Absolution in Vein
By Moirae
E-mail: moirae_13@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Disclaimer: In Joss we trust. They don't belong to me. Please don't sue.
Spoilers: Season 5, post "Blood Ties." Riley is gone, but Spike hasn't made any admissions of love to Buffy.
Description: B/S Buffy wrestles with inexplicable dreams while she and Spike are trapped together.
Textual Notes: In Christian mythology, "Mary Magdalen" was a prostitute that Jesus saved from damnation. She was present at the crucifixion and she was the first to see the risen Christ. The "Governor" mentioned in this story is Pontius Pilate, the Roman official who sentences Jesus to death. "Yeshua" is how Jesus would have heard his name pronounced. "Golgotha" is the site of Christ's crucifixion.
Feedback: Would love it!
Authors Note: I have been assaulted by the myth of Mary Magdalen and she's making me write this. I intend no offence and admit I've taken some liberties with biblical texts, but I find that every story has more than one voice, and Magdalen hasn't had her say, yet. ***The Magdalen scene may not make sense at the moment, but believe me, it will all tie in.***
Chapter 1: Of Myths and Martyrs
~This is the cup of my blood...
This is the sign of the new and everlasting covenant...
Take this, all of you, drink from it...~
The midday sun blazes down on Jerusalem square, drawing frustrated curses and rivulets of sweat from the mass of humanity gathered there. A restless murmur rises from the crowd as the hours wear on and still the chalky white balcony shows no signs of life. Amid the throng of people, a figure waits and watches, an unwelcome prickle of fear slowly crawling up her neck.
As each minute of quiet anticipation passes, her dread swells. The stench of the crowd assaults her nostrils and their anxious twittering fills her ears. She turns her focus to the gaping, black corridor of the palace, imagining the stoic governor emerge from its depths like Hades from the Netherworld--as if willing it could make it so--but the shadowy hall remains empty in an open-mouthed sneer.
Her reverie is disturbed by the shrill scream of a child, and she searches the crowd to find a heat-stricken infant crying in the arms of its mother, the woman too captivated by the day's bloody prospects to notice the pleas of her own issue. With this heartless display, the last of her control is shattered, and she is assailed by the urge to run, screaming, to the foot of the balcony, demanding an answer--*whatever answer* the governor has to offer--willing to face the worst if only this impotent waiting will be over. If only she will know.
And with the speed of thought, her prayer is granted. From out of the shadowed archway of his palace, a regal figure steps into the blinding spring sun to greet the expectant eyes of the crowd.
"Yeshua of Galilee shall be crucified."
A roar bursts from the rabble--the carnal growls of satisfaction and hollow cries of despair mingle indeterminably and spiral as one into the desert air. The crowd has been answered: another skull will be sacrificed to Golgotha today. From the back of the mob, the woman watches in stunned silence.
Deep inside the palace, beneath stories of stone and dirt, a lean man in tattered dress waits. Death will come to him soon--he knows he should feel something about that fact, but his soul is silent. She can feel him there, knows the quiet contemplation of his mind. He calls to her. They are bound now--body and soul--forever. Bound by blood.
Soon she will watch him die. It is her part to play. Whore. Lover. Disciple. She is all and none. And so much more now--his Magdalen, bound by blood.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Slayer."
Buffy woke with a start. The ground beneath her was cold and hard. She searched the darkness for the familiar voice, but the scene presented nothing but the jagged walls of a cave. As she lifted herself on one hand, a sudden painful throb wracked her head.
"Owww..." She reached her hand up to the back of her skull and felt the telltale warm, sticky ooze coat her fingers.
"Bit of a nasty blow you took there." The figure stepped into her line of sight and eyed her carefully. "You alright?"
"You mean besides the bleeding head wound?" she said, getting up to her feet and scanning her surroundings. "Yeah, I'm just peachy, Spike." She'd heal.
He eyed her fingers hungrily. "I could take care of that for you, luv. Wouldn't want all that blood to go to waste." His eyes twinkled in a warm smile, betraying the predatory smirk of his lips.
"Come near me fang-boy and you'll learn the real meaning of the word 'neutered.'" She circled the large cavern to examine it closer. It was about forty square feet with a high, arched roof. A few thread-like
streams of sunlight filtered in through thin cracks in the cave's ceiling, which Spike was taking care to avoid.
"Ouch, Slayer. No need to bring up a bloke's weak points."
Her voice twinkle with mirth. "You're probably right. It could take days to get through a list like that."
In one corner, what looked like the beginnings of a tunnel jutted out a few feet, abruptly ending in a smooth stone face. As far as she could tell, there was no exit.
"Well, if we're talking 'bout weak points--"
Buffy cut him off suddenly. "Spike, where are we? How did we get here?"
He paused a second.
"Right. Straight business then." Buffy caught the irritated strain in the blond vampire's voice and turned to face him. She studied him carefully, but found nothing unusual in his manner as he leaned against the opposite wall and distractedly lit a cigarette.
Inhaling deeply, he began. "Well, where would you like me to start? The part where you get your arse whipped by that Glory bitch? The part where I rescue you from certain death and zip into this cave to escape the morning's happy little rays? Or the part where we get trapped in here by said bitch while you're taking a quiet nappy?"
"Trapped?" she choked the word out. "Does anyone know where we are?"
"Now how would I know that? We're sorta in the same boat here, ducks." He took another long drag on the cigarette and leveled his gaze at her. "Did the Watcher tell you to go hunt for that fashion mistake all by your lonesome last night, or was that your own brilliant plan?"
Buffy turned away from him and began a more extensive search for an opening in the cave. "I don't need you to tell me how to do my job, Spike."
"Fine. I'll just keep *doing it for you*. Seems a bloke can't turn around these days but he runs into the little Slayer all needy and in trouble." Buffy tensed almost imperceptibly. He grinned. Vamp vision did have its advantages. He continued, arching a sculpted eyebrow, "Or were you just *pretending* to be beaten to a bloody pulp last night so I could come to your rescue?"
A sharp CRACK! echoed through the cavern as Buffy's fist connected with a stone wall. "Spike! This is *so* not helping!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
One hour, two packs of cigarettes, and three arguments later, the duo gave up their search for a way out. Glory had apparently blocked the only entrance to the cave with a very large boulder. The vampire and the slayer had fought a losing battle against the offending obstruction and after depleting all reserves of strength, had grudgingly given up their efforts to move it.
"What I don't understand is how the hell that twit found a bleeding boulder in the first place! It's not like they're just sitting around in abandoned boulder lots in Sunnydale!" Spike paced the floor in a barely controlled rage. Trapped for too long in this stone coffin with the Slayer, he needed some air. And a bit more space, thank you very much. Her heartbeat was singing like a siren to his demon. And her scent Oh, Hell! her scent was intoxicating. She radiated cherry trees and warm blood...
Sweet and metallic.
Innocent and perverse.
A paradox--just like Buffy. The young woman across from him was completely unaware of the disharmony between her holier-than-thou-attitude and vicious, homicidal calling. The Saint and the Slayer, Martyr and Murderer. Sure, she was fighting the good fight for light and justice, but Spike knew full well that those who grapple with darkness must also embrace the shadows. Yes, Buffy was a walking contradiction.
So what does that make you, mate?
A bloody ponce. He had to admit that over the past year, he had been making a pretty good show of righteousness himself. Helping the Scoobies. Killing his own kind. And he had no soul to blame for it. It all left a sick taste in his mouth. Worse than my bloody Sire. He drowned the thought with the lighting of another cigarette and continued to pace.
Buffy was entranced. Smoke trailed behind Spike's form and wispy clouds lingered as he traversed the cavern and returned, cutting a path through them.
He prowled with an animal's grace. Grace that only another predator--or perhaps a victim--could truly admire. The cool, steady stride; the utter focus on his destination (even if it was just length of this dank hole); the waves of pure energy rippling off him...
Okay. Gotta get out of here.
Buffy scolded herself for the admiration she was lavishing on her *demon of the night* companion and attempted to break the spell.
"Spike, you're making me dizzy. Stop acting like some hyperactive infant and just sit down." Her voice was harsh, but it didn't arrest her appraisal of his predatory gait.
Spike spit the words out as he came to an abrupt stop. "Fine. I'll sit. But let's just remember who the infant is around here, girlie." He crouched down beside her, trying to place the exact moment he had become the slayer's lap dog. The Big Bad, William-the-fucking-Bloody, bowing to the slayer's command. Dru was right. I have gone soft. And here she is, smelling so good, pouting and watching me with those big doe eyes...
Bloody Fucking Christ!
He almost stood up to begin his pacing again, but Buffy's voice halted him.
"We need to come up with a plan."
Now that was funny. He almost laughed. Spike searched her face to make sure he had heard correctly. "And what do you propose we do, my little trapped one? Chew our way out through the stone?"
"Look, I know it seems like we don't have any options, but I can't just sit here and wait for the cavalry to come. For all I know, Giles and the others have no idea where we are, Glory has Dawn right now, and the world is going to end while we're in here playing prisoner. I need to *do* something." She had never felt this powerless before. Give her a pack of vampires, a demonic mayor--Hell--even a soulless ex, and she could handle it. But this was too much. She couldn't fight anything. All her strength amounted to nothing here.
He read the frustration in her eyes and understood. She was The Slayer--hunter of demons, champion of the helpless and all that. Not the prey. Not the victim. Better than anyone, Spike understood the frustration of feeling trapped and powerless.
He nodded silently.
"Right. Well, let's see what we've got..." He stood from his crouch and pulled her up with him. Her breath hitched with the feel of his hands around hers, but he broke from her quickly and she regained control of her aberrant senses. He wandered off, the ghost of his feral scent left lingering as he circled the perimeter of the cave. "You got any tools on you at all? Something we could dig with?"
Her hands brushed over her bottom and thighs as clouds of dust leapt in frenzied spirals from her clothes. "You mean the pick ax I carry in my purse? Sorry, Spike, I must have left it at home."
"Hey, you're the one who wanted to bloody *do* something. I'm just trying to think. We need to take stock of what we have to see what might be of use to us."
The sincerity of his voice halted Buffy's hands. She looked into the pale vampire's face and noted that all cocksure and irony had drained from his countenance. It was such a peculiar expression, she wasn't sure what to make of it.
"I'm sorry, Spike," she began hesitantly. "You're right." Her glossy mouth turned up in a tentative crescent--the closest thing to a 'peace offering' she could muster.
His face eclipsed as he read the remorse in her eyes. Turning quickly, he blurted, "It's just I don't fancy spending the rest of my undead life stuck in this hole with you."
The crescent fell. Buffy dug her hands into the pockets of her 'slaying pants'--a pair of loose khakis--and pulled out the contents. Her arctic voice drew a shiver down his spine.
"Don't worry. The feeling's mutual."
Spike silently cursed himself. He didn't mean to hurt her. Things were just easier this way. Damage. Destroy. Simple concepts. Affection and reciprocal esteem opened doors that were way too complicated for them both. Besides, this was their game--the fight for dominance and show of contempt--and they had been playing for so long now, he wasn't sure he could quit even if he wanted to.
Spike avoided her gaze and ran his eyes up the side of a jagged wall, searching for any sign of an outlet or weak spot in the stone. The ceiling was obviously thinner than the cavern's sides, but it towered out of their reach. Nothing.
"Well, show and tell time, luv. Whatcha got?"
Her voice was devoid of emotion as she listed the items she found on herself--no venomous inflection or sarcastic timbre to be marked at all.
It was intensely disturbing.
"House keys. Wrist watch. Nail file. College ID," she concluded. "You?"
Good. Nothing sharp, pointy and wooden. It was a little comfort to him that at least she couldn't stake him. Though he would have to watch out for that nail file...
Spike rummaged the pockets of his clothes and gave her an account of his findings. "Cigarettes. Zippo. Pocket knife. 'Misfits' cassette. Pet rock, Ziggy. Bus station locker key. Ticket stub from 'Dead Kennedy's' show... And pocket lint."
Buffy pocketed her belongings and distractedly raised her hand into a stream of dimming sunlight, watching it tremble on her flesh. Her eyes followed it to the top of the cave and she let out a prolonged sigh.
"Great. Maybe we can make a modern art installation: 'Useless Artifacts of a Vamp and a Slayer.' They'll find it among our withered remains." She shifted forward and felt the sliver of light caress her face. Her eyes closed and the ray washed over them, blazing red beneath her eyelids.
"Don't let's talk of withering, luv. I've seen a few starved vamps in my day and it's not a pretty sight. Give Manson nightmares, it would." He watched her play under the light, her hair shimmering gold as it coupled with sun. Without warning, Drusilla crept into his mind. His mad, dark princess playing under the stars. Buffy had a bit of that madness in her. The life she lead--torn from childhood and thrust into duty at age fifteen, fighting demons and saving a thankless world every day of her life, seeing her imminent death in the face of each nasty that attacked her--that would drive anyone to the edge of sanity.
Slowly her head dropped. Sad eyes leveled with his as she stepped out of the stray beam. "This is hopeless, isn't it?"
Spike groaned inwardly at the defeat he saw in her expression. With renewed determination, he set to finding a way out, desperately needing to banish the beaten look that darkened her features. "No way, luv. We've got some useful stuff here. See, the keys and the pocket knife could be used to scrape away a hole in the soil under the boulder," he fumbled. "And the lighter, yeah...that could be used to--"
"Light the rocks on fire and smoke them?"
Spike gaped. Then, laughter roared through the cavern.
It really was too absurd.
First, only the rolling chuckle of the lone vamp could be heard, but soon the slayer joined in, and as suddenly as she had gone, Spike's bright-eyed Buffy returned. Spike idly wondered when he had started to think of her in the possessive, but let the thought pass as her brilliant smile greeted him for the first time since they had found themselves in this god awful place.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Spike made a vigil of her sleep. His silent appraisal of her form--a benediction. Only the black shroud of night offered him security enough to worship her as he did now, to let his eyes travel the avenues of her body, paying homage to every dip and curve, every sleek line and shadowy hollow. The ritual was familiar--but the situation was decidedly not. Countless nights before--when he had been driven from the solitude of his crypt to seek out her sleeping form--his reverie had been removed, severed by a wall of glass, the object of his devotion tucked safely in her own bed. Tonight he did not watch her from the wrong side of a window; tonight she had no home to shelter her.
Curled on his coal duster across the room, she almost looked vulnerable. Here she was no untouchable specter, no dream. Here no walls prevented him from drowning in her languid heartbeat and lazy breath. Here, nothing could stop him from truly worshiping the temple of her body--save his own sense of dignity and the knowledge of what could never be.
Dignity? His demon laughed. Isn't much of that left, mate. No, it was the knowledge of what his sleeping beauty would do if she woke to find herself in the arms of the dragon that kept a precarious grip on his self-control tonight. No fairytale princess here. Like himself, a killing machine--nothing pink and fluffy about it. And she wouldn't hesitate to reduce him to ash if she suspected any of this silent meditation.
The sun had set hours ago. Quickly, the little light that had found its way into the cavern was driven out, and Buffy was thrust into a pitch-black world. Spike had watched with amusement as the slayer tried to maintain her bearings, tried to fight off fatigue. Gradually, the strain of the past day and the all-encompassing dark had taken its toll, and she had given into the night.
He would need to rest soon, too. But it could wait. His temple lay before him. And he had another benediction to offer.
TBC...
By Moirae
E-mail: moirae_13@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Disclaimer: In Joss we trust. They don't belong to me. Please don't sue.
Spoilers: Season 5, post "Blood Ties." Riley is gone, but Spike hasn't made any admissions of love to Buffy.
Description: B/S Buffy wrestles with inexplicable dreams while she and Spike are trapped together.
Textual Notes: In Christian mythology, "Mary Magdalen" was a prostitute that Jesus saved from damnation. She was present at the crucifixion and she was the first to see the risen Christ. The "Governor" mentioned in this story is Pontius Pilate, the Roman official who sentences Jesus to death. "Yeshua" is how Jesus would have heard his name pronounced. "Golgotha" is the site of Christ's crucifixion.
Feedback: Would love it!
Authors Note: I have been assaulted by the myth of Mary Magdalen and she's making me write this. I intend no offence and admit I've taken some liberties with biblical texts, but I find that every story has more than one voice, and Magdalen hasn't had her say, yet. ***The Magdalen scene may not make sense at the moment, but believe me, it will all tie in.***
Chapter 1: Of Myths and Martyrs
~This is the cup of my blood...
This is the sign of the new and everlasting covenant...
Take this, all of you, drink from it...~
The midday sun blazes down on Jerusalem square, drawing frustrated curses and rivulets of sweat from the mass of humanity gathered there. A restless murmur rises from the crowd as the hours wear on and still the chalky white balcony shows no signs of life. Amid the throng of people, a figure waits and watches, an unwelcome prickle of fear slowly crawling up her neck.
As each minute of quiet anticipation passes, her dread swells. The stench of the crowd assaults her nostrils and their anxious twittering fills her ears. She turns her focus to the gaping, black corridor of the palace, imagining the stoic governor emerge from its depths like Hades from the Netherworld--as if willing it could make it so--but the shadowy hall remains empty in an open-mouthed sneer.
Her reverie is disturbed by the shrill scream of a child, and she searches the crowd to find a heat-stricken infant crying in the arms of its mother, the woman too captivated by the day's bloody prospects to notice the pleas of her own issue. With this heartless display, the last of her control is shattered, and she is assailed by the urge to run, screaming, to the foot of the balcony, demanding an answer--*whatever answer* the governor has to offer--willing to face the worst if only this impotent waiting will be over. If only she will know.
And with the speed of thought, her prayer is granted. From out of the shadowed archway of his palace, a regal figure steps into the blinding spring sun to greet the expectant eyes of the crowd.
"Yeshua of Galilee shall be crucified."
A roar bursts from the rabble--the carnal growls of satisfaction and hollow cries of despair mingle indeterminably and spiral as one into the desert air. The crowd has been answered: another skull will be sacrificed to Golgotha today. From the back of the mob, the woman watches in stunned silence.
Deep inside the palace, beneath stories of stone and dirt, a lean man in tattered dress waits. Death will come to him soon--he knows he should feel something about that fact, but his soul is silent. She can feel him there, knows the quiet contemplation of his mind. He calls to her. They are bound now--body and soul--forever. Bound by blood.
Soon she will watch him die. It is her part to play. Whore. Lover. Disciple. She is all and none. And so much more now--his Magdalen, bound by blood.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Slayer."
Buffy woke with a start. The ground beneath her was cold and hard. She searched the darkness for the familiar voice, but the scene presented nothing but the jagged walls of a cave. As she lifted herself on one hand, a sudden painful throb wracked her head.
"Owww..." She reached her hand up to the back of her skull and felt the telltale warm, sticky ooze coat her fingers.
"Bit of a nasty blow you took there." The figure stepped into her line of sight and eyed her carefully. "You alright?"
"You mean besides the bleeding head wound?" she said, getting up to her feet and scanning her surroundings. "Yeah, I'm just peachy, Spike." She'd heal.
He eyed her fingers hungrily. "I could take care of that for you, luv. Wouldn't want all that blood to go to waste." His eyes twinkled in a warm smile, betraying the predatory smirk of his lips.
"Come near me fang-boy and you'll learn the real meaning of the word 'neutered.'" She circled the large cavern to examine it closer. It was about forty square feet with a high, arched roof. A few thread-like
streams of sunlight filtered in through thin cracks in the cave's ceiling, which Spike was taking care to avoid.
"Ouch, Slayer. No need to bring up a bloke's weak points."
Her voice twinkle with mirth. "You're probably right. It could take days to get through a list like that."
In one corner, what looked like the beginnings of a tunnel jutted out a few feet, abruptly ending in a smooth stone face. As far as she could tell, there was no exit.
"Well, if we're talking 'bout weak points--"
Buffy cut him off suddenly. "Spike, where are we? How did we get here?"
He paused a second.
"Right. Straight business then." Buffy caught the irritated strain in the blond vampire's voice and turned to face him. She studied him carefully, but found nothing unusual in his manner as he leaned against the opposite wall and distractedly lit a cigarette.
Inhaling deeply, he began. "Well, where would you like me to start? The part where you get your arse whipped by that Glory bitch? The part where I rescue you from certain death and zip into this cave to escape the morning's happy little rays? Or the part where we get trapped in here by said bitch while you're taking a quiet nappy?"
"Trapped?" she choked the word out. "Does anyone know where we are?"
"Now how would I know that? We're sorta in the same boat here, ducks." He took another long drag on the cigarette and leveled his gaze at her. "Did the Watcher tell you to go hunt for that fashion mistake all by your lonesome last night, or was that your own brilliant plan?"
Buffy turned away from him and began a more extensive search for an opening in the cave. "I don't need you to tell me how to do my job, Spike."
"Fine. I'll just keep *doing it for you*. Seems a bloke can't turn around these days but he runs into the little Slayer all needy and in trouble." Buffy tensed almost imperceptibly. He grinned. Vamp vision did have its advantages. He continued, arching a sculpted eyebrow, "Or were you just *pretending* to be beaten to a bloody pulp last night so I could come to your rescue?"
A sharp CRACK! echoed through the cavern as Buffy's fist connected with a stone wall. "Spike! This is *so* not helping!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
One hour, two packs of cigarettes, and three arguments later, the duo gave up their search for a way out. Glory had apparently blocked the only entrance to the cave with a very large boulder. The vampire and the slayer had fought a losing battle against the offending obstruction and after depleting all reserves of strength, had grudgingly given up their efforts to move it.
"What I don't understand is how the hell that twit found a bleeding boulder in the first place! It's not like they're just sitting around in abandoned boulder lots in Sunnydale!" Spike paced the floor in a barely controlled rage. Trapped for too long in this stone coffin with the Slayer, he needed some air. And a bit more space, thank you very much. Her heartbeat was singing like a siren to his demon. And her scent Oh, Hell! her scent was intoxicating. She radiated cherry trees and warm blood...
Sweet and metallic.
Innocent and perverse.
A paradox--just like Buffy. The young woman across from him was completely unaware of the disharmony between her holier-than-thou-attitude and vicious, homicidal calling. The Saint and the Slayer, Martyr and Murderer. Sure, she was fighting the good fight for light and justice, but Spike knew full well that those who grapple with darkness must also embrace the shadows. Yes, Buffy was a walking contradiction.
So what does that make you, mate?
A bloody ponce. He had to admit that over the past year, he had been making a pretty good show of righteousness himself. Helping the Scoobies. Killing his own kind. And he had no soul to blame for it. It all left a sick taste in his mouth. Worse than my bloody Sire. He drowned the thought with the lighting of another cigarette and continued to pace.
Buffy was entranced. Smoke trailed behind Spike's form and wispy clouds lingered as he traversed the cavern and returned, cutting a path through them.
He prowled with an animal's grace. Grace that only another predator--or perhaps a victim--could truly admire. The cool, steady stride; the utter focus on his destination (even if it was just length of this dank hole); the waves of pure energy rippling off him...
Okay. Gotta get out of here.
Buffy scolded herself for the admiration she was lavishing on her *demon of the night* companion and attempted to break the spell.
"Spike, you're making me dizzy. Stop acting like some hyperactive infant and just sit down." Her voice was harsh, but it didn't arrest her appraisal of his predatory gait.
Spike spit the words out as he came to an abrupt stop. "Fine. I'll sit. But let's just remember who the infant is around here, girlie." He crouched down beside her, trying to place the exact moment he had become the slayer's lap dog. The Big Bad, William-the-fucking-Bloody, bowing to the slayer's command. Dru was right. I have gone soft. And here she is, smelling so good, pouting and watching me with those big doe eyes...
Bloody Fucking Christ!
He almost stood up to begin his pacing again, but Buffy's voice halted him.
"We need to come up with a plan."
Now that was funny. He almost laughed. Spike searched her face to make sure he had heard correctly. "And what do you propose we do, my little trapped one? Chew our way out through the stone?"
"Look, I know it seems like we don't have any options, but I can't just sit here and wait for the cavalry to come. For all I know, Giles and the others have no idea where we are, Glory has Dawn right now, and the world is going to end while we're in here playing prisoner. I need to *do* something." She had never felt this powerless before. Give her a pack of vampires, a demonic mayor--Hell--even a soulless ex, and she could handle it. But this was too much. She couldn't fight anything. All her strength amounted to nothing here.
He read the frustration in her eyes and understood. She was The Slayer--hunter of demons, champion of the helpless and all that. Not the prey. Not the victim. Better than anyone, Spike understood the frustration of feeling trapped and powerless.
He nodded silently.
"Right. Well, let's see what we've got..." He stood from his crouch and pulled her up with him. Her breath hitched with the feel of his hands around hers, but he broke from her quickly and she regained control of her aberrant senses. He wandered off, the ghost of his feral scent left lingering as he circled the perimeter of the cave. "You got any tools on you at all? Something we could dig with?"
Her hands brushed over her bottom and thighs as clouds of dust leapt in frenzied spirals from her clothes. "You mean the pick ax I carry in my purse? Sorry, Spike, I must have left it at home."
"Hey, you're the one who wanted to bloody *do* something. I'm just trying to think. We need to take stock of what we have to see what might be of use to us."
The sincerity of his voice halted Buffy's hands. She looked into the pale vampire's face and noted that all cocksure and irony had drained from his countenance. It was such a peculiar expression, she wasn't sure what to make of it.
"I'm sorry, Spike," she began hesitantly. "You're right." Her glossy mouth turned up in a tentative crescent--the closest thing to a 'peace offering' she could muster.
His face eclipsed as he read the remorse in her eyes. Turning quickly, he blurted, "It's just I don't fancy spending the rest of my undead life stuck in this hole with you."
The crescent fell. Buffy dug her hands into the pockets of her 'slaying pants'--a pair of loose khakis--and pulled out the contents. Her arctic voice drew a shiver down his spine.
"Don't worry. The feeling's mutual."
Spike silently cursed himself. He didn't mean to hurt her. Things were just easier this way. Damage. Destroy. Simple concepts. Affection and reciprocal esteem opened doors that were way too complicated for them both. Besides, this was their game--the fight for dominance and show of contempt--and they had been playing for so long now, he wasn't sure he could quit even if he wanted to.
Spike avoided her gaze and ran his eyes up the side of a jagged wall, searching for any sign of an outlet or weak spot in the stone. The ceiling was obviously thinner than the cavern's sides, but it towered out of their reach. Nothing.
"Well, show and tell time, luv. Whatcha got?"
Her voice was devoid of emotion as she listed the items she found on herself--no venomous inflection or sarcastic timbre to be marked at all.
It was intensely disturbing.
"House keys. Wrist watch. Nail file. College ID," she concluded. "You?"
Good. Nothing sharp, pointy and wooden. It was a little comfort to him that at least she couldn't stake him. Though he would have to watch out for that nail file...
Spike rummaged the pockets of his clothes and gave her an account of his findings. "Cigarettes. Zippo. Pocket knife. 'Misfits' cassette. Pet rock, Ziggy. Bus station locker key. Ticket stub from 'Dead Kennedy's' show... And pocket lint."
Buffy pocketed her belongings and distractedly raised her hand into a stream of dimming sunlight, watching it tremble on her flesh. Her eyes followed it to the top of the cave and she let out a prolonged sigh.
"Great. Maybe we can make a modern art installation: 'Useless Artifacts of a Vamp and a Slayer.' They'll find it among our withered remains." She shifted forward and felt the sliver of light caress her face. Her eyes closed and the ray washed over them, blazing red beneath her eyelids.
"Don't let's talk of withering, luv. I've seen a few starved vamps in my day and it's not a pretty sight. Give Manson nightmares, it would." He watched her play under the light, her hair shimmering gold as it coupled with sun. Without warning, Drusilla crept into his mind. His mad, dark princess playing under the stars. Buffy had a bit of that madness in her. The life she lead--torn from childhood and thrust into duty at age fifteen, fighting demons and saving a thankless world every day of her life, seeing her imminent death in the face of each nasty that attacked her--that would drive anyone to the edge of sanity.
Slowly her head dropped. Sad eyes leveled with his as she stepped out of the stray beam. "This is hopeless, isn't it?"
Spike groaned inwardly at the defeat he saw in her expression. With renewed determination, he set to finding a way out, desperately needing to banish the beaten look that darkened her features. "No way, luv. We've got some useful stuff here. See, the keys and the pocket knife could be used to scrape away a hole in the soil under the boulder," he fumbled. "And the lighter, yeah...that could be used to--"
"Light the rocks on fire and smoke them?"
Spike gaped. Then, laughter roared through the cavern.
It really was too absurd.
First, only the rolling chuckle of the lone vamp could be heard, but soon the slayer joined in, and as suddenly as she had gone, Spike's bright-eyed Buffy returned. Spike idly wondered when he had started to think of her in the possessive, but let the thought pass as her brilliant smile greeted him for the first time since they had found themselves in this god awful place.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Spike made a vigil of her sleep. His silent appraisal of her form--a benediction. Only the black shroud of night offered him security enough to worship her as he did now, to let his eyes travel the avenues of her body, paying homage to every dip and curve, every sleek line and shadowy hollow. The ritual was familiar--but the situation was decidedly not. Countless nights before--when he had been driven from the solitude of his crypt to seek out her sleeping form--his reverie had been removed, severed by a wall of glass, the object of his devotion tucked safely in her own bed. Tonight he did not watch her from the wrong side of a window; tonight she had no home to shelter her.
Curled on his coal duster across the room, she almost looked vulnerable. Here she was no untouchable specter, no dream. Here no walls prevented him from drowning in her languid heartbeat and lazy breath. Here, nothing could stop him from truly worshiping the temple of her body--save his own sense of dignity and the knowledge of what could never be.
Dignity? His demon laughed. Isn't much of that left, mate. No, it was the knowledge of what his sleeping beauty would do if she woke to find herself in the arms of the dragon that kept a precarious grip on his self-control tonight. No fairytale princess here. Like himself, a killing machine--nothing pink and fluffy about it. And she wouldn't hesitate to reduce him to ash if she suspected any of this silent meditation.
The sun had set hours ago. Quickly, the little light that had found its way into the cavern was driven out, and Buffy was thrust into a pitch-black world. Spike had watched with amusement as the slayer tried to maintain her bearings, tried to fight off fatigue. Gradually, the strain of the past day and the all-encompassing dark had taken its toll, and she had given into the night.
He would need to rest soon, too. But it could wait. His temple lay before him. And he had another benediction to offer.
TBC...