"Still Bound" chapter 12
This chapter: Spike, as usual, is torn between the Victorian romantic and lusting wolf aspects of his personality. Buffy is attracted to both but her common sense is fighting on the side of sanity and trying to reject him. The events of "Dead Things" happen.
Hey all. Thanks for your continued reviews and support of this story. They are continually appreciated, as is Zyrya's beta help.
Who, besides me, is very nervous about what they're going to do to Spike on "Angel"? I've kept spoiler free but am just getting a bad feeling that his supreme sacrifice at the end of "Buffy" is going to be negated by the "Angel" writers treating him as comic relief or something. I'd rather end with the mental picture of heroic, burning Spike than have that image tarnished by mishandling. He should not be a joke and he SHOULD win the shanshu humanity, damn it!!
*********
Nights passed. Days passed. Lovers reaffirmed commitment. Lovers crumbled apart. And some of them just avoided their partner like death.
Spike was broodily nursing a bourbon and staring down from the balcony at the happy dancers in the Bronze.
"One step forward and ten buggering steps back," he mumbled angrily to himself, cursing the day he'd first laid eyes on the Slayer. Tonight was Friday. It was a week since that one promising evening spent in Buffy's company hanging out like a real boyfriend and he was no closer to her than he ever had been.
He spent plenty of time with Dawn, training her a few evenings a week, sometimes stopping by for TV night. But Buffy was as elusive as if she were still invisible. When he did manage to meet her on patrol she would assign him some other part of Sunnydale in which to hunt, but many evenings she was impossible to find at all. The girl was a master of avoidance.
Spike didn't understand her shutter in the breeze changeability. He had been a perfect gentleman while in her home. Hadn't tried to touch her beyond the shoulder and foot massages. Stayed put on the couch where he'd been placed. What the bloody hell was her problem? He tossed back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the table.
Just then his senses tingled and his eyes riveted on the door as a shiny blond head entered the building. Buffy was with her girlfriends tonight and they were all dressed to dance.
The four women were lucky enough to find a recently vacated table in the crowded Bronze. They clustered around it, flagged a waitress and ordered drinks. Anya was talking animatedly, punctuating her thoughts with dramatic gestures. From the glazed looks on the other girl's faces, she must have been regaling them with a list of Harris' faults for quite a while.
Willow pointed to the dance floor and Tara nodded. The two quickly slipped away and were soon entranced in each other's eyes as they slow danced, leaving Buffy to woodenly smile and nod at Anya's unending stream. The waitress placed four drinks at the table and Buffy grabbed and gulped hers down. (This is a silent tableau which Spike is watching. I don't want to move into it. All the audience need know is that Tara and Willow have made up.)
As the music changed from sappy to snappy, Buffy finally interrupted Anya. She spoke quickly, intensely and gestured toward Willow and Tara now gyrating and jiggling in happy abandon. Anya eyed the dancing throng, said something to Buffy, took another sip of her drink and then shimmied her way into the crowd.
Buffy visibly relaxed in her chair. Spike could almost hear her exaggerated sigh as he watched from on high. She chewed at the straw in her now empty glass.
'Come to me,' he mentally beamed. 'I'm waiting for you, pet. You don't have to sit alone. I'm right up here. Come.'
Buffy rose. Spike started in surprise, amazed that after all these years he appeared to be developing Dru's art of thrall. But then Buffy walked toward the ladies' room. He frowned and pouted and sucked on a whiskey soaked ice cube.
God, he wanted her so much. That afternoon of bliss, when she'd been unseen but in his arms and his bed for hours, had only served to whet his appetite. Since then he'd endeavored to be whatever it took to win her trust: patient, thoughtful, caring, undemanding, protective and all that other happy human bollocks. But his patience was wearing thin and his demon nature was roaring to be released. He simply wanted her to burn for him like he burned for her. Was that so much to ask?
He perked up as she emerged from the restroom and started toward her table.
'Come to me. Come. Need you, Buffy. Need you now,' he internally chanted. Suddenly she stopped, turned away from the table, looked at the stairs and began to walk toward them. He almost choked on his chip of ice. He stepped away from the balcony rail and back into the shadows.
Buffy stepped from the top of the stairs and onto the catwalk just as the last couple of humans pushed past her on their way down. Perfect! They were now alone. Spike watched her drift over to the balcony rail where he had stood only moments before and gaze down at the milling throng below.
He prowled out of the darkness to stand behind her.
"Hello, Spike," she said resignedly.
"Could you hear me calling you, love?" he purred seductively as he crowded her personal space. "Could you feel me in your mind?" He placed a hand on her waist.
"No. I saw you when I came in," she said. "And I was perfectly aware you were lurking in the shadows when I came upstairs. You always think you're way more mysterious than you really are."
"Oh." His bubble burst, Spike started to remove his hand from her waist when he suddenly realized she wasn't pulling away and was, if anything, leaning into his touch.
He tightened his grip and moved his body even closer to hers. He could feel that delicious human heat rolling off her in waves, her backside warming his front. He pressed against her and she relaxed into him. His other hand slipped around and caressed the firm round bulge of her stomach.
His lips stole down to her neck and began to feather lightly across her exposed skin. Fortunately she was wearing one of those sexy peasant blouses so he had access from jaw line to bare shoulder. He took advantage of that playground and was rewarded with the sound of her heart racing.
When his mouth had worked its way back up near her ear, he paused to whisper, "You missed me, too." It wasn't a question.
As Spike's left hand continued to stroke her belly, the right snaked around and began moving rhythmically well below the pregnant zone.
She gasped. "D-don't."
"Why not?" he whispered. "Feels good, doesn't it? Nothing wrong with that."
"I can't ... don't want to encourage you," she managed. "It...it isn't right."
He ignored her; kissing, licking, murmuring endearments and touching some more.
"I ... don't ... love you ... Spike," she gasped out.
"So I've heard. Doesn't matter," he said and nipped her earlobe. "You want me, anyway. That's enough." 'For now' his mind supplied the rest.
His body enveloped her back like a heavy velvet cloak. Reaching up his left hand to cradle her cheek, he gently turned her head toward his as he loomed over her shoulder. Their lips met and tongues entwined.
After a moment of this, Buffy pulled back. "You're killing my neck," she complained and turned to face him for the first time, wrapping her arms around his back, clutching fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him as tightly to her as her stomach would allow.
They kissed rough and hard, slow and gentle; hands moving and sliding over each other's bodies. They kissed until Buffy was breathless and Spike was in pain from desire. He rubbed his hardness against her crotch, trying to relieve the pressure but only becoming further aroused. He reached between their bodies and unfastened his fly.
"What? No! Not here, Spike. Are you crazy?" Buffy snapped out of her sexual stupor as if someone had dashed cold water in her face. She backed away from him.
"Where then? When? Let me take you somewhere. I can't ... can't wait any longer, Buffy," he panted. "Please. Please don't change your mind again. I need you."
"I can't just leave. I'm with my friends." Buffy glanced down to where Willow, Tara and Anya were still dancing with loose-limbed fervor if not grace. She looked back at Spike, whose eyes were burning as blue as the center of a match flame.
"Later then," he begged. "Come to me after." He reached a beseeching hand toward her. "Not just for sex but a real date. I'll feed you ice cream and ... and chocolate. Whatever you want."
Hysterical laughter bubbled under the surface and threatened to burst from Buffy's lips. She wanted to make some smart-ass remark about strangers offering candy but was sickeningly aware of how close to the truth it would be. Who knew how many innocents had been lured to their destruction by the creature who stood before her with his charming manner and his beautiful face.
"I don't.... I can't...." She turned away from him and moved toward the stairs. She paused. "I'll come," she promised before disappearing down them without a backward glance.
Spike stood there blinking in surprise for a moment, processing her words. Then a slow smile crept over his face. She was coming. She'd said she would.
He found his coat in the corner where he'd discarded it and shrugged it on. He had to hurry. There was a lot to do to make his home presentable for their first official date.
*********
Spike took a final look around his crypt, which was glowing in the light of dozens of flickering candles and heady with sandalwood from the brazier of incense burning in the corner of the room. A white cloth covered the sarcophagus in the center and placed on it was a brass vase of colorful flowers picked from gardens he'd passed on the way home. A delicate porcelain bowl he had gleaned from Clem's pawnshop also graced the table.
In the mini fridge was a pint of cherry ice cream, and ready to warm in the microwave was a jar of hot fudge. Soft guitar music from the cheap stereo filled both levels of the crypt. The downstairs was also aglow with spicy scented candles and the bed made up with fresh sheets and scattered rose petals, courtesy of the urn by the Avery crypt.
Spike took a last look around and nodded, satisfied that he'd set an atmosphere that would touch a human girl's heart. He was ready. More than ready. He paced back and forth, fizzing with barely contained excitement. She was coming. She'd promised. She would be there. She had to. She wouldn't break her word, would she? Slayers were all true blue and honor bound so she would've just told him bugger off if she wasn't committed to it, right?
Any time now she'd break down his door. Or maybe knock hesitantly, even shyly. He would let her in with a courtly bow and she would be amazed and impressed by the changes in his crypt. She would exclaim how lovely it was and that she'd never guessed he had such a flair for decorating.
Then he would offer her a seat in his armchair, its ratty upholstery shrouded for the occasion in a deep blue cloth he had scavenged. A little nervous, she would settle back, anticipating whatever culinary surprise he had in store and he would proceed to serve her.
The vision got a little hazy after the part where her lips closed around the first spoonful of ice cream and pretty much devolved into pornography involving naked Buffy and hot fudge from that point on. God, he was a bundle of nerves and need!
Spike froze in mid-pace, his head swiveling toward the door. His anxious face relaxed into a smile and he glided over to stand by it. His hand caressed up and down as if already touching the body of the woman he knew stood just on the other side. After a moment, when she still had not knocked he threw the door open wide and found only darkness there.
***********
"I have to be responsible. I have to be smart," Buffy spoke aloud to herself as she walked through the cemetery, twirling her stake nervously. "I can't keep letting him get to me."
This was easier said. The follow-through was damn hard. Just a bare minute ago she had come close, so close to giving in to her Spike urges yet again. Standing outside his crypt door, she had felt his presence within pulling at her with the relentlessness of an undertow. As a matter of fact, the ocean analogy perfectly explained her relationship with the vampire. She was a rock, granite maybe, strong and hard and solitary and able to withstand wind and fire and possibly even dynamite. But he was water, working on her inexorably, lapping, flowing, moving around her until she crumbled and fell.
The only way she could survive, could keep her integrity intact, was to remove herself from the ocean's reach. So that's what she was doing. Walking away. Actually almost running away but if that's what it took to withstand the Spike ocean then that's what....
A scream and cry for help tore through the night. Buffy lifted her head toward the sound, grateful for the distraction from her personal demons. A soul in need! That she could deal with. She loped off, leaping tombstones and dodging branches as she headed toward the victim.
Then time went wonky again, which should've been her first clue that Warren and his cronies were behind it, but at the time Buffy couldn't register anything but the face of the dead girl at her feet.
Buffy was disoriented as she found herself in quick and jumbled succession; fighting demons, running, listening to Spike rant about their 'date' and trying to protect the dark haired girl the demons were pursuing. When the mismatched segments of time straightened out the only clear thing was that she had struck a killing blow to the woman she was attempting to save.
Buffy stared at the body, horror-struck as Spike tugged on her arm and begged her to trust him. In shock, she followed his instructions like an automaton, going home to hide her head under the covers, hoping to wake up and find it all a dream. But when she woke, after a nightmare filled hour's sleep, the facts hadn't changed. The girl was still dead and she, Buffy, Champion of the People was responsible.
Rising from her bed, she scribbled a quick note to Dawn and Willow explaining that she had some important Slayer business to take care of and not to worry. Then she walked out into the night intent on rectifying her hit and run by going to the police.
**********
"I told you, I took care of it," Spike assured her for the second time.
"It? What 'it'? This was a girl, Spike. And I'm responsible for her death!" His words suddenly caught up with her and with mounting trepidation she asked, "How did you 'take care of it' anyway? What did you do?"
"No one will ever find her. No one will ever know," he said, attempting to sound calm and reasonable.
"Spike!" If it was possible, her heart beat even faster. "What did you do?"
From the back of the police station a trio of cops emerged talking loudly about the girl's body found floating in the river.
"Neck trauma?" one of the officers asked.
"Not this time," another replied. "Looks like she was stabbed and there's also a head wound."
They got into a car and took off, sirens screaming.
Trancelike, Buffy started to walk up the alley toward the police station.
Spike grabbed her arm. "Buffy, don't do this. It was an accident. Don't ruin your life."
"A woman is dead because of me!"
"And how many more are alive because of you?"
"That doesn't change anything. It doesn't make it all right." She shook off his hand and continued walking. He moved in front of her, blocking her path.
"I'm not going to let you...."
"Get out of my way, Spike." She shoved him - hard, and he stumbled backward. He quickly righted himself and intercepted her again at the mouth of the alley.
"Move!" Again she knocked him aside, but he clutched at her arm as he spun away, dragging her down with him. He fell to the ground, Buffy tumbling on top of him.
"Let go!" she snapped. Spike refused to release her wrist so she punched him with her other hand, snapping his head back against the ground.
"No," he roared. He tried another tack. "Think of Dawn. If you go to prison, what will become of her? Do you honestly believe your father will finally take up his responsibilities?"
"Shut up," Buffy cried, and hit him several times more in quick succession, driving his face into the pavement. She struggled against his viselike grip on her arm. His nose gushed blood and he raised his free hand to shield his face from her next blow.
"What about the sprog?" he asked, twisting so that her fist cracked against the pavement instead of his jaw. "Taking the moral high ground isn't going to help anyone who depends on you. And what use to the world is a Slayer stuck behind bars?"
Buffy wrenched herself from his grasp, shaking him off with all her strength. She stood and, for a moment, he thought she was going to kick him. Drawing a deep shuddering breath, she regained control.
"Leave. Me. Alone," she imbued each word with poison. She stepped over him and continued toward the police station. He rolled to the side and watched her go, but didn't try to stop her again.
********
Later, when Buffy realized that Warren and his crew had set her up, she knew that she had underestimated the danger of nerds run amok for too long. It was time to locate their new hideout and do some damage control.
Emerging from the police station after her near brush with the law, Buffy looked toward the alley, but Spike was no longer there. She felt guilty for treating him so roughly. He had, after all, been trying to protect her. He couldn't understand that she dare not start making special excuses for herself, bending rules to fit her need. That way lay Faith.
Anyway, she was sorry she'd hit him so hard and should probably find and tell him so, but tonight she had taken about all the drama she could stand. It would be an effort just to drag her body home and get to bed at this point.
She sighed and started walking.
************
With a roar of rage Spike swept his arm across the top of the sarcophagus, sending the vase of flowers and the pretty porcelain bowl flying across the room to shatter against the floor. He turned and smashed his fist down on the stereo putting an end to the shimmering run of notes that had filled the crypt with sound. In the subsequent silence, broken only by his stream of curses, he proceeded to tear apart everything in the crypt; kicking the TV over, ripping the makeshift slipcover off the armchair, knocking candles to the ground, tearing the refrigerator door off its hinges and throwing the slightly melted carton of ice cream at the wall where it dripped down to make a sticky puddle on the floor.
Then he stormed downstairs, snatching up a handy axe on the way. He rampaged through the lower level, slashing the bedding to ribbons and chopping at the bedposts, as rose petals crushed under his boot heels sending a thick cloud of sweetness through the dank room.
"Bloody, fucking hell, I hate her! Hate her! Why is she so stubborn? Why is she so much trouble? Drusilla on her worst night was easier handled! Christ, if I just had this chip out...."
His initial blinding fury spent, he collapsed against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor, arms resting on knees. Sighing, he leaned his head back, closed his eyes and pictured the Slayer with her throat ripped out, bleeding to death at his feet. It gave him no joy. In fact, the image actually made him queasy instead of hard.
"She's ruined me," he muttered sadly. "Castrated me. Turned me into a toothless, biteless freak." He gingerly touched the side of his face, which she had ground into the pavement, and flicked away a speck of gravel embedded in his cheek.
Unbidden, an image of Buffy in all her fiery glory flashed in his mind's eye. "But god, she's magnificent when she's pissed," he remarked to the empty room.
To be continued....
This chapter: Spike, as usual, is torn between the Victorian romantic and lusting wolf aspects of his personality. Buffy is attracted to both but her common sense is fighting on the side of sanity and trying to reject him. The events of "Dead Things" happen.
Hey all. Thanks for your continued reviews and support of this story. They are continually appreciated, as is Zyrya's beta help.
Who, besides me, is very nervous about what they're going to do to Spike on "Angel"? I've kept spoiler free but am just getting a bad feeling that his supreme sacrifice at the end of "Buffy" is going to be negated by the "Angel" writers treating him as comic relief or something. I'd rather end with the mental picture of heroic, burning Spike than have that image tarnished by mishandling. He should not be a joke and he SHOULD win the shanshu humanity, damn it!!
*********
Nights passed. Days passed. Lovers reaffirmed commitment. Lovers crumbled apart. And some of them just avoided their partner like death.
Spike was broodily nursing a bourbon and staring down from the balcony at the happy dancers in the Bronze.
"One step forward and ten buggering steps back," he mumbled angrily to himself, cursing the day he'd first laid eyes on the Slayer. Tonight was Friday. It was a week since that one promising evening spent in Buffy's company hanging out like a real boyfriend and he was no closer to her than he ever had been.
He spent plenty of time with Dawn, training her a few evenings a week, sometimes stopping by for TV night. But Buffy was as elusive as if she were still invisible. When he did manage to meet her on patrol she would assign him some other part of Sunnydale in which to hunt, but many evenings she was impossible to find at all. The girl was a master of avoidance.
Spike didn't understand her shutter in the breeze changeability. He had been a perfect gentleman while in her home. Hadn't tried to touch her beyond the shoulder and foot massages. Stayed put on the couch where he'd been placed. What the bloody hell was her problem? He tossed back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the table.
Just then his senses tingled and his eyes riveted on the door as a shiny blond head entered the building. Buffy was with her girlfriends tonight and they were all dressed to dance.
The four women were lucky enough to find a recently vacated table in the crowded Bronze. They clustered around it, flagged a waitress and ordered drinks. Anya was talking animatedly, punctuating her thoughts with dramatic gestures. From the glazed looks on the other girl's faces, she must have been regaling them with a list of Harris' faults for quite a while.
Willow pointed to the dance floor and Tara nodded. The two quickly slipped away and were soon entranced in each other's eyes as they slow danced, leaving Buffy to woodenly smile and nod at Anya's unending stream. The waitress placed four drinks at the table and Buffy grabbed and gulped hers down. (This is a silent tableau which Spike is watching. I don't want to move into it. All the audience need know is that Tara and Willow have made up.)
As the music changed from sappy to snappy, Buffy finally interrupted Anya. She spoke quickly, intensely and gestured toward Willow and Tara now gyrating and jiggling in happy abandon. Anya eyed the dancing throng, said something to Buffy, took another sip of her drink and then shimmied her way into the crowd.
Buffy visibly relaxed in her chair. Spike could almost hear her exaggerated sigh as he watched from on high. She chewed at the straw in her now empty glass.
'Come to me,' he mentally beamed. 'I'm waiting for you, pet. You don't have to sit alone. I'm right up here. Come.'
Buffy rose. Spike started in surprise, amazed that after all these years he appeared to be developing Dru's art of thrall. But then Buffy walked toward the ladies' room. He frowned and pouted and sucked on a whiskey soaked ice cube.
God, he wanted her so much. That afternoon of bliss, when she'd been unseen but in his arms and his bed for hours, had only served to whet his appetite. Since then he'd endeavored to be whatever it took to win her trust: patient, thoughtful, caring, undemanding, protective and all that other happy human bollocks. But his patience was wearing thin and his demon nature was roaring to be released. He simply wanted her to burn for him like he burned for her. Was that so much to ask?
He perked up as she emerged from the restroom and started toward her table.
'Come to me. Come. Need you, Buffy. Need you now,' he internally chanted. Suddenly she stopped, turned away from the table, looked at the stairs and began to walk toward them. He almost choked on his chip of ice. He stepped away from the balcony rail and back into the shadows.
Buffy stepped from the top of the stairs and onto the catwalk just as the last couple of humans pushed past her on their way down. Perfect! They were now alone. Spike watched her drift over to the balcony rail where he had stood only moments before and gaze down at the milling throng below.
He prowled out of the darkness to stand behind her.
"Hello, Spike," she said resignedly.
"Could you hear me calling you, love?" he purred seductively as he crowded her personal space. "Could you feel me in your mind?" He placed a hand on her waist.
"No. I saw you when I came in," she said. "And I was perfectly aware you were lurking in the shadows when I came upstairs. You always think you're way more mysterious than you really are."
"Oh." His bubble burst, Spike started to remove his hand from her waist when he suddenly realized she wasn't pulling away and was, if anything, leaning into his touch.
He tightened his grip and moved his body even closer to hers. He could feel that delicious human heat rolling off her in waves, her backside warming his front. He pressed against her and she relaxed into him. His other hand slipped around and caressed the firm round bulge of her stomach.
His lips stole down to her neck and began to feather lightly across her exposed skin. Fortunately she was wearing one of those sexy peasant blouses so he had access from jaw line to bare shoulder. He took advantage of that playground and was rewarded with the sound of her heart racing.
When his mouth had worked its way back up near her ear, he paused to whisper, "You missed me, too." It wasn't a question.
As Spike's left hand continued to stroke her belly, the right snaked around and began moving rhythmically well below the pregnant zone.
She gasped. "D-don't."
"Why not?" he whispered. "Feels good, doesn't it? Nothing wrong with that."
"I can't ... don't want to encourage you," she managed. "It...it isn't right."
He ignored her; kissing, licking, murmuring endearments and touching some more.
"I ... don't ... love you ... Spike," she gasped out.
"So I've heard. Doesn't matter," he said and nipped her earlobe. "You want me, anyway. That's enough." 'For now' his mind supplied the rest.
His body enveloped her back like a heavy velvet cloak. Reaching up his left hand to cradle her cheek, he gently turned her head toward his as he loomed over her shoulder. Their lips met and tongues entwined.
After a moment of this, Buffy pulled back. "You're killing my neck," she complained and turned to face him for the first time, wrapping her arms around his back, clutching fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him as tightly to her as her stomach would allow.
They kissed rough and hard, slow and gentle; hands moving and sliding over each other's bodies. They kissed until Buffy was breathless and Spike was in pain from desire. He rubbed his hardness against her crotch, trying to relieve the pressure but only becoming further aroused. He reached between their bodies and unfastened his fly.
"What? No! Not here, Spike. Are you crazy?" Buffy snapped out of her sexual stupor as if someone had dashed cold water in her face. She backed away from him.
"Where then? When? Let me take you somewhere. I can't ... can't wait any longer, Buffy," he panted. "Please. Please don't change your mind again. I need you."
"I can't just leave. I'm with my friends." Buffy glanced down to where Willow, Tara and Anya were still dancing with loose-limbed fervor if not grace. She looked back at Spike, whose eyes were burning as blue as the center of a match flame.
"Later then," he begged. "Come to me after." He reached a beseeching hand toward her. "Not just for sex but a real date. I'll feed you ice cream and ... and chocolate. Whatever you want."
Hysterical laughter bubbled under the surface and threatened to burst from Buffy's lips. She wanted to make some smart-ass remark about strangers offering candy but was sickeningly aware of how close to the truth it would be. Who knew how many innocents had been lured to their destruction by the creature who stood before her with his charming manner and his beautiful face.
"I don't.... I can't...." She turned away from him and moved toward the stairs. She paused. "I'll come," she promised before disappearing down them without a backward glance.
Spike stood there blinking in surprise for a moment, processing her words. Then a slow smile crept over his face. She was coming. She'd said she would.
He found his coat in the corner where he'd discarded it and shrugged it on. He had to hurry. There was a lot to do to make his home presentable for their first official date.
*********
Spike took a final look around his crypt, which was glowing in the light of dozens of flickering candles and heady with sandalwood from the brazier of incense burning in the corner of the room. A white cloth covered the sarcophagus in the center and placed on it was a brass vase of colorful flowers picked from gardens he'd passed on the way home. A delicate porcelain bowl he had gleaned from Clem's pawnshop also graced the table.
In the mini fridge was a pint of cherry ice cream, and ready to warm in the microwave was a jar of hot fudge. Soft guitar music from the cheap stereo filled both levels of the crypt. The downstairs was also aglow with spicy scented candles and the bed made up with fresh sheets and scattered rose petals, courtesy of the urn by the Avery crypt.
Spike took a last look around and nodded, satisfied that he'd set an atmosphere that would touch a human girl's heart. He was ready. More than ready. He paced back and forth, fizzing with barely contained excitement. She was coming. She'd promised. She would be there. She had to. She wouldn't break her word, would she? Slayers were all true blue and honor bound so she would've just told him bugger off if she wasn't committed to it, right?
Any time now she'd break down his door. Or maybe knock hesitantly, even shyly. He would let her in with a courtly bow and she would be amazed and impressed by the changes in his crypt. She would exclaim how lovely it was and that she'd never guessed he had such a flair for decorating.
Then he would offer her a seat in his armchair, its ratty upholstery shrouded for the occasion in a deep blue cloth he had scavenged. A little nervous, she would settle back, anticipating whatever culinary surprise he had in store and he would proceed to serve her.
The vision got a little hazy after the part where her lips closed around the first spoonful of ice cream and pretty much devolved into pornography involving naked Buffy and hot fudge from that point on. God, he was a bundle of nerves and need!
Spike froze in mid-pace, his head swiveling toward the door. His anxious face relaxed into a smile and he glided over to stand by it. His hand caressed up and down as if already touching the body of the woman he knew stood just on the other side. After a moment, when she still had not knocked he threw the door open wide and found only darkness there.
***********
"I have to be responsible. I have to be smart," Buffy spoke aloud to herself as she walked through the cemetery, twirling her stake nervously. "I can't keep letting him get to me."
This was easier said. The follow-through was damn hard. Just a bare minute ago she had come close, so close to giving in to her Spike urges yet again. Standing outside his crypt door, she had felt his presence within pulling at her with the relentlessness of an undertow. As a matter of fact, the ocean analogy perfectly explained her relationship with the vampire. She was a rock, granite maybe, strong and hard and solitary and able to withstand wind and fire and possibly even dynamite. But he was water, working on her inexorably, lapping, flowing, moving around her until she crumbled and fell.
The only way she could survive, could keep her integrity intact, was to remove herself from the ocean's reach. So that's what she was doing. Walking away. Actually almost running away but if that's what it took to withstand the Spike ocean then that's what....
A scream and cry for help tore through the night. Buffy lifted her head toward the sound, grateful for the distraction from her personal demons. A soul in need! That she could deal with. She loped off, leaping tombstones and dodging branches as she headed toward the victim.
Then time went wonky again, which should've been her first clue that Warren and his cronies were behind it, but at the time Buffy couldn't register anything but the face of the dead girl at her feet.
Buffy was disoriented as she found herself in quick and jumbled succession; fighting demons, running, listening to Spike rant about their 'date' and trying to protect the dark haired girl the demons were pursuing. When the mismatched segments of time straightened out the only clear thing was that she had struck a killing blow to the woman she was attempting to save.
Buffy stared at the body, horror-struck as Spike tugged on her arm and begged her to trust him. In shock, she followed his instructions like an automaton, going home to hide her head under the covers, hoping to wake up and find it all a dream. But when she woke, after a nightmare filled hour's sleep, the facts hadn't changed. The girl was still dead and she, Buffy, Champion of the People was responsible.
Rising from her bed, she scribbled a quick note to Dawn and Willow explaining that she had some important Slayer business to take care of and not to worry. Then she walked out into the night intent on rectifying her hit and run by going to the police.
**********
"I told you, I took care of it," Spike assured her for the second time.
"It? What 'it'? This was a girl, Spike. And I'm responsible for her death!" His words suddenly caught up with her and with mounting trepidation she asked, "How did you 'take care of it' anyway? What did you do?"
"No one will ever find her. No one will ever know," he said, attempting to sound calm and reasonable.
"Spike!" If it was possible, her heart beat even faster. "What did you do?"
From the back of the police station a trio of cops emerged talking loudly about the girl's body found floating in the river.
"Neck trauma?" one of the officers asked.
"Not this time," another replied. "Looks like she was stabbed and there's also a head wound."
They got into a car and took off, sirens screaming.
Trancelike, Buffy started to walk up the alley toward the police station.
Spike grabbed her arm. "Buffy, don't do this. It was an accident. Don't ruin your life."
"A woman is dead because of me!"
"And how many more are alive because of you?"
"That doesn't change anything. It doesn't make it all right." She shook off his hand and continued walking. He moved in front of her, blocking her path.
"I'm not going to let you...."
"Get out of my way, Spike." She shoved him - hard, and he stumbled backward. He quickly righted himself and intercepted her again at the mouth of the alley.
"Move!" Again she knocked him aside, but he clutched at her arm as he spun away, dragging her down with him. He fell to the ground, Buffy tumbling on top of him.
"Let go!" she snapped. Spike refused to release her wrist so she punched him with her other hand, snapping his head back against the ground.
"No," he roared. He tried another tack. "Think of Dawn. If you go to prison, what will become of her? Do you honestly believe your father will finally take up his responsibilities?"
"Shut up," Buffy cried, and hit him several times more in quick succession, driving his face into the pavement. She struggled against his viselike grip on her arm. His nose gushed blood and he raised his free hand to shield his face from her next blow.
"What about the sprog?" he asked, twisting so that her fist cracked against the pavement instead of his jaw. "Taking the moral high ground isn't going to help anyone who depends on you. And what use to the world is a Slayer stuck behind bars?"
Buffy wrenched herself from his grasp, shaking him off with all her strength. She stood and, for a moment, he thought she was going to kick him. Drawing a deep shuddering breath, she regained control.
"Leave. Me. Alone," she imbued each word with poison. She stepped over him and continued toward the police station. He rolled to the side and watched her go, but didn't try to stop her again.
********
Later, when Buffy realized that Warren and his crew had set her up, she knew that she had underestimated the danger of nerds run amok for too long. It was time to locate their new hideout and do some damage control.
Emerging from the police station after her near brush with the law, Buffy looked toward the alley, but Spike was no longer there. She felt guilty for treating him so roughly. He had, after all, been trying to protect her. He couldn't understand that she dare not start making special excuses for herself, bending rules to fit her need. That way lay Faith.
Anyway, she was sorry she'd hit him so hard and should probably find and tell him so, but tonight she had taken about all the drama she could stand. It would be an effort just to drag her body home and get to bed at this point.
She sighed and started walking.
************
With a roar of rage Spike swept his arm across the top of the sarcophagus, sending the vase of flowers and the pretty porcelain bowl flying across the room to shatter against the floor. He turned and smashed his fist down on the stereo putting an end to the shimmering run of notes that had filled the crypt with sound. In the subsequent silence, broken only by his stream of curses, he proceeded to tear apart everything in the crypt; kicking the TV over, ripping the makeshift slipcover off the armchair, knocking candles to the ground, tearing the refrigerator door off its hinges and throwing the slightly melted carton of ice cream at the wall where it dripped down to make a sticky puddle on the floor.
Then he stormed downstairs, snatching up a handy axe on the way. He rampaged through the lower level, slashing the bedding to ribbons and chopping at the bedposts, as rose petals crushed under his boot heels sending a thick cloud of sweetness through the dank room.
"Bloody, fucking hell, I hate her! Hate her! Why is she so stubborn? Why is she so much trouble? Drusilla on her worst night was easier handled! Christ, if I just had this chip out...."
His initial blinding fury spent, he collapsed against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor, arms resting on knees. Sighing, he leaned his head back, closed his eyes and pictured the Slayer with her throat ripped out, bleeding to death at his feet. It gave him no joy. In fact, the image actually made him queasy instead of hard.
"She's ruined me," he muttered sadly. "Castrated me. Turned me into a toothless, biteless freak." He gingerly touched the side of his face, which she had ground into the pavement, and flicked away a speck of gravel embedded in his cheek.
Unbidden, an image of Buffy in all her fiery glory flashed in his mind's eye. "But god, she's magnificent when she's pissed," he remarked to the empty room.
To be continued....