Breathing
By Annie
Summary: Breathe, from Spike's POV Rated: R, just in case Disclaimer: Still not mine own. Spoilers: General S7. Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net
It was the shock of the cold water on his face that brought him to some semblance of lucidity. Not that he wasn't normally cold-skinned himself, but the water was really frigid. Stupid bloody wanker the First was, trying to drown a creature who had no need to breathe, ever.
Of course, the purpose behind the chilly dunking soon became abundantly clear, even to Spike's hole-riddled mind.
It was a symbolic thing, intended to impress upon Spike exactly what was happening to Buffy.
She was asleep. Restlessly to be sure, but asleep nonetheless, and Spike could hear it with her mind, knew the First meant for this to be a shared experience. One that could kill Buffy and leave Spike stranded forever, without her.
No, Spike's mind rebelled. She had to stay alive. She had to come and save him. Buffy believed in him, and somewhere in the back of his addled brain he saw that strange girl again, the one who had said, she will tell you. Buffy believed that he was a better man, and no force, earthly or un-, could make him believe she wouldn't come for him.
Little blackness in Buffy's mind, in Spike's mind, cold wetness engulfing him, and the voice whispered smoothly, you can't breathe. Spike felt the grab in his own airless chest as Buffy's breath hitched painfully. He felt the ragged movement of her lungs, trying to obey the most instinctual command in the universe. If the First wanted him connected with Buffy, he'd damn well try to do something about this. He imagined brushing his hand down her arm softly, soothingly. Breathe, his mind voiced silently, and then his head was dragged out of the water and he was thrust roughly aside.
It was a good plan, for the First to pretend to be Drusilla, except for the fact that he didn't love Dru anymore. If he had ever really loved her at all, which, if measured against the level of feeling he had developed for Buffy, he really hadn't. It was too easy to ignore her now, let his mind slip back into the dark murk in which he had existed since he got back to the Hellmouth.
Apparently, Dru was not happy that he could resist her, and he was suddenly immersed in the water again, powerful force keeping him there, showing him what Buffy could feel.
She was holding her breath now, in her sleep, every effort to pull air into her lungs causing her pain both physical and mental. He visualized her face in his mind, used mental fingers to caress her jawline, dip into the hollow of her throat. Easy, just breathe, his mind commanded. Pain in his head, as the First recognized his attempts to thwart this.
He ignored the pain. He could ignore pain well, and had done a lot of that for the last two years or so. He needed Buffy to come for him, and a simple pain in his head couldn't kill him. His mental fingers traced the throbbing artery in her neck, pulsing more quickly with the realization, somewhere inside her, that she wasn't breathing at all.
Can't breathe, Spike's mind heard in hers.
Yes, you can. Breathe. He demanded, ghosting his mind across her collarbone and then heading downward.
No, you can't, little black mind-voice insisted, gripping her psyche tightly, making her chest hitch again, more hurtfully this time, and Spike could feel that, too, could still hear the tiny blackness in her head.
Phantom hands moving even lower, across chest and abdomen, soothing, trying to warm without warmth, trying to chase away the pain, chase away the tiny voice, feeling the push of the force against him to drive him even deeper into the frigid water. Make him feel the coldness of impending death.
Hands across hardening nipples, brush of air across her skin, Breathe
Another squeeze of lungs already screaming for air. You can't breathe.
Painful lash of rebellion from Spike's mind, useless jerk against the arm holding him under, bruising dead skin.
Spike-hands across her lower abdomen, contracting her insides and warming her, reminiscent of other times, actual hands on her. Breathe, Buffy. And Spike could sense that she almost could, sense the growing anger from the little black thing inside both their heads.
Pain roiling up from her airless lungs into her throat, stopping any sound she might have made, any little sound from herself that might have awoken her, making her breathe again.
Dream hands splayed between her legs, shock of unexpectedly cool pleasure, a touch she knew, a voice she knew. He felt her writhe with the touches and the desperate need for her lungs to expand. Spike's lungs were burning with her effort, and he pushed against the blackness in their heads. You can breathe. Breathe for me.
You can't breathe little voice, weakening against the onslaught of the cool touches and airy whispers against her mind and body.
Phantom weight against all of her, covering her, moving against her, shielding her. She can breathe, the words drifting through Spike's mind like some kind of saving mantra.
Can't breathe, fading little voice in their heads, not gone enough.
Moving against her, ghost of lips over her mouth, mind-born not- breath reaching into her, cold water in his face and incredible pain in his head. Still moving, still rebelling, still touching, covering, trembling.
Can't breathe, stop breathing last angry command and then nothing, black voice gone, faded. Still not breathing, and Spike pleaded one more time before he was pulled out of the water and thrown to the floor once more.
Breath. Breathe for me, Slayer. Come for me.
Gasping for her breath as he lay there, not knowing if she breathed or not. If she was alive or not. Tortured twist in his mind and his insides, and he closed his eyes against the thought, against the memory of her death.
Whether she came for him or not, Spike wouldn't give in, didn't care who the First decided to turn into to convince him.
Buffy believed in him. Spike believed she would come.
By Annie
Summary: Breathe, from Spike's POV Rated: R, just in case Disclaimer: Still not mine own. Spoilers: General S7. Feedback: crehnert@ptd.net
It was the shock of the cold water on his face that brought him to some semblance of lucidity. Not that he wasn't normally cold-skinned himself, but the water was really frigid. Stupid bloody wanker the First was, trying to drown a creature who had no need to breathe, ever.
Of course, the purpose behind the chilly dunking soon became abundantly clear, even to Spike's hole-riddled mind.
It was a symbolic thing, intended to impress upon Spike exactly what was happening to Buffy.
She was asleep. Restlessly to be sure, but asleep nonetheless, and Spike could hear it with her mind, knew the First meant for this to be a shared experience. One that could kill Buffy and leave Spike stranded forever, without her.
No, Spike's mind rebelled. She had to stay alive. She had to come and save him. Buffy believed in him, and somewhere in the back of his addled brain he saw that strange girl again, the one who had said, she will tell you. Buffy believed that he was a better man, and no force, earthly or un-, could make him believe she wouldn't come for him.
Little blackness in Buffy's mind, in Spike's mind, cold wetness engulfing him, and the voice whispered smoothly, you can't breathe. Spike felt the grab in his own airless chest as Buffy's breath hitched painfully. He felt the ragged movement of her lungs, trying to obey the most instinctual command in the universe. If the First wanted him connected with Buffy, he'd damn well try to do something about this. He imagined brushing his hand down her arm softly, soothingly. Breathe, his mind voiced silently, and then his head was dragged out of the water and he was thrust roughly aside.
It was a good plan, for the First to pretend to be Drusilla, except for the fact that he didn't love Dru anymore. If he had ever really loved her at all, which, if measured against the level of feeling he had developed for Buffy, he really hadn't. It was too easy to ignore her now, let his mind slip back into the dark murk in which he had existed since he got back to the Hellmouth.
Apparently, Dru was not happy that he could resist her, and he was suddenly immersed in the water again, powerful force keeping him there, showing him what Buffy could feel.
She was holding her breath now, in her sleep, every effort to pull air into her lungs causing her pain both physical and mental. He visualized her face in his mind, used mental fingers to caress her jawline, dip into the hollow of her throat. Easy, just breathe, his mind commanded. Pain in his head, as the First recognized his attempts to thwart this.
He ignored the pain. He could ignore pain well, and had done a lot of that for the last two years or so. He needed Buffy to come for him, and a simple pain in his head couldn't kill him. His mental fingers traced the throbbing artery in her neck, pulsing more quickly with the realization, somewhere inside her, that she wasn't breathing at all.
Can't breathe, Spike's mind heard in hers.
Yes, you can. Breathe. He demanded, ghosting his mind across her collarbone and then heading downward.
No, you can't, little black mind-voice insisted, gripping her psyche tightly, making her chest hitch again, more hurtfully this time, and Spike could feel that, too, could still hear the tiny blackness in her head.
Phantom hands moving even lower, across chest and abdomen, soothing, trying to warm without warmth, trying to chase away the pain, chase away the tiny voice, feeling the push of the force against him to drive him even deeper into the frigid water. Make him feel the coldness of impending death.
Hands across hardening nipples, brush of air across her skin, Breathe
Another squeeze of lungs already screaming for air. You can't breathe.
Painful lash of rebellion from Spike's mind, useless jerk against the arm holding him under, bruising dead skin.
Spike-hands across her lower abdomen, contracting her insides and warming her, reminiscent of other times, actual hands on her. Breathe, Buffy. And Spike could sense that she almost could, sense the growing anger from the little black thing inside both their heads.
Pain roiling up from her airless lungs into her throat, stopping any sound she might have made, any little sound from herself that might have awoken her, making her breathe again.
Dream hands splayed between her legs, shock of unexpectedly cool pleasure, a touch she knew, a voice she knew. He felt her writhe with the touches and the desperate need for her lungs to expand. Spike's lungs were burning with her effort, and he pushed against the blackness in their heads. You can breathe. Breathe for me.
You can't breathe little voice, weakening against the onslaught of the cool touches and airy whispers against her mind and body.
Phantom weight against all of her, covering her, moving against her, shielding her. She can breathe, the words drifting through Spike's mind like some kind of saving mantra.
Can't breathe, fading little voice in their heads, not gone enough.
Moving against her, ghost of lips over her mouth, mind-born not- breath reaching into her, cold water in his face and incredible pain in his head. Still moving, still rebelling, still touching, covering, trembling.
Can't breathe, stop breathing last angry command and then nothing, black voice gone, faded. Still not breathing, and Spike pleaded one more time before he was pulled out of the water and thrown to the floor once more.
Breath. Breathe for me, Slayer. Come for me.
Gasping for her breath as he lay there, not knowing if she breathed or not. If she was alive or not. Tortured twist in his mind and his insides, and he closed his eyes against the thought, against the memory of her death.
Whether she came for him or not, Spike wouldn't give in, didn't care who the First decided to turn into to convince him.
Buffy believed in him. Spike believed she would come.