Severed Ties

Chapter 14

Interludes of Affection

May 19th, 2002

4:56 a.m.

She was near. Spike knew that with a certainty. Despite the pain in his shoulder and ribs and what had to be a cracked skull, the vampire senses weren't blunted enough to miss her presence. Her scent was a drug, a magic elixir to his undead flesh, bringing him to life no matter the circumstances. In a way, she was his lightning that reanimated his undead flesh. Of course, that ponce, the Frankenstein, never had it so well.

More or less, he thought and groaned as the three words echoed in his head and, if he were under oath, the peroxide blonde would have sworn a bomb had exploded between his ears.

Another moan escaped his split lips and, for a moment Spike wanted nothing than to be staked. This was worse than anything Glory had perpetrated against him, hell, it was worse than the sodding organ shattered his spine.

Definitely not a good memory to bring up in your current condition, mate. But as loud as his nerves ached, the soothing psalm of her gentle touched muted the persistent voices of pain.

"Cor, luv," he murmured and, ignoring the ache in his face, smiled. "You certainly 'ave tha' touch. Enough to bring a dead man back to life." He forced his eyes open and was greeted by the sight of his slayer.

Her hair was tied in a loose ponytail and her bangs tumbled past her forehead. He stared in awe at the beautiful smile that adorned her face, a smile that was for him and him alone. It was more than enough to chase away the intense throbbing in his head, replacing the staccato drumbeat with the tender mercy that was her love.

"Well, I can't have too much of a touch," she said, "since you're still dead and all." He leaned into the hand that caressed his face and he would have drifted into a much-needed slumber until a warm drop of water splashed his bare chest.

"Luv?" Spike asked as he propped himself up on his elbows, grunting at the jilt of discomfort that cascaded through his thin frame.

"Spike, don't…"

"No, Buffy," he said and she squeezed her eyes shut. But it was two late and the vampire watched as a single tear broke free from under her lashes and bled down her cheek. Without hesitation Spike brushed the tear away with his thumb. He massaged her velvet flesh, cupping her cheek briefly before sliding his hand to the back of her neck. She opened her eyes and he saw the onslaught of tears she was so bravely attempting to push away. He smiled at her resilience and pulled his lover close. Her breath warmed his skin and Spike inhaled her scent once more before pressing his swollen lips to hers.

Even at the moderate pressure in which the kiss started, Spike winced at the contact but ignored it in favor of tasting her. She was unresponsive at first until his tongue slid along her lower lip, demanding entrance into her mouth. She stiffened momentarily before she acquiesced to his request when his fingers started along the familiar trail at the nape of her neck. From there, all was forgotten as they melded together, their lips and tongues engaged in the ritualistic dance that had been perfected by once mortal enemies.

Buffy moaned as Spike plunged his tongue deeper into the sweet caverns of her mouth. He smiled away the pain as her hands roamed over his alabaster flesh, her nails scratching over the bruises that lined his torso. Weakened by the ferocity that he had awakened within her, Spike fell back against the pillow and Buffy lowered herself on top of him. He groaned when she shifted her position to straddle him and Spike had to fight back the desire to claim her that welled within him. Her pulsating core ground against his lower regions, the friction of their jeans only fueling the necessity that they both felt. It was no longer want but need that drew them together; the need to feel loved and wanted, the need to be appreciated and, most importantly, the need to connect on the basest of levels in order to express what words could never give definition to.

The slayer's undulating hips, however, were too much and despite the overwhelming need to feel her walls to ensnare him in a lover's embrace, Spike broke away. He chuckled at her whine of displeasure and leaning his forehead against hers, he cupped her face between his hands.

"As much as I'd love to continue this to its very pleasurable conclusion, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to take a rain check on the forthcomin' Buffy lovin'." He smiled when she giggled and took the opportunity to nip at her lower lip. He swallowed a groan and his chest tightened when Buffy moaned in response but he broke the kiss before things got out of hand anymore.

"Sorry," Buffy said. She pulled away from him, resting her hands on his chest as she sat up. Her hazel eyes were alit with a superfluous combination of feeling. Spike closed his eyes, terrified of what had looked back at him. Never had he seen Buffy, as she was now with her soul naked to him as his had always been to her. He wished for nothing more than for her to love him as much as he loved her but it had been something he dared not put too much hope in. Yes, she loved him--that much was clear to him. But could she surrender herself to him? Every part of her: the woman and the slayer. Could Buffy give that to him like William and the demon had supplicated themselves to their goddess?

Shaking his head, Spike opened his eyes and returned Buffy's quizzical stare. Gone was the reflection of acceptance he had seen moments before and the vampire could not help but wonder if what he had seen was nothing more than wishful thinking; the dying man's oasis.

"Baby, are you okay?" Buffy asked and Spike couldn't suppress the grin that surfaced at the endearment.

"Fine, luv," he assured her and winked at her with the one eye that wasn't partially closed. "Gonna take more than a…whatever the bloody 'ell that demon was to stop me." He thought his wry grin would spread to her but it didn't. He frowned at the desolation that lapped at her features, coating her angelic face in melancholic repose.

"Buffy? What is it?"

She closed her eyes and released a trembling breath. Her nails dug into his chest and he noticed the minute quiver of her lower lip. When she opened her eyes again, the same coating of tears glistened in her eyes and Spike wanted nothing more than to kiss them away.

After what seemed like hours, Buffy sighed deeply and said, "I thought I lost you." Even with his enhanced hearing, Spike had had difficulty discerning her words but when he did, the vampire slid his hands up her arms and, grabbing her shoulders, gently pulled her to his chest.

"There now, luv," he cooed. "Not need to cry. I'm 'ere. Promised till the end of the world, 'member?" She nodded into his flesh and he kissed the top of her head. "I'm always gonna be there for you, Buffy. Always. I'll never let anything get between us." As if the declaration was her cue, Buffy let loose the tears she had been holding for the past three hours. Spike winced as they burned into his flesh; a baptism of salty liquid against him, warming him where there was no heat. He absently stroked her back, whispering a litany of choruses that expressed his fealty to her no matter the circumstances.

He didn't know how long he held her before her tears dried up and her sobs filtered out. Even when her breathing evened out, Spike still murmured comforting words of love and devotion to his slayer. His slayer. She was that and, if it were up to him, would always be. But he was not a fool; he knew that, notwithstanding the love she felt for him, that things would change. They always did. Somewhere down the line a wedge would be driven between them and once removed would be the final splinter that ended them and, in effect, would either turn him to dust or strengthen their monolithic bond.

Spike closed his eyes, determined to chase away the thoughts that threatened to rip his already fragile psyche from its moors. It was so bloody difficult to do so but the sweet scent of vanilla lulled him into a false comfort. He ignored the voice in his head that whispered for him to prepare for the worst. No, he would not think of anything save for the petite young woman splayed atop of him, her face burrowed in the crook of his neck. He would use this time, this peace, as solace in the arms of the woman he loved more than life itself.

As he drifted into that dark place where the world was cast out and his thoughts were his own, Spike couldn't shake the thought that the splinter he had so poetically referenced wouldn't come between he and Buffy. No. It would be the one thing that would obliterate his will to live.

He just hoped it finished him before he lost her.

*&*

4:57 a.m.

The smooth caresses against his head were what pulled C.J. from his unwilling slumber. He tried to remember what had happened but the agonizing throb of pain interrupted all coherent thoughts and the only thing he could do was moan.

"C.J.?" The familiar voice asked. It was near by and he tried to open his eyes but they stubbornly remained closed. Okay, if I can't open my eyes, I might as well try to move. He discovered that moving had been a worse idea than opening his eyes. The muscles in his back began to spasm and he would have screamed if it weren't for the cowl of exhaustion that covered every cell. Instead, he settled for a low moan that summarized his misery nicely before falling into the darkened abyss of unconsciousness.

5:26 a.m.

The same caresses that had awakened him before were back and the buoy of his consciousness rode the waves of pain that continued crashing against every fiber of his being. Thankfully, their assault on his muscles had lessened and instead of tsunamis of agony, he was wrought with a spattering of exquisite suffering that only violated portions of his body; the parts that were in the clear throbbed with dull aches that were in the definitive realm of tolerable.

"You're gonna be okay, C.J., I promise." That voice again. It penetrated the roiling fog that isolated him from anything other than his body's torment. He let out a shaky breath as the voice continued to talk to him, murmuring words of encouragement. For a moment, the pain was forgotten and C.J. was aware of nothing save for the comforting voice of his siren, whose jasmine scent that filled his nostrils and briefly put the injured man in mind of heaven's fragrance. And truthfully, were it not for the pain that danced along his nerves in sadistic torture, C.J. would have thought that he was dead and in the presence of a seraphim.

Of course, he was sure that heaven wasn't filled with this sort of pain and he seriously doubted angels that were charged with ushering the lost souls through the pearly gates kissed their subjects. In that same train of thought, C.J. wouldn't have complained.

Even if it was the briefest of touches, his angel's lips were silk, soft, full, and tasted of raspberries. C.J. wanted to devour her, claim her as his own but when he opened his lips to reciprocate, she pulled back suddenly.

"C.J.?" Hope tinged his name and he smiled. Slowly he tried again to open his eyes and, though the pain lanced out at him, his lids slid open enough for him to see.

When the light first hit his eyes, C.J. blanched at the blurry image that tainted his vision. He blinked several times and was rewarded when something off to his right began to come into focus.

At first it was nothing more than an effervescent, verdant glow that filtered through the haze. But as he concentrated on the light, a distinct shape cut through the light and haze. Although his eyes still could not make out the figure in detail, C.J. could discern that it was a woman. A young, vibrant woman with beautiful black hair and smelled of jasmine. Slowly, his jumbled neurons began to make connections between the voice, the scent and the comforting presence. They were pieces of a larger puzzle that his mind had assembled and, despite visual confirmation, his mind had deciphered the identity of his caretaker.

"Dawn?" He asked, his voice hoarse from the trauma and pain.

The emerald glow returned for an instant and the young man wondered if that was a sign of her smile.

"How are you feeling?" His heart jumped at the concern expressed in those four simple words. He wished he could respond poetically, announcing his immediate recovery because of the sonorous sounds of her voice or the enigmatic luminescence that surrounded her. If only he could say it and mean it. Instead, he responded with the truth.

"All right, I guess. Except for the napalm that detonated along my spine and the truck that ran over me afterwards. Yep, other than that, I'm just peachy."

Dawn chuckled and C.J. winced when the mattress shifted underneath him. Dawn cupped his face and leaned closer to him.

"I…I'm so sorry," she whispered and he heard the tears building momentum within her. He sighed at the prospect of Dawn crying and, denying the pain satisfaction of anything else, C.J. sat up as best he could, slid his hand behind Dawn's neck and pulled her to him.

Unlike the previous kiss she had given him earlier, C.J. was a willing participant in this one. He ignored the discomfort of opening his lips to her and instead took pleasure in the tender brush of her lips across his. The need to consume her whole enveloped his entire being and, without even thinking, C.J. deepened the kiss.

He sensed her hesitancy but continued forward, catching her lower lip between his and sucking on it in an attempt to coax the teen from her shyness. As much as he desired it, C.J. was still surprised when Dawn responded accordingly and thrust her tongue into his mouth. If her lips were raspberries, the taste of her tongue was something much more, something more life giving than any cosmic ball of light set in the sky. Energy poured into his mouth and his body was aglow with the warmth of this radiant creature that had possessed his thoughts, waking and otherwise, for the past several weeks.

Her tongue slid across his and C.J. shivered at the blistering heat that radiated from her and, for one instant, the pain was gone.

The moment didn't last, however, and the distraction of the kiss finally gave way to the familiar stab in his spine. He pulled away from her and fell to the pillow, biting his lip to avoid vocalizing his discomfort.

"C.J.? Are you…"

"I'm fine, Em. Just fine," he replied and smiled at her. He wanted to stay awake--to assure her that he was all right but he lost the battle and answered the call of his body's need for rest. His thoughts were no more as the familiar blanket of darkness covered his pain-addled mind and he was again shut out from the world, unaware of confusion his last words had had on Dawn.

And the young slayer from another time that had watched the scene in silence.

*&*

5:42 a.m.

"How's he doing?"

Willow craned her neck and glanced towards the door. Leaning against the threshold was Tara, dressed in a cream colored nightgown that hugged her breasts and accented the benevolence that radiated from the young Wicca's angelic face.

The red head smiled and beckoned her lover in the room with a single glance. Tara flowed across the room in a divine grace and rested her hands on Willow's tense shoulders. The red head sighed in content at her lover's touch and relaxed slightly, allowing some of the tension to bleed from her muscles.

"Better I guess. I mean, he's not doing the shaky, spasm-y thingy anymore."

"He looks better."

"Yeah. I guess some of those bruises were just caked blood or something because there aren't as many there anymore."

Tara furrowed her eyebrows at the hesitancy in the other woman's voice. She walked in front of Willow and kneeled down next to the chair. "Sweetie, what is it?"

Willow opened her mouth to deny the charges but stopped when she saw the concern in Tara's eyes. "I…I don't know. It's like…something's different about him."

"He's been gone three months, baby. He's bound to be different than the last time you saw him. And…and he watched Anya die in his arms. Something like that would really affect someone. I mean, put yourself in his position."

Willow shivered at the thought. She wrapped her arms around her and closed her eyes in an attempt to drive out the thought of Tara dying in her arms. No, it was something that she refused to contemplate.

"Yeah," she agreed, "I see what you mean." Tara smiled sadly and stood but grasped Willow's hand, intertwining their fingers. They remained like that for several minutes, staring at the unconscious man on the bed. Before he had passed out, he had given Buffy a vague account of what happened and though they lacked detail on the demon, Giles had left to research the beast. That had been three hours ago and Xander had still not awakened.

"Honey?" Tara said and Willow noticed the tension in the other woman's voice.

"Tara? Is something wrong?"

"I…I don't know. I just read him…his aura. Willow, you were right. Something is different about him. It's like it's not--"

"Him?"

"N…no. It's not like when Buffy and Faith switched bodies. It's more like…it's like when I read Buffy. There's more there than if she wasn't a slayer. The power of the slayer gives her aura this…this extra layer to it."

"And that's what you're reading with Xander?"

"Yes."

Willow nodded and gently pulled her hand out of Tara's grasp. She brushed her fingertips across Xander's forehead, noting with satisfaction that his fever had completely dissipated. Her fingers trailed down his arm and she took his hand in hers, squeezing his fingers in support.

"Xander," she whispered, "you have to wake up." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "We need you."

The two Wiccas remained there for several minutes until Willow told Tara to get some rest. Reluctantly, the soft-spoken woman agreed and left but not before gracing Willow's lips with a tender kiss.

"Just call if you need me," she said and on Willow nod, glided out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Willow stared for several seconds at the door that Tara had disappeared through before turning her attention back to her oldest friend. Her eyes traveled over him. Tara was right; there was something different about him. True, the physical differences were easy to notice. The corded muscles of his arm, the angular jut of his jaw bone, not to mention the beard that lined his face. And even with his eyes closed, Willow saw the sadness that concealed his once boyish features.

But it was more than that. Something had changed for him on a fundamental level and while Anya's death may have been the catalyst for that, it wasn't what had made the change within him.

"But you're still my Xander," she said. Abandoning her post on the chair, Willow stood and walked to the other side of the bed. She lowered herself onto the bed, snaked her arm through his and snuggled against his shoulder.

"You're still my Xander," she repeated, "and I love you." Without another word, Willow closed her eyes and allowed sleep to claim her.

She never heard the brunette sneak into the room and lay the gentle kiss on Xander's cheek before murmuring a heartfelt apology to him before fleeing the room.

TBC…