CHAPTER 30 - SUICIDE ANNEX
"Spike," Buffy said, his name coming off her lips like some Siren's Song to his ears.
Kissing, they maneuvered toward the couch, which they collapsed on together. His hand went up under her blouse, fingers enveloping a soft breast, while he rubbed his thumb against her nipple. She moaned, finding herself once again slipping into a delirium of physical sensations; a combination of love, passion, and limbs turning to jelly, as her sex throbbed between her legs.
Still kissing Spike, Buffy began pulling up his shirt, only unlocking her lips from his, to pull it over his head. He did the same with hers, unclasping her bra and pulling it off her arms as they rejoined mouths, each trying to undo the other's pants, divesting themselves of the last of their clothing.
"God, Buffy, you're so wet already," Spike murmured into her ear as his hand came into contact with her panties, fingers reaching down to lose themselves in her.
Her breath hitched in her throat and chest as his knowing fingers once again rediscovered her inner secrets, "Spike... feels so good," she whispered, as he increased the movement, causing the muscles inside of her to start clenching around him.
Her hand found him and she stroked him lightly, from his head to his base in a soft, teasing manner that she knew he liked. Stoked the soft skin, gently pulling the foreskin down over the head.
Spike loved the feel of her, all of her, how she felt to him, to his skin, so warm and vibrant. Loved the way she touched him, especially when she wasn't all about hurting him, though him and his demon use to sort of like that, too. But this was better; much better than before; she touched him caring about his pleasure, too. He could feel her love; this time it wasn't just what he 'wanted' it to be; it was really there, in her touch. A touch not just about driving him crazy for a sense of one-up-manship, but a touch that gave, didn't just take.
"Spike, want you in me, now!" Buffy moaned, molding herself to his body.
She rolled him over onto his back this time and got on top, he took hold of her hips and guided her down ever so slowly, so that he was just barely touching her. She felt like fire drawing him in, but he resisted. Only in an inch at first, he stopped, looked at her heaving chest, her eyes glazed over with desire.
"You're so beautiful," Spike said to her, allowing himself another inch, "you're a Renoir, a *Manet; belong in the Louvre," he waxed poetic, as her hips tried to move down, to take more of him inside her.
"Spike..." she gasped, as he moved her down another couple of inches, "want you so much, now, please, Spike, please baby," she begged him, needing to feel him inside, as much as he needed to tell her his heart.
At the sound of her calling him 'baby' for the second time that evening, he pulled her hips down, suddenly, forcefully. She gasped, her breath ragged, as he grabbed her bottom, pulling her back and forth over him as she collapsed onto him.
They kissed passionately, as they moved against one another, his one hand coming up to cup her breast, the other on her behind. Her hands were behind his head, buried in his hair; his curly, non-crazy-Spike hair. She felt herself stretched, filled to her depths, as he brought her to the heights of her womanliness, her true power.
Convulsively shuddering, her legs shook as she climaxed over him, her breath filled his mouth as she gasped his name into it, she felt him come, as he suddenly went ultra hard; felt his wetness inside her.
He rolled them over to their sides, as he stroked her hair and face, "I missed touching you so much Buffy, all this time; I love your body, how soft it is, giving, supple, strong," Spike said, as her fingers still played in his hair, "missed loving you."
"Missed you, too; your touch, the feel of you over me, under me, the way your back feels; your muscles, your smoothness, your hardness, your eyes when they look into me, your mouth when you kiss me..." she said, feeling free to be as poetic about her feelings as he always was about his.
They lay there entwined around each other, each savoring the unbelievable close bond that they'd forged over the course of the last two days.
They fell asleep like that for about an hour, when they awoke, Buffy looked over to see Spike snuggled down between her breasts. She smiled at how innocent he looked to her; William, all the way, except for the blonde hair, albeit, curly; there were no other visual vestiges of Spike. But then again, he'd been much more free to be William since they'd been up here in Julian, at his own place, in an environment of his making, in so many ways.
She'd known 'Spike,' for a long time, it was nice getting to know 'William,' too.
And maybe, maybe she was getting to be more like 'Elizabeth,' the woman. She smiled, 'Elizabeth,' a grown woman's name. That's what she felt like being with him, a woman.
She rubbed his back, as she kissed the top of his head. Soft blue eyes made to fall into opened and looked at her, "Ummm," he murmured, kissing her breasts softly, "fell asleep, did we?"
"Umhmm," she replied.
"I should put some more wood on the fire, before it goes out," Spike said, looking ruefully over at the dwindling fire."
"Okay," Buffy said, kissing him first.
Reluctantly they sat up. Spike got up, putting on his pants, and went over to the fireplace.
"Be back, have to go to the bathroom," Buffy told Spike, walking toward the bedroom door.
"Okay," Spike said, still messing with the wood.
Buffy finished in the bathroom and decided to put on the shortie nightgown she'd debated about bringing, "Oh well, debates over, now!" she thought, smiling.
Before going back in the living room Buffy, noticed what she had thought was a closet door. Opening it, she discovered a staircase leading to the second floor. She'd forgotten all about the house having an upstairs, having only made a mental note of the fact, the first night they'd arrived. Since there wasn't a staircase anywhere in the house proper, to remind her, she hadn't given it anymore thought.
"Spike," she called.
"What is it, luv?" he called back.
"Com'ere a minute, would you?"
Spike walked in and saw her standing by the door, "See you found the 'secret annex,' eh?
"Is it a secret?"
"Not really, just put in as a last minute thing," he answered, rather evasively.
"What's up there?" she pressed.
"Wanna see?"
"Yeah,"
"Alright, come on then," he said, taking her hand as he lead her up the narrow staircase.
It was pitch black and she held on tightly to Spike's hand. A few seconds later, they reached the second floor.
"Stay there," he told Buffy.
"Can't see to go anywhere," she replied.
She heard a noise of something being opened and suddenly the small room was bathed in moonlight from a large skylight he'd opened.
As her eyes adjusted, she looked around. In the middle of the room, underneath the skylight she could see an old Victorian couch, which probably was originally downstairs before he got the leather one. Against one wall were an easel and some paints. She turned and looked at the opposite wall and saw there were at least a dozen or more painted canvases.
She let out a small gasp of surprise and walked over to them.
"Spike! They're lovely. You told me that you didn't have any more drawings!"
"I don't. I mean, I didn't even think about these paintings. Did them so long ago, didn't even remember these."
"When did you do these?" Buffy asked.
"Oh, probably about 40, 50 years ago," Spike answered.
All appeared to be landscapes from the surrounding woods, except for one small 8" x 10" portrait of a woman that Buffy didn't recognize. She appeared to be in her late 50's or early 60's. She wore a long, light blue dress, with a lace type shawl, and a matching small head covering, like a scarf, only round. She sat on a couch, similar to the one that was in this room, in what appeared to be a drawing room. She had a serene look on her face.
"Who's this?" Buffy asked.
"My mum, least that's what I remember her looking like," Spike answered, a bit sadly.
"She's lovely. I can see the resemblance," she said.
"Can you? Must have done a pretty good job then, if you can see a family resemblance," Spike said, his voice pensive.
Buffy nodded, still looking at William's mother, "What was her name?"
"Anne."
Her middle name.
"What was she like?" she ventured, intrigued.
"She was...kind, a gentle woman. Think you would have liked her, Buffy. Think she would have liked you, too," he said, sincerely, then let out this pained sort of scoffing sound, "better than..."
"Huh?"
"Nevermind, sorry, just something..."
Buffy just looked at him, then back to the painting of his mother, trying to get a feel for the person who had given him birth, loved him, obviously been loved back by her son, William.
"Your mum sort of reminded me of her," Spike said, suddenly.
"Really? I'm glad," she said gently, remembering the times she'd come home to find him there, thinking it was all about her. Probably was just as much about Spike enjoying the mothering and hot cocoa with marshmallows her mom would give him... "Glad you thought so, Spike," she said, feeling sorry for him not having had a mother for such a long time and for herself, at the mention of Joyce.
"How did she...?"
"I can't Buffy..." Spike said, abruptly, "I just can't. I'll tell you someday, just not right now, okay?"
"Okay," she said, dropping the subject of mothers. She gently put the canvas back where she'd found it.
Buffy looked around; three walls seemed to be covered with vertical slats she hadn't noticed before, the other one with horizontal slats.
"What are those for?" she asked, pointing to the slats.
Spike walked over to one section of them, grabbed a thin pole with a hook on the end, grabbed a hold of a metal ring on one of the vertical slated windows, and with one whoosh, two-thirds of the room opened up, showing the outside. He walked over to the last wall, which had horizontal slats, and did the same, though individually on those.
The room was now totally bathed in moonlight. Buffy walked over to the windows, seeing a perfect view of the sky and moon. They were above the trees up here.
Spike walked over to where she was standing and put his arms around her, "What do you think?" he asked.
She turned to look at him, "It's lovely, but I think you're a strange vampire, building a room with windows on all four sides, and a skylight... why'd you do it like this, Spike?
He stared at her, then nodded; knowing she'd picked up on the unusualness of the design.
He shrugged, "Had it made this way, so I could adjust the lighting, without being in it, when I painted; during the day or in moonlight, could adjust where the light fell..."
"But you could've made the windows high enough, so that you'd never have had to worry about that, Spike," Buffy said, looking into his eyes, "I don't think you designed it for that at all, did you?" she asked, her eyes boring into his. "And what about the skylight? It opens up, I see."
Still looking at her he said, "Yeah, well, I guess the lighting was an aside; I...I designed this," he said, pointing to the skylight, "as an escape hatch, should I ever need one."
"And all the windows? What was their real purpose then? In case you needed a good dusting?" she asked, angrily, "a suicide annex?"
"Buffy..." Spike sighed.
"Oh, Spike," Buffy said, shuddering, as she thought of him up here one day; daylight; opening the slats.
"Buffy," he said, taking hold of her arms, "I haven't used it for that, have I? Don't plan to either, okay?"
"Don't worry, luv. I don't even think about this part of the house, haven't for a long time," Spike said, trying to placate Buffy.
"Spike," Buffy said, putting her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, "you can't understand why this upsets me, can you?"
"I can Buffy, you...you don't want to think of me as dust," he said, "which, really is a bloody improvement in the way you use to want me," Spike said, laughing, trying to make a joke, as he held her close, rubbing her back.
Buffy put her mouth to Spike's ear, "I love you, Spike," she whispered, "can't stand to think of you..."
"I know, sweet girl, I know. Don't worry. I'll be okay," he said soothingly, "no worries, okay?" he said, kissing her.
Buffy kissed him back hard, willing herself to get off of this line of thinking. She was trying hard all day just to "be". Be in the now, in the moment, in the happy, be herself, or more like, the other self she would be if life hadn't made her the slayer. Ah, but then she wouldn't be with Spike...and so the circle came back around.
"Draw me!" she said suddenly.
"What?"
"Draw me. Up here, Spike. I want you to draw me; I want to be your model."
A slow smile crept into his features, "Okay," he said kissing her, "be right back."
He left her standing there as he went down the stairs.
She stood in the moonlight underneath the skylight, looking up at the sky. She hooked her thumbs underneath the straps of her nightgown and slipped it off.
Spike came back up the stairs, carrying a chair, and his drawing paper and charcoal pencils.
"Buffy?"
"Over here."
He walked into the room and then saw her, lying naked on the couch, wearing only the lovebird necklace.
He felt himself stir as he looked down on the only woman he'd truly ever loved.
"God, you're so beautiful," he said to her, mesmerized by the sight.
She smiled at him, "Bet you say that to all the naked women you're about to draw," she teased.
"Never," he said, seriously, voice thick with emotion.
Shaking his head clear, he put the chair down about 5 feet from her, and turned the pad to a fresh page. He took out a charcoal pencil and looked at her.
"How do you want me?" she asked.
"All the time," he answered.
She giggled, "I mean...how do you want me posed?
He came over to her, brushed her hair off her face, moved one arms so it was behind her head, the other over her stomach; her belly button showing between her thumb and fingers. He had her turn sideways just a little at the waist, so that her knees were slightly bent, legs on top the other. At last, he lovingly arranged the necklace, straightening the chain so that the lovebirds lay just above her breasts.
He kissed her softly on the lips and moved her head, so that she was facing him.
He nodded, smiling and took his seat on the chair, picking up the paper and pencil.
"Should I smile?" she asked.
"Maybe just a little, now shhhhh!" he commanded.
"Okay."
"Shhhhh!"
Buffy lay there for about 45 minutes, as Spike drew her likeness. It was hard for her to lay still all that time; part of it, her restless nature, that, and it was cool in the room. She felt her nipples harden a long time ago, goosebumps rise on her skin, but watching Spike concentrate as he drew helped pass the time as it was as fascinating for her, as it was for him to be drawing her. She knew that she was giving him a new memory for this room, just like in the rest of the house. She hoped this would be the memory he would keep close to him, if he ever came up here again; if...when...
She saw the paper turn over once again. She'd asked him once, if he'd had to redo it, and she'd been soundly treated to a round of cussing, 'bloody hells', and again ordered to be still, so this time, she said nothing.
Spike put the pencil down and looked up at Buffy, again.
"You can relax, now," he told her.
"Thank God! This posing stuff is hard," she said, laughing, as she sat up, stretching her arms and legs.
Spike came over to her, kneeling down by her legs and handing her the pad, "Can you see in this light?"
Buffy nodded, as she looked at the first of what were about a half a dozen drawings he'd just done of her. He hadn't had to redo anything!
"Spike, they're wonderful!" she said.
"You like them?" he asked, hopefulness in his voice.
"God, yes, Spike! These are as good as some drawings I use to see hanging in my mom's gallery," she said, with wonder at how well he could draw, make her look so lovely, even to herself, even naked.
"I'm glad you approve of them, me lady," he said, modestly, with a small bow.
He looked at her, then reached out to touch the necklace.
She put her hand over his, once again, sandwiching the necklace between them.
She looked at him, the moonlight making his hair seem all the whiter, his skin all the paler; face, hands, hair. A sculptured face that could have been molded by Michaelangelo. She remembered seeing pictures of The Statue of David, and The Pieta on a slide show, her high school art teacher had shown her class, after a trip to Rome and Florence.
Buffy touched the side of his face with her fingers, tracing its beautiful, angled planes; his was a face that could have been on The Pieta, itself. Face of a fallen angel? Martyr? Did that make her Mary? She shook her head trying to steer her mind away from all too recent crucifixion images.
She put her hands on his face, pulling him toward her for a kiss as she leaned forward, meeting him halfway.
Spike rose from his knees, pulling Buffy up with him, putting his arms around her.
He could feel her trembling as much in turmoil, as in passion, and he was perplexed by it.
"Buffy," he said, hugging her, rubbing her back, "think we best get out of this room now. It's cold up here; you've been naked a long time."
"There's ways to warm a girl up," she said, seductively, though her words had more desperation in them, than passion.
Spike moaned, but still, the feeling, the confusion, the desperation she was giving off was making him desperate to get out of this annex.
He stopped kissing her and took off his shirt, she helped him, eager for her hands to be on his skin once again, but instead he put it over her head and she automatically put her arms though the holes.
"Hey!" she said, "what's the idea, Mr.?"
"I want us to go back to the fireplace. Okay, Buffy?" Spike asked, looking earnestly at her. "Something playing with your head up here, making you unhappy. Just wanna be your 'fellow' this weekend, you to be 'my girl," alright? Don't want you being unhappy."
The mood was broken and Buffy immediately sobered up from her mental fugue state, "I'm sorry, Spike. You're right, I was...thinking...too hard, too many things, too..."
"I know," Spike said, kissing her, "it's alright, luv, I know...just, let's go now," he said, as he went around closing all the window slats and the skylight, as well.
The last things he grabbed were the pad of paper, pencils, and her nightgown, that still lie where she dropped it.
She let him lead her back down the stairs that led to her bedroom. She blinked at the light coming from the living room as he closed the door behind them.
"Meet you back out there in five?" she asked.
"Okay, if you're not out here, I'm coming to get you!" he warned, part in jest, part serious.
"Promise," she said and went into the bathroom, where she allowed the tears she'd been holding onto to escape her eyes before she went back out; to the fire, to her lover, to the rest of her vacation away from the hell that awaited her.
*Just a note, yes, I did mean Edouard Manet, not ClaudeMonet, they were both French Impressionists from the same time in the 1800's, however; Monet painted landscapes, Manet painted lots of portraits, as well as scenes.
"Spike," Buffy said, his name coming off her lips like some Siren's Song to his ears.
Kissing, they maneuvered toward the couch, which they collapsed on together. His hand went up under her blouse, fingers enveloping a soft breast, while he rubbed his thumb against her nipple. She moaned, finding herself once again slipping into a delirium of physical sensations; a combination of love, passion, and limbs turning to jelly, as her sex throbbed between her legs.
Still kissing Spike, Buffy began pulling up his shirt, only unlocking her lips from his, to pull it over his head. He did the same with hers, unclasping her bra and pulling it off her arms as they rejoined mouths, each trying to undo the other's pants, divesting themselves of the last of their clothing.
"God, Buffy, you're so wet already," Spike murmured into her ear as his hand came into contact with her panties, fingers reaching down to lose themselves in her.
Her breath hitched in her throat and chest as his knowing fingers once again rediscovered her inner secrets, "Spike... feels so good," she whispered, as he increased the movement, causing the muscles inside of her to start clenching around him.
Her hand found him and she stroked him lightly, from his head to his base in a soft, teasing manner that she knew he liked. Stoked the soft skin, gently pulling the foreskin down over the head.
Spike loved the feel of her, all of her, how she felt to him, to his skin, so warm and vibrant. Loved the way she touched him, especially when she wasn't all about hurting him, though him and his demon use to sort of like that, too. But this was better; much better than before; she touched him caring about his pleasure, too. He could feel her love; this time it wasn't just what he 'wanted' it to be; it was really there, in her touch. A touch not just about driving him crazy for a sense of one-up-manship, but a touch that gave, didn't just take.
"Spike, want you in me, now!" Buffy moaned, molding herself to his body.
She rolled him over onto his back this time and got on top, he took hold of her hips and guided her down ever so slowly, so that he was just barely touching her. She felt like fire drawing him in, but he resisted. Only in an inch at first, he stopped, looked at her heaving chest, her eyes glazed over with desire.
"You're so beautiful," Spike said to her, allowing himself another inch, "you're a Renoir, a *Manet; belong in the Louvre," he waxed poetic, as her hips tried to move down, to take more of him inside her.
"Spike..." she gasped, as he moved her down another couple of inches, "want you so much, now, please, Spike, please baby," she begged him, needing to feel him inside, as much as he needed to tell her his heart.
At the sound of her calling him 'baby' for the second time that evening, he pulled her hips down, suddenly, forcefully. She gasped, her breath ragged, as he grabbed her bottom, pulling her back and forth over him as she collapsed onto him.
They kissed passionately, as they moved against one another, his one hand coming up to cup her breast, the other on her behind. Her hands were behind his head, buried in his hair; his curly, non-crazy-Spike hair. She felt herself stretched, filled to her depths, as he brought her to the heights of her womanliness, her true power.
Convulsively shuddering, her legs shook as she climaxed over him, her breath filled his mouth as she gasped his name into it, she felt him come, as he suddenly went ultra hard; felt his wetness inside her.
He rolled them over to their sides, as he stroked her hair and face, "I missed touching you so much Buffy, all this time; I love your body, how soft it is, giving, supple, strong," Spike said, as her fingers still played in his hair, "missed loving you."
"Missed you, too; your touch, the feel of you over me, under me, the way your back feels; your muscles, your smoothness, your hardness, your eyes when they look into me, your mouth when you kiss me..." she said, feeling free to be as poetic about her feelings as he always was about his.
They lay there entwined around each other, each savoring the unbelievable close bond that they'd forged over the course of the last two days.
They fell asleep like that for about an hour, when they awoke, Buffy looked over to see Spike snuggled down between her breasts. She smiled at how innocent he looked to her; William, all the way, except for the blonde hair, albeit, curly; there were no other visual vestiges of Spike. But then again, he'd been much more free to be William since they'd been up here in Julian, at his own place, in an environment of his making, in so many ways.
She'd known 'Spike,' for a long time, it was nice getting to know 'William,' too.
And maybe, maybe she was getting to be more like 'Elizabeth,' the woman. She smiled, 'Elizabeth,' a grown woman's name. That's what she felt like being with him, a woman.
She rubbed his back, as she kissed the top of his head. Soft blue eyes made to fall into opened and looked at her, "Ummm," he murmured, kissing her breasts softly, "fell asleep, did we?"
"Umhmm," she replied.
"I should put some more wood on the fire, before it goes out," Spike said, looking ruefully over at the dwindling fire."
"Okay," Buffy said, kissing him first.
Reluctantly they sat up. Spike got up, putting on his pants, and went over to the fireplace.
"Be back, have to go to the bathroom," Buffy told Spike, walking toward the bedroom door.
"Okay," Spike said, still messing with the wood.
Buffy finished in the bathroom and decided to put on the shortie nightgown she'd debated about bringing, "Oh well, debates over, now!" she thought, smiling.
Before going back in the living room Buffy, noticed what she had thought was a closet door. Opening it, she discovered a staircase leading to the second floor. She'd forgotten all about the house having an upstairs, having only made a mental note of the fact, the first night they'd arrived. Since there wasn't a staircase anywhere in the house proper, to remind her, she hadn't given it anymore thought.
"Spike," she called.
"What is it, luv?" he called back.
"Com'ere a minute, would you?"
Spike walked in and saw her standing by the door, "See you found the 'secret annex,' eh?
"Is it a secret?"
"Not really, just put in as a last minute thing," he answered, rather evasively.
"What's up there?" she pressed.
"Wanna see?"
"Yeah,"
"Alright, come on then," he said, taking her hand as he lead her up the narrow staircase.
It was pitch black and she held on tightly to Spike's hand. A few seconds later, they reached the second floor.
"Stay there," he told Buffy.
"Can't see to go anywhere," she replied.
She heard a noise of something being opened and suddenly the small room was bathed in moonlight from a large skylight he'd opened.
As her eyes adjusted, she looked around. In the middle of the room, underneath the skylight she could see an old Victorian couch, which probably was originally downstairs before he got the leather one. Against one wall were an easel and some paints. She turned and looked at the opposite wall and saw there were at least a dozen or more painted canvases.
She let out a small gasp of surprise and walked over to them.
"Spike! They're lovely. You told me that you didn't have any more drawings!"
"I don't. I mean, I didn't even think about these paintings. Did them so long ago, didn't even remember these."
"When did you do these?" Buffy asked.
"Oh, probably about 40, 50 years ago," Spike answered.
All appeared to be landscapes from the surrounding woods, except for one small 8" x 10" portrait of a woman that Buffy didn't recognize. She appeared to be in her late 50's or early 60's. She wore a long, light blue dress, with a lace type shawl, and a matching small head covering, like a scarf, only round. She sat on a couch, similar to the one that was in this room, in what appeared to be a drawing room. She had a serene look on her face.
"Who's this?" Buffy asked.
"My mum, least that's what I remember her looking like," Spike answered, a bit sadly.
"She's lovely. I can see the resemblance," she said.
"Can you? Must have done a pretty good job then, if you can see a family resemblance," Spike said, his voice pensive.
Buffy nodded, still looking at William's mother, "What was her name?"
"Anne."
Her middle name.
"What was she like?" she ventured, intrigued.
"She was...kind, a gentle woman. Think you would have liked her, Buffy. Think she would have liked you, too," he said, sincerely, then let out this pained sort of scoffing sound, "better than..."
"Huh?"
"Nevermind, sorry, just something..."
Buffy just looked at him, then back to the painting of his mother, trying to get a feel for the person who had given him birth, loved him, obviously been loved back by her son, William.
"Your mum sort of reminded me of her," Spike said, suddenly.
"Really? I'm glad," she said gently, remembering the times she'd come home to find him there, thinking it was all about her. Probably was just as much about Spike enjoying the mothering and hot cocoa with marshmallows her mom would give him... "Glad you thought so, Spike," she said, feeling sorry for him not having had a mother for such a long time and for herself, at the mention of Joyce.
"How did she...?"
"I can't Buffy..." Spike said, abruptly, "I just can't. I'll tell you someday, just not right now, okay?"
"Okay," she said, dropping the subject of mothers. She gently put the canvas back where she'd found it.
Buffy looked around; three walls seemed to be covered with vertical slats she hadn't noticed before, the other one with horizontal slats.
"What are those for?" she asked, pointing to the slats.
Spike walked over to one section of them, grabbed a thin pole with a hook on the end, grabbed a hold of a metal ring on one of the vertical slated windows, and with one whoosh, two-thirds of the room opened up, showing the outside. He walked over to the last wall, which had horizontal slats, and did the same, though individually on those.
The room was now totally bathed in moonlight. Buffy walked over to the windows, seeing a perfect view of the sky and moon. They were above the trees up here.
Spike walked over to where she was standing and put his arms around her, "What do you think?" he asked.
She turned to look at him, "It's lovely, but I think you're a strange vampire, building a room with windows on all four sides, and a skylight... why'd you do it like this, Spike?
He stared at her, then nodded; knowing she'd picked up on the unusualness of the design.
He shrugged, "Had it made this way, so I could adjust the lighting, without being in it, when I painted; during the day or in moonlight, could adjust where the light fell..."
"But you could've made the windows high enough, so that you'd never have had to worry about that, Spike," Buffy said, looking into his eyes, "I don't think you designed it for that at all, did you?" she asked, her eyes boring into his. "And what about the skylight? It opens up, I see."
Still looking at her he said, "Yeah, well, I guess the lighting was an aside; I...I designed this," he said, pointing to the skylight, "as an escape hatch, should I ever need one."
"And all the windows? What was their real purpose then? In case you needed a good dusting?" she asked, angrily, "a suicide annex?"
"Buffy..." Spike sighed.
"Oh, Spike," Buffy said, shuddering, as she thought of him up here one day; daylight; opening the slats.
"Buffy," he said, taking hold of her arms, "I haven't used it for that, have I? Don't plan to either, okay?"
"Don't worry, luv. I don't even think about this part of the house, haven't for a long time," Spike said, trying to placate Buffy.
"Spike," Buffy said, putting her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, "you can't understand why this upsets me, can you?"
"I can Buffy, you...you don't want to think of me as dust," he said, "which, really is a bloody improvement in the way you use to want me," Spike said, laughing, trying to make a joke, as he held her close, rubbing her back.
Buffy put her mouth to Spike's ear, "I love you, Spike," she whispered, "can't stand to think of you..."
"I know, sweet girl, I know. Don't worry. I'll be okay," he said soothingly, "no worries, okay?" he said, kissing her.
Buffy kissed him back hard, willing herself to get off of this line of thinking. She was trying hard all day just to "be". Be in the now, in the moment, in the happy, be herself, or more like, the other self she would be if life hadn't made her the slayer. Ah, but then she wouldn't be with Spike...and so the circle came back around.
"Draw me!" she said suddenly.
"What?"
"Draw me. Up here, Spike. I want you to draw me; I want to be your model."
A slow smile crept into his features, "Okay," he said kissing her, "be right back."
He left her standing there as he went down the stairs.
She stood in the moonlight underneath the skylight, looking up at the sky. She hooked her thumbs underneath the straps of her nightgown and slipped it off.
Spike came back up the stairs, carrying a chair, and his drawing paper and charcoal pencils.
"Buffy?"
"Over here."
He walked into the room and then saw her, lying naked on the couch, wearing only the lovebird necklace.
He felt himself stir as he looked down on the only woman he'd truly ever loved.
"God, you're so beautiful," he said to her, mesmerized by the sight.
She smiled at him, "Bet you say that to all the naked women you're about to draw," she teased.
"Never," he said, seriously, voice thick with emotion.
Shaking his head clear, he put the chair down about 5 feet from her, and turned the pad to a fresh page. He took out a charcoal pencil and looked at her.
"How do you want me?" she asked.
"All the time," he answered.
She giggled, "I mean...how do you want me posed?
He came over to her, brushed her hair off her face, moved one arms so it was behind her head, the other over her stomach; her belly button showing between her thumb and fingers. He had her turn sideways just a little at the waist, so that her knees were slightly bent, legs on top the other. At last, he lovingly arranged the necklace, straightening the chain so that the lovebirds lay just above her breasts.
He kissed her softly on the lips and moved her head, so that she was facing him.
He nodded, smiling and took his seat on the chair, picking up the paper and pencil.
"Should I smile?" she asked.
"Maybe just a little, now shhhhh!" he commanded.
"Okay."
"Shhhhh!"
Buffy lay there for about 45 minutes, as Spike drew her likeness. It was hard for her to lay still all that time; part of it, her restless nature, that, and it was cool in the room. She felt her nipples harden a long time ago, goosebumps rise on her skin, but watching Spike concentrate as he drew helped pass the time as it was as fascinating for her, as it was for him to be drawing her. She knew that she was giving him a new memory for this room, just like in the rest of the house. She hoped this would be the memory he would keep close to him, if he ever came up here again; if...when...
She saw the paper turn over once again. She'd asked him once, if he'd had to redo it, and she'd been soundly treated to a round of cussing, 'bloody hells', and again ordered to be still, so this time, she said nothing.
Spike put the pencil down and looked up at Buffy, again.
"You can relax, now," he told her.
"Thank God! This posing stuff is hard," she said, laughing, as she sat up, stretching her arms and legs.
Spike came over to her, kneeling down by her legs and handing her the pad, "Can you see in this light?"
Buffy nodded, as she looked at the first of what were about a half a dozen drawings he'd just done of her. He hadn't had to redo anything!
"Spike, they're wonderful!" she said.
"You like them?" he asked, hopefulness in his voice.
"God, yes, Spike! These are as good as some drawings I use to see hanging in my mom's gallery," she said, with wonder at how well he could draw, make her look so lovely, even to herself, even naked.
"I'm glad you approve of them, me lady," he said, modestly, with a small bow.
He looked at her, then reached out to touch the necklace.
She put her hand over his, once again, sandwiching the necklace between them.
She looked at him, the moonlight making his hair seem all the whiter, his skin all the paler; face, hands, hair. A sculptured face that could have been molded by Michaelangelo. She remembered seeing pictures of The Statue of David, and The Pieta on a slide show, her high school art teacher had shown her class, after a trip to Rome and Florence.
Buffy touched the side of his face with her fingers, tracing its beautiful, angled planes; his was a face that could have been on The Pieta, itself. Face of a fallen angel? Martyr? Did that make her Mary? She shook her head trying to steer her mind away from all too recent crucifixion images.
She put her hands on his face, pulling him toward her for a kiss as she leaned forward, meeting him halfway.
Spike rose from his knees, pulling Buffy up with him, putting his arms around her.
He could feel her trembling as much in turmoil, as in passion, and he was perplexed by it.
"Buffy," he said, hugging her, rubbing her back, "think we best get out of this room now. It's cold up here; you've been naked a long time."
"There's ways to warm a girl up," she said, seductively, though her words had more desperation in them, than passion.
Spike moaned, but still, the feeling, the confusion, the desperation she was giving off was making him desperate to get out of this annex.
He stopped kissing her and took off his shirt, she helped him, eager for her hands to be on his skin once again, but instead he put it over her head and she automatically put her arms though the holes.
"Hey!" she said, "what's the idea, Mr.?"
"I want us to go back to the fireplace. Okay, Buffy?" Spike asked, looking earnestly at her. "Something playing with your head up here, making you unhappy. Just wanna be your 'fellow' this weekend, you to be 'my girl," alright? Don't want you being unhappy."
The mood was broken and Buffy immediately sobered up from her mental fugue state, "I'm sorry, Spike. You're right, I was...thinking...too hard, too many things, too..."
"I know," Spike said, kissing her, "it's alright, luv, I know...just, let's go now," he said, as he went around closing all the window slats and the skylight, as well.
The last things he grabbed were the pad of paper, pencils, and her nightgown, that still lie where she dropped it.
She let him lead her back down the stairs that led to her bedroom. She blinked at the light coming from the living room as he closed the door behind them.
"Meet you back out there in five?" she asked.
"Okay, if you're not out here, I'm coming to get you!" he warned, part in jest, part serious.
"Promise," she said and went into the bathroom, where she allowed the tears she'd been holding onto to escape her eyes before she went back out; to the fire, to her lover, to the rest of her vacation away from the hell that awaited her.
*Just a note, yes, I did mean Edouard Manet, not ClaudeMonet, they were both French Impressionists from the same time in the 1800's, however; Monet painted landscapes, Manet painted lots of portraits, as well as scenes.