Title: Many Roads
Author: lilyann
Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo.com
Chapter 9: A Walk in the Sun
William is alone in the dark, on the verge of sleep or just arising. His eyes are staring, wide, but there is nothing to see. The swirling blackness is utterly complete. Bolster-soft below, stale and earthy above. A sickbed of satin and thirst. I must rise, he thinks, and draw the curtains. Remember myself to the light.
He reaches out with his hands, feels wood at his sides and wood above him, inches from his face. He is confined. Buried alive, like in the legends. William wants to scream, but he has no voice under a blanket of wood and dirt. And the hunger–oh, it grows–
There is a steady scraping from above, grating on his hypersensitive ears. Jarring the coffin to shower dust. Somehow, he's been expecting such a sound. Begins to claw toward it, thanking providence that Mother couldn't afford a fine, strong box so soon after Papa. Silver latches to hold him in.
The scrape becomes a thud, and, at last, he can see a bit of star-spangled sky through the torn lid. At last, William can climb out, sate the madness burning in his veins. Become strong, like he'd always wanted to be.
The vile thing in him sees sky and screams for freedom.
The poet wonders about grace. Once forfeit, is it gone forever?
Above his grave, the merry moon beckons William rise. He does. And the end begins.
****************************************************
Spike sat bolt upright on the couch, covered in damp sweat, despite the cold, lemon light pouring into his living room. The sun was just climbing over the trees, painting rainbows on the hardwood. It wasn't much past six, he guessed. Still quaking from the aftershocks of the dream, he took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. Gathered control of his rapidly skipping heart. What the ruddy hell was that about? Only once before had he dreamed beyond petticoats and parlor games, gaslight and mourning, aided by Dru's bauble.
Now, suddenly, the scene had changed. And he was terrified of what it all meant. Scared to close his eyes. Just like her. Buffy, who had something inside her that was in love with the past. Buffy, who'd touched him in the bathroom and made him tremble with that strange blend of curiosity and dawning desire. The power of a beautiful girl, waiting to come out and play.
.
Buffy who...wasn't there anymore.
The blanket was thrown back where she'd spent the night, but his neatly folded T- shirt lay on the cushion, a square of notebook paper tucked underneath. He snatched it up and read:
Spike,
Thanks for everything except thinking that I could leave you easily. That's just stupid. You're so beautiful. You don't even know. The way you grab life and wrestle with it. Keep that, William, and you'll always land on your feet. I'll do the same.
Buffy.
Spike stared at the girlish scrawl for a moment longer, seeing nothing but her name, before letting the letter flutter from his boneless fingers. "Fuck."
He swore and stumbled his way into a pair of jeans, even managed to locate his boots under a pile of dirty laundry. Slammed out of the house into a cool, bright morning. Air that smelled sharp and bittersweet. Like autumn. Like change. This time of year always seemed to bring on daring shifts in circumstance: Drusilla's departure, Dawn's birth, when he was sixteen and hadn't given much thought to a sibling in all those years. Like all the best things, she came unexpectedly, his Nibblet, a month early and full of infant rage that never quite went away. Self-possessed from the start, she made sarcasm an art form at age four and taught him all he needed to know about life by the end of sixth grade. To this day, she looked at him like he was a huge git and it was okay. She'd deal, because that's what sisters did.
And she was never less than that. His sister, despite their joint father and vastly different mothers: Anne, who lay in an English churchyard these past twenty years, and Sophie, the second wife. An American, to the horror of his great aunts, proper English matrons who'd never left the house bare-headed or used a Lipton tea bag in their lives. As a boy, he loved their gingersnaps and tales of spring-heeled Jack. And, in later years, with his father in California, with his new family, those dear old ladies became a last, living connection to his mother, cherished and close at hand.
His mother, who rallied and died in the fall.
Spike was surprised that he'd almost forgotten the anniversary, a day he always anticipated with aching dread. Maybe the rot those headshrinkers spouted, about time healing all wounds, had a grain of truth to it. Maybe. He'd probably still get ripped to the tits, pull out fading photos that rarely saw the light of day. Fall asleep and dream of the day life changed forever. A bright, moving afternoon, swirling rust and gold. The minister's shoes gleaming in the sun and a hole in the ground. The very earth trembling to take her. That was before high school, before Spike. He was just Will, then. Hadn't yet been seized by the urge to dye his hair platinum. Be garish and compelling. Different.
The bike skidded a little in the wet leaves as Spike swung left at the road, shaking his head at Buffy's pitiful lack of planning. The pig-ignorant little chit wasn't heading for town, but deeper into the woods. If she dragged herself far enough, she'd hit the coast, which could be seen from some of the higher peeks. Miles of forest lay between Buffy and that slash of silver, and she hadn't the brain matter to just sit and wait for rescue. It wasn't her style. No, she'd flounder about, probably break an ankle or get herself eaten. Just to piss him off.
The day was brightening, all whipped cream clouds and watery sunlight, but mother nature could never quite chase the shadows from her own creation. They crept up from the thick trees, even in high summer, waylaid you where you lived. It was always cool in the Ashdown, something he never noticed until his years in America. The sun was silkier there, like passing through warm curtains, and he might have remained indefinitely, but for that pratty little voice in his head that insisisted. Home. Now.
It was the same voice that, years later, in the wake of Dru, bid him stagger up from his drunken stupor and pen the first Aurora story. The next day, he packed up his dark love's belongings, put the scotch away, and wrote the second tale. Another followed. And another. Twenty-five books in one year. He smoked and wrote. Slept when he had to. Lived and breathed his changeling girl, born of mist and given flesh. According to Dawn, he was having a "freaky Lovecraft moment." Everyone else thought he was cracking up.
Spike wondered sometimes, too.
When the fever finally broke, after Aurora's self-sacrificing swan dive into oblivion, he put the whole experience down to chance. Artistic inspiration and a dark, dark time in his life. Until Buffy Summers came toddling down his driveway and shook things up. A one woman whirlwind.
If she'd whirled into someone's car, he was calling out the law.
To his immense relief, she was only about a half-mile from the house, tottering along on her french-heeled sandals, still managing, somehow, to look like she belonged exactly where she was. Spike wore his rebellion outright, Buffy's was in the set of her shoulders and fine, stubborn chin. The world might fuck with her, but it would never break her. And she didn't even know it. He took a moment to appreciate her luxurious, feminine lines, the slender wrists and fluttering ends of her hair.
Before he paddled that curvy little behind like a bongo.
"Buffy!" She must have heard the bike, known he was there even before he called out. The wobbling steps morphed into a stumbling trot, and Spike would have laughed if she wasn't in serious danger of falling on her face. He'd done the pub crawl often enough to know just how god-awful dirt tasted. Hell, he might laugh anyway if she didn't stop acting like a nit and put the anchors on.
"Summers!"
No response other than an annoyed flick of blonde hair and who the hell did she think she was fooling? Spike idled up beside her and raised his voice over the rumble of the engine. "What are you doing?"
"Um...walking. I learned when I was one." She had enough grace to acknowledge him. He'd give her that. But her eyes remained fixed straight ahead, which irritated him to no end.
"Impressive," he countered smoothly. "How are you with languages?"
Buffy's brow crinkled. "Huh?"
"This is the wrong way." He explained, jerking his thumb in the general direction of Nutley. "Unless you plan on swimming to France."
Buffy spun on her heel and began to backtrack. "Shut up, Spike."
Short, clipped, and cold. He could work with that. Hurriedly parking the bike on the verge, Spike went after her. "What, no 'thanks', pet?' I'm stunned and hurt. People have disappeared in these woods, you know. Stepped off the trail and never got found. Crossed the fern, my Mum used to say. Like old Peter Quince."
Buffy quickened her pace. "Fascinating. Really."
"More than likely they were ditzy blondes, though. With the navigational skills of grape jelly."
"Again, shut up. I have a great sense of direction."
Spike snorted. "Where? In your left arse cheek? Admit it, Buffy. You don't have a bloody clue what you're doing."
"Don't talk about my...arse!" Buffy responded, outraged. "And where I go is none of your business!"
"The hell it isn't," Spike snapped back, rubbing at his throbbing temples. Dear God, she made him hot and horny and frustrated. And he knew she felt it too, in spite of her ice princess routine. The girl was all fire.
Stubborn, too, in the way she refused to look back at him, aiming her words at the long stretch of road. "We had an agreement, remember? One night. Because it was raining and you felt guilty for calling me names."
"I did," he admitted. But that was before she touched him, for fuck's sake, and gave him honest answers. Before he fell asleep on her like a prancing git. Before she had his secrets and he had her pain. "Didn't know you then."
"You don't know me now."
Bugger that, Spike thought. Beautiful, cruel little bitch. They were going to have this out proper, with a lot of nasty language and searing eye contact, because talking to the back of her head was annoying as fuck.
With his longer legs, Spike caught up easily. Ducked into her path, bouncing a little on his heels. "Don't play-act with me, Buffy. I know what kind of girl you are."
"Feel free not to enlighten me." Buffy planted both hands on his chest, which would have been a bit of all right if she wasn't trying to shove him out of the way. "Go analyze one of your other friends." She slapped her temple."Whoops! You don't have any. My bad."
"You're one to talk." Spike's eyes narrowed. "Who'd you party with last? Sybil?"
Buffy's color was high and her voice low. "I hate you."
"Liar." Spike put his privates in serious peril by stepping into her personal space and grasping a sharp, little elbow. "Tell me why you're running away."
"I'm not."
Spike gaped at her for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, that's a kick in the balls."
"What are you babbling about?"
"Not. Running. Away," Spike repeated slowly, wiping at his streaming eyes. "You take a cross-country jog every morning, then?"
"Stop laughing at me!" Buffy stamped her foot. When Spike just doubled over with another fit, she threw her hands up in disgust, eyes spitting unholy green fire. "Go stick your stupid head in the stupid remainder bin with your stupid books. I'm leaving!"
She turned and managed to flounce all of two feet before Spike's voice stopped her cold. "That's it. Run away, little girl." All traces of his previous humor were gone, leaving a kind of wistful disappointment laced with understanding. "S'all you've ever done, right?"
***********************************************************
Buffy couldn't help herself. She looked back, drawn by that voice, dark and compelling, and the memory of other words spoken in the night. You can't fix what's always been broken. Take what's good. Leave the rest.
Looking was a huge mistake.
Spike was delectably rumpled in a short leather jacket and wrinkled shirt, the top button of his jeans unfastened. With those stir-crazy white curls sticking up all over, he looked like a hot refugee. But the signs of his troubled sleep were there, too–under the eyes, in the angles–and Buffy couldn't forget. That very morning she'd seen him thrashing in a nightmare. She couldn't afford to forget.
"So, you're hell on people, right? I get that." He was stalking toward her, moving like he was oiled. Using that snake charmer's voice, and it would have been so easy to throw herself into his arms and just feel. Let herself be reeled in, like a trout on a gossamer line, by the magnetic force of his personality. Bright, bold, and luminous. She was that way, once upon a time. Not afraid of climbing high, landing hard. Or the simpler things, like falling asleep. "Buggering idiots are all afraid of you. I'm not."
To her relief and regret, he stopped just out of touching range. Close enough, though, for her to feel the animal heat he radiated, even on a cool, fragrant morning. She didn't have to guess how warm he was, thanks to the aborted bathroom encounter, and her cold fingers literally itched to crawl under his leather and find skin.
Instead, she raised her eyes to that soft mouth with its terrible truths. Managed to push a healthy dose of sarcasm into her words."Cause you know what kind of girl I am?"
"I do." Spike tilted his head, and his eyes were very blue. Brighter than flags and flowers and oceans traveled. "Bloody brave, you are. Came all this way an' all. Problem is, you don't know when it's time to stop. Get too busy runnin' and you miss things. People."
"People?" Buffy repeated, like she'd never entertained the concept. And she hadn't, really. On his lips it sounded like a promise.
"Yeah. People. You've got to come down from that tower sometime and be with them, pet." She was dimly aware of his fingers, sweeping a stray blonde hair off her forehead. "In the end, it's all there is."
Be with them. Hadn't she tried, though, and failed spectacularly, with her parents and her job and that single, disastrous one night stand? Her best fit was in the dream world, kneeling between old lovers on a starry hill. One dark, one bright. Both more hers than anything in this waking reality.
Until him.
William Hunt, who was different from that magnificent, darkling creature, yet the same. The face in charcoal evoked tender exasperation and a flush of longing. Sadness, too, like something was broken and never quite fixed. The man in front of her brought out the same heady mix of emotions, multiplied many times over. And that scared her. Sketches were one thing. This was a human being that she could break with her moods and her melancholy. This mad quest that could take her into the pits of hell and he'd still follow. In a heartbeat.
Gently curling her fingers around his, Buffy pushed Spike's hand back to his side. Stepped back, away from all that sucking vitality. "I have to go."
Spike shook his head fiercely. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Ye--"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Spike cut in impatiently. "I'm tired o' pissin' in the wind, here. "
"What?" Buffy goggled at him, confused.
"It's half six in the morning. I need to take a leak and have a fag. And if Sid doesn't get fed by seven he'll eat my pillow."
Buffy wondered if he was having some kind of waking episode. "So?"
"So," Buffy should have seen the flashing danger signs when he stopped to savor the word. "We do this my way."
His way, it turned out, involved throwing her over his shoulder like the Neanderthal's bride.
One minute she was standing there, two feet solidly on the ground, questioning Spike's sanity like most of the women in his life probably had at one time or another. Then, everything blurred. He disappeared from her line of sight and popped up again as a black and white haze around her mid-section. Before she could gather a single one of her bearings, Buffy was airborne.
He slinged. She was slung.
And a unique perspective of the world was born.
Dangling upside down, her hair in her face like some banshee head dress. In the most humiliating of positions. With absolutely no leverage, she just hung there for a moment, stunned. Dizzy. And so very, very slung. Fortunately, Spike's friendly slap on her ass brought red-hot, righteous outrage boiling back, along with her lost bearings. Mutinous little shits.
"All right back there?" He sounded way too cheerful for a man who was going to die painfully once she got unslung. "Not gonna honk are you?"
"Yes! Yes, I am! You should put me down instantly!"
"Nah." Spike anchored her legs firmly with his left arm and began to move in the direction of the bike. "Jus' don't spew on the leather, right?"
"I'll make a fucking point of it," she muttered furiously.
"Ta." Spike slapped her again, and Buffy would have joyfully kicked him in the jaw if she wasn't pinned.
The back of his jacket was slippery and Buffy's palms slid when she tried to push up, unable to bear the jouncing a second longer. If she didn't get right side up, honking was very likely. "Spike, stop."
"You want something?"
"I want you to put me down, doofus!"
"Okay." He started to release her legs.
Buffy screamed as she slid head-first toward the ground. "No, don't!"
Spike moved quick as a cat, grabbing her in mid-fall. "Thought so." The stomach-roiling ride resumed.
"You're a beast," Buffy hissed, aiming a weak punch at his backside, the only vulnerable target area she could reach. Nice, threadbare backside, she noted woozily, aggravated that she wasn't aggravated enough to not notice.
"Hey, now! If you can't say anything nice..." Spike trailed off. "Sorry. Forgot who I was talkin' to." He was quiet for all of thirty seconds before bursting out with, "You want to tell me why?"
"Why what?" Buffy braced herself on a lean hip.
"Why Britney and Justin are no longer an item," he bit out. "I want to know why you want to leave, obviously. Is it me?"
Buffy picked at his belt loop. "No...yes...maybe," she sounded pathetic to her own ears. With all the blood rushing to her head, she couldn't think straight. "Nix the Tarzan routine and we'll talk about it."
Spike thought for a moment. "Promise not to run?"
"No."
He thought about it some more. "Okay."
If being thrown over his shoulder was a head rush, getting down was even worse. Spike leaned over and Buffy slid off sideways, staggering like a toddler when her feet finally touched solid earth. Her muscles simply refused to work. Spike reached out to steady her, and Buffy, not entirely sure if he intended to help her or tip her upside down again, panicked. Acting without malice, and entirely on instinct, she threw out one fist, catching him squarely in the face.
He staggered backwards, clutching his nose.
"Oh, my God! Are you all right?" Buffy pulled at his fingers. "Let me see." To her horror, a bright berry of blood appeared, staining both their hands crimson. He was bleeding. She made him bleed. "I'm so sorry."
She began to back away. One step, two. Not sure where she intended to go. The ends of the earth, maybe.
Three steps.
Four.
And Spike' hand shot out like an elegant claw, hauled her into the taut, supple curve of his body.
For a delirious half-second, Buffy wondered where her feet went. Then there was no more thought, just his mouth on hers. Dark and coppery. Rough as the road to salvation. He kissed her like he was breaking down walls and, damn, it was beyond good. It was everything. Not slow, not sweet, like she always thought first kisses should be. Better.
It was them. Hard, hungry, full of teeth..
His hand was wrapped in her hair, as if to anchor them both. The other still gripped her forearm. For a time, Buffy just hung there in his arms, half-melted, dissolving. Aware of nothing beyond the bruising slant of his lips. Her own laboring lungs. Swift, violent want. Then he made a soft, hoarse sound, low in his throat, and Buffy remembered that she had hands, too. Relinquishing her death grip on his shirt, she palmed the back of Spike's neck, melding their bodies from thigh to chest, and he muttered into her mouth, low and visceral. Part obscenity, part primal growl. All aching and aroused. All them.
She must have made some noise of her own, because he drew back just long enough for her to grab a ragged breath. Then promptly stole it away by flicking his tongue over her throbbing lips, licking at his own smeared blood, the source of that strange copper. Sending her nerve endings into a screaming frenzy, because, whoa, lack of inhibitions, here. And that, too, was beyond good. Wild and joyful and exciting. Like growing up and coming home and a good dream, finally. All she ever wanted and took years to find. Too much, and not enough, because once Buffy waded in she wanted everything. His breath, his spirit, his blood that she spilled.
His body, yes.
Her last, and only, attempt at sex was pitiful and embarrassing, because she was inexperienced and afraid. More than a year had passed, and she was still inexperienced, still afraid, but the doubts were so much less in the face of this unfurling passion, raw and rugged and real. With a man who made wanting noises when she dug her short nails into the tender nape of his neck. Shuddered like it was a gift.
Understanding slammed through her with the clarity of a lightning strike. Why should she be afraid when the power was hers? He wanted her to have it. She wanted it for herself.
At his next assault, she attacked back with lips and teeth and body-memory, written in the cells, that somehow made up for her lack of experience. Told her what to do, how to move against the denim-clad thigh that migrating between hers. They were creating heat, and her damp palms slipped on those long, lush cheekbones. But it was enough to hold him steady while she bit, nibbled, nipped. Pushed until his mouth opened like a flower. Then a brief moment of panicked indecision, full of fear again, that had nothing on his full-body tremble when she pushed her tongue inside. Spike jerked like he'd been shot, hips arching, and Buffy wrapped both arms around his neck. sucked at the warm, cavernous darkness where her soul now lived. He tasted wild, like blackberries and rain and blood.
They might have stayed there forever, tangled up on that dusty road, but the need to breathe air asserted itself all too soon. Buffy pulled back, panting raggedly, and Spike buried his face in the curve of her neck. She froze, stunned by the intimacy. Entranced by everything, from his racing pulse to the harsh breath on her throat. Slowly, slowly, he calmed, and so did she. The full body tingles gave way to a languorous throb. Warm, waxen limbs.
He was so still, Buffy wondered if he was asleep. Until that snake charmer's voice rumbled against her skin. "Mmm. You smell like sunshine."
Somehow, she doubted that. But Buffy just stroked her fingers through his wrecked hair. "You're sweet."
"Oi! Take that back."
"Nope. Secret's out, Will. Deal with it."
He lifted his head, searched her eyes. "Are we dealing with it?" His fingers captured hers, held them in a tight clasp. Like everything hinged on what she said next. "Or was that goodbye?"
More like 'where have you been all my life,' Buffy thought ruefully, feeling a sudden kinship with people forced to pick their way across minefields. She took a deep breath. "You were right about me. I'm... I'm hell on people." To avoid looking him in his eyes, she spit on her finger and rubbed at the dried blood on his upper lip. "I use them all up and run away." She ticked off her faults. "Kleenex is more likely to stick around."
Spike snickered and used his shirt tail to wipe at the red flecks on her cheek. "I know."
"No. You don't. I'm a mule when it comes to my own way. Mood swing girl. Messy."
"Beats out boring any day."
Buffy ignored him. "I can't cook.."
"We'll order in."
"Your cat hates me."
"Can't argue with th--."
"I'll leave, eventually." Buffy cut in. "It may not be my choice."
Spike stilled. "There's always a choice. But I won't stand in your way, if that's the price."
"I don't know how to ask for forgiveness. It's not in me."
Spike sighed and gathered her in. "Oh, my girl. You just did."
His coat was smooth and sun-warm, the body under it solid. A bulwark between her and the coming storm. Buffy burrowed in, inhaling wild, bittersweet boy. Leather and longing and life. "What do we do now?" she asked drowsily.
She felt him shrug. "We go home."
"Wait." She pulled back. "I need something first. If I'm going to stay."
"Yeah?" Spike produced a truly filthy grin, stirred against her stomach.
"Yeah." Buffy replied, capturing his face in her hands and leaning in for kisses. "A toothbrush."
TBC
Next up...Buffy and Spike go buy a toothbrush. Chaos ensues.
.