CHAPTER 26 - NIGHTMARES OF DUST
Spike walked back into the house, carrying the heavy wood, but with a big weight lifted off his shoulders.
He heard the water turn off in the bathroom as he was putting the wood down. After starting the fire he went to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator to see what Edna had sent.
"Buffy," he said, knocking on her door.
"Just getting dressed," she replied.
"I know, just wondered what you wanted for dinner. Edna sent over some more of the what you had for dinner last night, some spaghetti, steaks, clam chowder, champagne..."
"I don't care, just warm up whatever is easiest for you," she replied, then called to him through the door, "wait, Spike, I can do that when I'm done," Buffy said.
"No, that's alright. You're still my guest; I can warm up something. I'm not that daft," he said.
"Okay," she said laughing at the term.
He smiled at her through the door. He'd never known any place to have such warmth as he felt about his 'home,' right now. He silently thanked Lawrence Sr., for having talked him into building this in the first place.
Spike was standing at the stove, his back to her, stirring something as Buffy walked into the kitchen. She stopped at the doorway to take in the scene: domestic Spike. Nah, make that William. She smiled to herself.
She walked over to where he was and put her arms around him from behind.
"Hi," she said, as she nuzzled his back, "smells good."
"You do, too," he said, as he put down he spoon and rubbed his hands along her arms, as he closed his eyes for a second, inhaling a freshly scrubbed Buffy.
He wanted to turn around, look into her eyes, take her in his arms, but he knew if he did that, she'd never get a chance to eat until much later; they'd be lost in each other again.
"Can I do anything to help?" she asked, luckily killing off the temptation at the right moment.
"Well, if you want to eat in here, then you can set the table. Or, if you want to eat in the living room in front of the fireplace, there's a sort of low coffee table like thing over against the same wall that has the desk. It's not too heavy; you could move it in front of the couch and you could have sort of a buffet-style dinner," Spike said.
"I like that idea. I'll go move it. Oh, and Spike?"
"Huh?" he said turning around as she started to walk out of the room.
"Heavy?"
He just looked at her.
"The table. Heavy? I've thrown..." she started to say 'you,' but self-corrected in time, "big demons across the room before, think I can handle a little old table, " she said, laughing.
"I know," Spike said, looking a bit hurt, having caught the pause, "I guess I just forgot about the Slayer part of you and just was thinking about the woman part of you. My mistake," he said, turning back to the stove.
Ouch! Great, Buffy, open mouth, insert foot.
She walked back into the kitchen, and once again put her arms around Spike, "I'm so sorry, that came out so wrong, so snotty. I'm sorry Spike, you have no idea how much this weekend has meant to me. Being here, being able to be just a 'woman,' for a change. I'm sorry I sounded like such a bitch!"
Spike turned around, "Never," he said, gently kissing her forehead.
She raised her head, looking him in the eyes. Had anyone ever looked at her with such unfaltering love before?
"I'm sorry," she said, kissing him.
"Forgiven," he said, kissing her back, drawing her closer.
"We'd better stop this," she said.
"Umhmmm, we'd better is right, or you won't be eating anytime soon," Spike said, grinding into her soft, receptive body.
"No, but you would," she said, giggling.
He looked at her with surprise. And lust.
"Naughty girl!" he said, grinning.
She stepped back from his embrace, "I'd better go see about that table," she said.
He nodded at her, licking his lips, "You'd better at that."
Buffy spotted the coffee table and went to move it to in front of the couch. Just before she did, her eye wandered to the desk. She walked over to it and saw a set of colored artist's drawing pencils, some charcoal drawing pencils, a calligraphy pen, ink, and a drawing book. Looking guiltily back at the kitchen door, she slowly opened the book.
The first picture she saw was of Dru, sitting in what appeared to be a very high backed shell-back shaped chair of red velvet. Her gown was drawn with exquisite detail, red, with gold trim, lace cuffs and neck. She looked very beautiful, Buffy thought. Crazy, but beautiful. It was dated 1910 and signed Spike.
The next few were also of Dru and Darla. There was one of Angel, Darla, and Dru. She looked at Angel, smirking for the picture. Looking at him, she just felt...nothing anymore. Well, maybe friendship, but nothing else, no regrets, no remorse, no pangs of lost love. Nothing.
Satisfied by her own reaction, she continued to turn the pages. She stopped a few pages later when she came to a picture of herself. It was from about the time Spike and her first met. She looked to be about 16, her face still full; a bit of baby fat. Short skirts funky tops.
She continued turning the pages. Some of the pictures she recognized as those she'd torn down a couple of years ago, when she discovered Spike keeping a 'Buffy' shrine.
They had been replaced in the book, although not attached any longer. Images he'd drawn of her over the years, whether from looking at her from her bedroom window (big peeping Tom that he was, she thought, smiling) or more likely, from memory.
Buffy through the years.
Suddenly she stopped, her heartbeat quickened as she saw an image of herself in pain, on the bathroom floor, robe half off her shoulder and the words NO! SPIKE! STOP! in huge letters above her pained fearful expression.
She turned the page. Page after page the same image, the same words; except there were what looked like grains or specks more on each page, until the last page showed the specks all over the page, all over her. The next pages explained why, as these ones showed her with a stake in her hand and a horror-sticken Spike. His face showed the horror of the act he had almost committed. Then the next page showed the same thing, except this time with the stake going into him, him fading just a bit. On and on it went as she turned the pages - more stake, less Spike, more horror...Page after page, until there was nothing left only specks. Only her horror and...dust.
The dates on these pages were right after Spike had left town last summer, before he'd gotten his soul.
Tears ran down Buffy's face as she looked at the heartbreaking images; pictures of both their nightmares. She didn't want to see anymore, but she made herself turn the page. There, the last two pictures were of Spike, done in charcoal and looking very much like a tortured Dali composition; face distorted, eyes uneven, mouth opened in a grotesque way, a hideous caricature of the monster he felt he'd become. She looked at the date; it was the end of the summer. Post soul.
She was frozen in place, tears streaming, until she heard him call from the kitchen.
Hurriedly, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, closed the book, and quietly moved the coffee table.
She went into the kitchen, "Spike, sorry, didn't hear you," she said, sniffling a bit.
"I just thought you were coming back for the silverware and all that. Hey, what's wrong?" he asked her suddenly seeing her eyes red and her sniffling.
"Nothing," she answered quickly, putting on a false, cheery smile, "just got too close to the fire, got some smoke in my eyes, up my nose," Buffy said.
He just looked at her in a funny way, "Here's the table settings and glasses," he said, pointing at the kitchen table.
"Okay," she said, gathering them up.
She was almost out the door when she stopped, "I love you, Spike," she said, not trusting herself to turn around and look at him.
He walked over to her and put his arms around her from behind, "I love you, too Buffy. You know I do, always will," Spike said.
She just nodded, trying to stifle a sniffle.
"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked her, hugging her tightly, "Did I do something to make you upset? I know that you are, I can feel it, Buffy."
"I'll be alright, really I will. Just had a momentary thing, okay? Let me go set this table, or I'm never going to get to eat," Buffy said.
"Okay, right," Spike replied, letting her go at the mention of her being hungry.
Buffy walked back into the living room, determined to put those images out of her mind for the rest of the evening. No use ruining the time they had left here with pain from the past. They'd moved past it, had been able to forge something new, especially this weekend, which had been beyond her wildest imaginings.
Most of all, she didn't want to make Spike relive those days after what had happened between them.
Spike walked back into the house, carrying the heavy wood, but with a big weight lifted off his shoulders.
He heard the water turn off in the bathroom as he was putting the wood down. After starting the fire he went to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator to see what Edna had sent.
"Buffy," he said, knocking on her door.
"Just getting dressed," she replied.
"I know, just wondered what you wanted for dinner. Edna sent over some more of the what you had for dinner last night, some spaghetti, steaks, clam chowder, champagne..."
"I don't care, just warm up whatever is easiest for you," she replied, then called to him through the door, "wait, Spike, I can do that when I'm done," Buffy said.
"No, that's alright. You're still my guest; I can warm up something. I'm not that daft," he said.
"Okay," she said laughing at the term.
He smiled at her through the door. He'd never known any place to have such warmth as he felt about his 'home,' right now. He silently thanked Lawrence Sr., for having talked him into building this in the first place.
Spike was standing at the stove, his back to her, stirring something as Buffy walked into the kitchen. She stopped at the doorway to take in the scene: domestic Spike. Nah, make that William. She smiled to herself.
She walked over to where he was and put her arms around him from behind.
"Hi," she said, as she nuzzled his back, "smells good."
"You do, too," he said, as he put down he spoon and rubbed his hands along her arms, as he closed his eyes for a second, inhaling a freshly scrubbed Buffy.
He wanted to turn around, look into her eyes, take her in his arms, but he knew if he did that, she'd never get a chance to eat until much later; they'd be lost in each other again.
"Can I do anything to help?" she asked, luckily killing off the temptation at the right moment.
"Well, if you want to eat in here, then you can set the table. Or, if you want to eat in the living room in front of the fireplace, there's a sort of low coffee table like thing over against the same wall that has the desk. It's not too heavy; you could move it in front of the couch and you could have sort of a buffet-style dinner," Spike said.
"I like that idea. I'll go move it. Oh, and Spike?"
"Huh?" he said turning around as she started to walk out of the room.
"Heavy?"
He just looked at her.
"The table. Heavy? I've thrown..." she started to say 'you,' but self-corrected in time, "big demons across the room before, think I can handle a little old table, " she said, laughing.
"I know," Spike said, looking a bit hurt, having caught the pause, "I guess I just forgot about the Slayer part of you and just was thinking about the woman part of you. My mistake," he said, turning back to the stove.
Ouch! Great, Buffy, open mouth, insert foot.
She walked back into the kitchen, and once again put her arms around Spike, "I'm so sorry, that came out so wrong, so snotty. I'm sorry Spike, you have no idea how much this weekend has meant to me. Being here, being able to be just a 'woman,' for a change. I'm sorry I sounded like such a bitch!"
Spike turned around, "Never," he said, gently kissing her forehead.
She raised her head, looking him in the eyes. Had anyone ever looked at her with such unfaltering love before?
"I'm sorry," she said, kissing him.
"Forgiven," he said, kissing her back, drawing her closer.
"We'd better stop this," she said.
"Umhmmm, we'd better is right, or you won't be eating anytime soon," Spike said, grinding into her soft, receptive body.
"No, but you would," she said, giggling.
He looked at her with surprise. And lust.
"Naughty girl!" he said, grinning.
She stepped back from his embrace, "I'd better go see about that table," she said.
He nodded at her, licking his lips, "You'd better at that."
Buffy spotted the coffee table and went to move it to in front of the couch. Just before she did, her eye wandered to the desk. She walked over to it and saw a set of colored artist's drawing pencils, some charcoal drawing pencils, a calligraphy pen, ink, and a drawing book. Looking guiltily back at the kitchen door, she slowly opened the book.
The first picture she saw was of Dru, sitting in what appeared to be a very high backed shell-back shaped chair of red velvet. Her gown was drawn with exquisite detail, red, with gold trim, lace cuffs and neck. She looked very beautiful, Buffy thought. Crazy, but beautiful. It was dated 1910 and signed Spike.
The next few were also of Dru and Darla. There was one of Angel, Darla, and Dru. She looked at Angel, smirking for the picture. Looking at him, she just felt...nothing anymore. Well, maybe friendship, but nothing else, no regrets, no remorse, no pangs of lost love. Nothing.
Satisfied by her own reaction, she continued to turn the pages. She stopped a few pages later when she came to a picture of herself. It was from about the time Spike and her first met. She looked to be about 16, her face still full; a bit of baby fat. Short skirts funky tops.
She continued turning the pages. Some of the pictures she recognized as those she'd torn down a couple of years ago, when she discovered Spike keeping a 'Buffy' shrine.
They had been replaced in the book, although not attached any longer. Images he'd drawn of her over the years, whether from looking at her from her bedroom window (big peeping Tom that he was, she thought, smiling) or more likely, from memory.
Buffy through the years.
Suddenly she stopped, her heartbeat quickened as she saw an image of herself in pain, on the bathroom floor, robe half off her shoulder and the words NO! SPIKE! STOP! in huge letters above her pained fearful expression.
She turned the page. Page after page the same image, the same words; except there were what looked like grains or specks more on each page, until the last page showed the specks all over the page, all over her. The next pages explained why, as these ones showed her with a stake in her hand and a horror-sticken Spike. His face showed the horror of the act he had almost committed. Then the next page showed the same thing, except this time with the stake going into him, him fading just a bit. On and on it went as she turned the pages - more stake, less Spike, more horror...Page after page, until there was nothing left only specks. Only her horror and...dust.
The dates on these pages were right after Spike had left town last summer, before he'd gotten his soul.
Tears ran down Buffy's face as she looked at the heartbreaking images; pictures of both their nightmares. She didn't want to see anymore, but she made herself turn the page. There, the last two pictures were of Spike, done in charcoal and looking very much like a tortured Dali composition; face distorted, eyes uneven, mouth opened in a grotesque way, a hideous caricature of the monster he felt he'd become. She looked at the date; it was the end of the summer. Post soul.
She was frozen in place, tears streaming, until she heard him call from the kitchen.
Hurriedly, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, closed the book, and quietly moved the coffee table.
She went into the kitchen, "Spike, sorry, didn't hear you," she said, sniffling a bit.
"I just thought you were coming back for the silverware and all that. Hey, what's wrong?" he asked her suddenly seeing her eyes red and her sniffling.
"Nothing," she answered quickly, putting on a false, cheery smile, "just got too close to the fire, got some smoke in my eyes, up my nose," Buffy said.
He just looked at her in a funny way, "Here's the table settings and glasses," he said, pointing at the kitchen table.
"Okay," she said, gathering them up.
She was almost out the door when she stopped, "I love you, Spike," she said, not trusting herself to turn around and look at him.
He walked over to her and put his arms around her from behind, "I love you, too Buffy. You know I do, always will," Spike said.
She just nodded, trying to stifle a sniffle.
"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked her, hugging her tightly, "Did I do something to make you upset? I know that you are, I can feel it, Buffy."
"I'll be alright, really I will. Just had a momentary thing, okay? Let me go set this table, or I'm never going to get to eat," Buffy said.
"Okay, right," Spike replied, letting her go at the mention of her being hungry.
Buffy walked back into the living room, determined to put those images out of her mind for the rest of the evening. No use ruining the time they had left here with pain from the past. They'd moved past it, had been able to forge something new, especially this weekend, which had been beyond her wildest imaginings.
Most of all, she didn't want to make Spike relive those days after what had happened between them.