their thoughts elsewhere. Then Buffy rinsed the plates in the sink. When she'd finished, she realized she was alone in the kitchen.
Silently she trod the hallway, looking for him.
She found him stretched out in the red bed, his pale white flesh a stark contrast to the hideous carmine sheets. His back was to her, and he appeared to be sleeping already. Soundlessly she stripped out of her clothes, folding them neatly over a chair. Then she stepped around to his side of the bed, and collected his things, folding them neatly as well, and stacking them alongside her own.
There were pajamas in her bag, but she didn't want them. Even if nothing happened in this bed, she wanted the comfort of his skin against hers. She slipped in beside him, and pressed herself against his back, encircling him with her arms. He was oddly warm to the touch, and she snuggled her cheek against his shoulder blade, and rested one hand against his stomach.
He shifted, turning over, blinking blearily in the dim light of the room. She'd forgotten to turn out the light across the hall, she realized.
"Hello, Cutie."
His smile was playful, if a bit drowsy. She nestled her head against his shoulder, and he took her into his arms, holding her against him. She could feel other parts of him waking up, and suddenly she was not nearly as sleepy as she'd thought she was.
She brought her lips to his collarbone, kissing lightly. Her tongue darted out to taste the salt on his skin. His head dipped, and he caught her mouth with his, kissing her deeply.
"Thought you were tired," he whispered in her ear.
"I was," she responded. Then she kissed him again, and pressed her breasts against his chest.
He flipped her onto her back , and grinned down at her.
"I'll see what I can do about that; maybe wear you out a little."
Her eyes lit up with a dark fire.
"Ooh. Promise?" she breathed.
He brought his mouth back to hers, kissing her breathless. Then he trailed his kisses down over her collarbones, and up to her ear. He nipped her earlobe in his teeth, and moved his hands back to her breasts, caressing, tugging, pinching the nipples gently. He kissed back to her neck, teasing her with his teeth. Then he worked his way lower, and took one breast in his hand roughly, the other in his mouth.
She felt moisture between her thighs, as her body readied itself for him.
He moved lower, and she gasped. His mouth on her stomach, his kisses soft and whispering, he spoke to her, his voice shaking, his tone guttural.
"I want to taste you, Love. You're going to melt in my mouth."
He slid even lower, and she felt his hands on her thighs, so close, so close to the aching, pulsing center of her. She was dripping for him, desperate for his touch. Then she felt his kiss, close and intimate, feather light on her soft hair. He gripped her thighs in his hands, pushing them apart, shoving them upward. Her feet were flat on the bed, when he slid his hands under her ass and pulled her hard against his mouth.
He was devouring her, and she adored it. She was afire with need for him now, breathing faster, and hungry for more. She had no other thought but him; his hands, his teeth, his tongue.
Her hands clenched the sheets of the bed, as his lips worked their magic on her most intimate flesh. His tongue was deep within her walls, his fingers circling the nub of her pleasure. She was an easy conquest to this brutally sensual assault. He brought her to the pinnacle, only to slow her and begin again anew. As she became more frantic, her moans became screams, her demands and pleas merely incoherent sounds of desperate want.
He shoved a pillow beneath her hips, but his mouth never abandoned her. The angle deepened his kiss, and his fingers stroked somewhere inside her, some place she'd never known. She threw her head back against the headboard and the pillows, opening her eyes in the dark, as she screamed her release. Dimly she was aware she could see in the ceiling, and the sight was lewd, and beautiful, and thrilling. She could see her own body, flushed with heat and want, her breasts heaving. Between her legs she could see his blonde hair, sticking up all over with sweat, as he played her with his mouth. His shoulders were between her thighs, and his hands left red marks on her hips where he held her tightly.
But it was not over. He continued the onslaught, fraying her nerves and destroying all her control. He brought her off again, and again, and left her quivering and shaking.
Then he was dragging himself up her body, claiming her mouth with his. She could taste herself inside his kiss. She felt him enter her body, deep and hard, pounding her with an agonizing thoroughness.
She shoved his head roughly to one side, opening her eyes and finding them again in the ceiling. She watched his buttocks thrust against her, and her legs grip his hips. He ground against her and she rose to meet him, over and over, gradually quickening their movements.
They came together this time, and she watched it, watched him sag against her breast as she bit down on his shoulder and screamed his name.
Their breathing came shallow and fast, as they recouped. Even so, it was some minutes before Buffy collected herself enough to speak.
"Spike?"
Her voice was soft, tentative. He mumbled something into her shoulder, and she prodded him.
"Spike!"
He raised his head, annoyed with her.
"What?"
"Turn over," she said.
He rolled onto his back, and scooted up against her side, sharing her pillow.
"Spike!"
"What?"
Now he was really irked. He'd done a good job, he had. She should be fast asleep by now. What was it with women wanting to talk afterwards, anyway? Didn't the silly bints realize how much Work they were to Please? A bloke deserves to rest after such a performance, why didn't she get that?
"Spike, look up. Please, just look up."
Something in her voice gave him pause. She wasn't looking at him, she was looking straight up. And her eyes held wonderment.
He looked, his eyes searching the blackness. After a moment he found them, above. He could see Buffy, her blonde hair glinting amid the dark bedding, her skin a pale luminescence. And beside her he could see himself, his white-blonde hair almost touching hers, his white skin reflecting in the gloom.
For the first time in over a century he could see himself.
She rolled to place her arm over him, and kissed the side of his face. He watched her do it in the mirrored ceiling tiles they hadn't noticed yesterday afternoon. He watched as she pulled the bed sheets off of them, exposing their forms completely.
"I can see you in the mirror, Spike. I can see you in the mirror."
She was crying again, but she was laughing too. He brought his hand up before his face, and waved it around. He waved at himself, and the mirror self waved back.
He sat up sharply, pulling away from her bizarre giggle.
"Bloody hell! What is going on here?"
He raced into the bathroom across the hall, and flipped the light switch.
In the mirror, he saw himself.
It'd been so long, he couldn't quite remember William Walthrop's image. But he was pretty sure it didn't look that much like this one.
A hand rose up in the mirror, to touch the bleached spikes. They were wet with perspiration, askew. Beneath them were a strong forehead, and fine dark eyebrows. The eyebrows set off bright blue eyes, which were currently quite round.
He had strong cheekbones, and firm lips, the lower one just a little too full. He opened his mouth and saw a fairly decent set of teeth, considering their age, and the era of his birth.
Suddenly she was behind him in the frame, and he turned around to look at her.
She'd stopped with the insane laughter bit. Now she was just grinning inanely.
"Stop it. Stop it"-
"Do you see, Spike? Do you see? In the mirror?"
"Yeah, Slayer, I see it. What I don't see is WHY I can see it."
She giggled very loudly.
"Maybe I boinked your soul back…"
He looked at her like she was batty, which, well, she was acting. She was laughing again, but tears crept out the corners of her eyes, and she kept talking.
Rambling like an idiot, going on about Angelus now, she kept at him. He knew the urge to strangle her, if only to stop the disastrous flow of her words. She was talking about souls, miracles, and redemption; standing naked in the little pink bathroom with his seed leaking down her legs. It was pathetic and ridiculous. Her arrogance was repulsive to him; how could she stand there talking like this ? It wasn't enough that she didn't love him, now she had to "save" him as well?
"Look, you stupid Bint, It's not a bloody miracle. I don't know what the hell it is, But it's not anything like that. I don't believe in Miracles."
But didn't he? Didn't he believe enough to be on his knees not six hours ago in a hospital room?
Oh God, now it was his laugh that sounded mad. And she was sort of cringing back from him, and starting to look scared.
Suddenly he seized her by her shoulders, and brought her neck to his mouth. He tore her skin with dull human teeth, and the blood pouring into his mouth was not an elixir, it was just blood; Salt and copper, nothing remotely erotic or divine.
He wrenched his head away from her and fell to his knees, vomiting the stolen liquid onto the tile floor.
He could feel her hands on him again, at his back, and he realized she was trying to lift him up. He went with her, without resistance.
She pulled him against her, holding him close, soothing him wordlessly with her warmth and her presence. She pressed her head to his chest, hugging him.
The thumping under her cheek was fierce, and fast. He was frightened, and she could hear it in his heartbeat. She pushed her lips against the flesh over that hammering heart, and kissed the scar. His hands reached around her, clutching at her like a child. She guided him back to the bed, and held him as he shook.