Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.
Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.
Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.
Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It is OC, so deal with it or bail now.
Timeline: Post 'Conversations With Dead People'
Email: spikeswillingslaveyahoo.ca
Author's Notes: Any dialogue you recognize isn't mine, but borrowed for 'plot reference'. Still about ankle-deep with the 'girly selfishness' ::notes with sadness that new warning sign has not been delivered:: and now testing the derivative waters.
The dust was moving.
Night winds - cool and dry, or warm and wet? - she was so not sure right now - blew the grey-grit mixture of dusted vamp and graveyard dirt into dancing swirls around her boots.
The stake - was she still holding it? She must be… - suddenly felt heavy in her slackening fist. The weight of it pulled her arm to her side, as she stood staring at the wasted pile at her feet.
Numbness crept through her muscles, turning the once fluid flesh into a mass of cold, twitching joints and limbs.
She stared. And she processed. Slide-show images of this night's encounters flashed through her mind, providing her with bits of clarity within her otherwise muddled brain.
Spike.
The crypt.
The almost-kiss.
Patrol.
Then Holden, with their heart-to-undead heart chat…
And then reality ceased to exist.
How do you know Spike?
What do you mean, how? He was that guy that, um - oh, what's the word?
Sired.
Yeah! He was the guy that sired me.
Too much. Images. Words. Flashing and crashing too fast through her consciousness, melting the incapacitating numbness, making it drip from her fingertips as the words hit home. Hit hard. Hit deep.
"No," she moaned, the soft plea lost to the dull clatter of the stake as it fell onto the diminishing pile of leavings at her feet, unburdening her now-shaking hand.
"No… not… ca… can't…"
Nonsense sounds, in denial of a nonsense claim.
Spike can't…
The tremors started to worsen. Tiny, pale hands were now clenched at her sides, driving the tremble upwards, away from slim fingers, the violent quivering settling onto narrow shoulders.
Panic now. Irrational and irrefutable stone-cold dread prickled already-stressed muscles and pestered the psyche to action - any action…
To do… something.
Dosomethingdosomethingdosomethingdosomethingdosomething…
She ran.
Booted feet, stumble-thudding over graveyard mounds, tore a ragged path through the mist as she searched the ever-lightening darkness for those familiar stone doors.
"Spike!" she called, her voice barely raising above the shrieking grind of marble-on-flagstone as she pushed her way past the doors and entered the crypt. No candles lit the interior. It was as cold and empty inside as it had been on those long summer nights when he'd been gone. She stood in the middle of the gloom, waiting. Listening.
"Spike?" she tried again, cringing as it echoed off the barren walls, the cold stone somehow amplifying the pleading tone of her call. She needed to see him. Needed him to be there to deny the fledge's insane claim.
But there was nothing. No light above, nor sound of life below.
He was gone.
But, she knew where to look for him next.
Soft light filtered through the heavy brocade drapes of the hotel room, spilling a dull, multi-coloured glow over the unmade bed and its lone, restless occupant. It'd been not more than an hour since Isobelle had sent a rather drunk - and cheekily frustrated - Spike off to bed, but sleep had failed to return, leaving her to twist and toss under thin linen and dwell on the events of the night.
Being awake had some advantages, not the least of which was that it guaranteed she not slide, psyche deep, into another of the dread-and-pain-filled nightmares she'd been suffering these past few nights. Dark images, ones of blood and fear and cold oppression, had shaken her from the deepest of sleeps into fuzzy, panic-laden wakefulness. Unsure of what they meant or why they'd started, she'd soon come to hate curling into that bed, facing the worst the dream world had to offer, alone.
But this time, she had more to occupy her thoughts than the nightly ramblings of her overstressed mind. In a moment of frighteningly stupid sincerity, she'd agreed to sit down with Spike and honestly answer whatever he wanted to ask, about the muddled knot of angst that had become their once reasonably adult relationship. Ever cautious about stepping on the other's fragile feelings and expectations, their time together had been nothing but days upon days of careful, respectful double- and triple-speak. Words, layered upon sentiment, upon meaning, until - as Spike had pointed out - they'd spoken a great deal and yet had managed to say nothing at all.
And it was the anxiety of that conversation, more so than the chance of suffering another nightmare, that had kept her awake, as her mind wandered through the countless possible questions he might hit her with, once he awoke.
Which could be at any moment if whoever was pounding on the hotel room door didn't knock it off.
Kicking the mess of linens aside and pulling on a robe, she made her way across the dim, dawn-brightening room. Unbolting the locks, she pulled the door open, flinching at the fist that was poised in mid-thump, now left hanging, targetless, in the air. Buffy's grim-set face sent her no greeting as she pushed her way into the room.
"Where is he? Where's Spike?"
"Please, come right in," Isobelle said testily, letting the door swing closed with a too-loud slam.
"Sorry. I know it's early," Buffy replied, scanning her surroundings. 'Well lived-in' didn't quite do justice to the state of the room. Mugs rested atop the microwave near the mini-fridge. Laundry slips and room service receipts were piled semi-neatly on one corner of the dresser. Dusty smudges stained the carpet in front of the settee, just barely covered by the overloaded coffee table, the top of which was obscured by layers of magazines, a notebook and face cloth. "But I really need to talk to him."
Isobelle frowned, self-consciously starting to tidy the cluttered space. "He's asleep. I'll tell him you stopped by."
Buffy folded her arms across her chest, her green eyes moving from the empty, rumpled bed to Isobelle. "I might be blonde, but I'm not blind," she countered, nodding towards the queen-sized wreck.
The slow burn of embarrassment that crept across Isobelle's face fueled her rising irritation. "He has his own bed," she said tightly, stuffing the armful of detritus she'd collected into one of the empty dresser drawers. A fraction of a moment too late was when Buffy took note of the narrow door adjacent to the main entrance to the room, those five little words kick-starting a re-evaluation of the dark-haired stranger and her reasons for being in Sunnydale.
"I really need to talk to him," Buffy repeated, her tone quiet, unchallenging. Unmoved by her persistence, Isobelle folded her arms across her chest, in silent challenge to the unwelcome intrusion.
Softening her approach, Buffy tried a different tack. "I know, the first time we met, we didn't exactly start off on the right foot… I mean, first impressions can be misleading. And, well, the second time, too… that wasn't a bowl of sugar and cherries either. But… maybe, the third time's the charm?"
"It's not starting out to be," she was told plainly.
Buffy nodded. "I get that. I do. But I need… " She swallowed, trying to find the words to convince the other woman to hear her out.
"I need to talk to somebody about this. And, maybe he isn't the one I should be bringing this to first." A deep, steadying breath was needed before what followed. "Maybe it should be you."
Isobelle stared at the petite blonde for a long moment, taking in her words. For the first time since they'd met, she detected none of the hostility, impatience or incredulity that had been the staple of their earlier encounters; with the rolling slump to her shoulders and purple stain - was that a bruise? - on her cheek, Buffy looked equal measures exhausted and shaken.
Which was something she could relate to.
Each settled on opposite ends of the settee, Isobelle providing Buffy with a glass of water and an air of fragile patience.
"Okay," she started, barely waiting until Buffy had set her tumbler down on the now-tidied table. "What was so important that it couldn't wait until a more decent hour?"
Direct and to the point - something Buffy could appreciate.
"I ran into a vamp tonight during patrol. Quite the chatterbox. During the whole 'I'm gonna dust you up' part of the encounter, he… he said something… something that…"
The blonde shook her head. It was still hard to wrap her mind around. And, if she was having trouble understanding…
"What did he say?"
"He said that Spike… that Spike was his Sire."
Isobelle blinked. "What?"
"Sire." A beat. "When a vampire turns the victim into a vampire too…"
"I know what a Sire is."
"Read a lot of Anne Rice, huh?" Buffy quipped reflexively, aching to break the thickening tension.
The attempt at humour didn't go over well. "No. Did a lot of research. I'm not some Anita Blake groupie, who's had wild imaginings about romance and vampires. This 'third time's the charm' thing is only going to work once you get that through your head…"
"Hey, you're not winning 'Miss Congeniality' either," Buffy defended. "This is me, trying here. Let's find halfway, okay?"
"Alright," Isobelle replied. The import of the statement was finally sinking into her overtired brain. She bit back a sigh and rubbed her eyes. "Sired? I don't… it doesn't make any sense…"
"I know. I mean… hello, pain chip."
"Not the only reason, you know."
The words were spoken softly, but they hit Buffy hard.
"You're right. It isn't. Even if he could, I don't believe he would…"
"Why?" The settee springs creaked as Isobelle leaned in closer. She didn't want to miss a syllable of the blonde's response.
"No matter what you might think of me," she started, working hard to keep her gaze strong and steady on Isobelle, "I'm not out to hurt him." Again, was her own silent rejoinder. "And, as for the other, well, I'm all about understanding the difference that it makes." She reached for her glass and took a sip. "He's changed. I know… I knew that. Felt it, from minute one. Didn't know how, or why. Right away, I mean. Took awhile before I figured it out. And, I know this isn't possible…"
"But?"
Buffy shook her head. "If he didn't… then I need to know why some nothing fledge wanted me to believe he did."
"To cause trouble?" Isobelle suggested, still trying to fathom the accusation.
"Maybe. But, still brings us back to why…"
With a mechanical thud, the air conditioner kicked itself into action, its first semi-chilled blast of stale, recycled air whiffling the curtains, letting a stab of early morning sunlight flash across the room.
"Oh, God, it's late!" Buffy blurted, springing off the settee. "I have to get home to my sister." Halfway across the threshold before Isobelle could even stand, she paused, sending a thoughtful look the other woman's way. "Um, about that 'third time lucky' thing…"
"We did better this time. Thank you."
A nod. "I'll be back. Hopefully, not in a 'Terminator-y' way. But," she added, eyes passing over the door to Spike's small room, "I will get to the bottom of this. I promise you that."
A small click signaled the closing of the door, and she was gone. Isobelle shivered, retreating deep into the cushions of the settee. Keeping her composure throughout this brief encounter with Buffy had exhausted her. Alone now, she shed her calm facade, feeling the icy thrill of panic skitter through every cell of her body. The girl's parting words gave her no comfort. Rightly or wrongly accused of the unthinkable - of the impossible - Buffy had managed to cast a shadow of doubt over Spike, chipping away at her already fragile trust in him.
Saddened by how easily her faith could be shaken, that a stranger could make her question her heart and judgment…
She shivered again, pulling her robe more tightly around her shoulders.
I will get to the bottom of this. I promise you that.
The threat of the truth had never been so frightening before.
Waking up warm is always something special.
As of late, Spike hasn't had the privilege of rousing under the easy comfort of wrinkle-softened sheets, body heavy with sleep and mired blissfully deep into feather-ticked mattresses and thick, down-filled pillows. Faded light dances over his still shuttered eyes, prodding him on to consciousness. He fights the wakening, liking this feeling - being warm, lazy and comfortable - wanting to draw out this rare treat, to savour every last second before having to face the cold light of morning and the reality of whatever is thrown at his feet during this spin about the poles.
He stretches, catlike, back arching and rolling under the buttery cotton and chenille bedding, limbs bowing askance of that pale, lean body as he now wriggles into a new, even more comfortable sprawl. A slight growl stirs in his throat and he wriggles again under the linens, an idle grin ghosting across his face.
Some things never change, he muses, his hand gracelessly fumbling under the covers to give his morning hard-on a rough squeeze. Another growl rumbles in his chest as he writhes in time to the sweet pleasure/pain of his demanding fist stripping over the oh-so-sensitive skin down below, the now-slickened palm gliding in steady rhythm to the panting groans now bubbling off his parted lips.
And he remembers now, how similar this is to other mornings, long since past, waking to this warm pleasure, mired deep in the coziness of gentle arms and clean sheets. If this were then, it wouldn't be his lonely hand working away under the covers. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, imagining the light touch of a smaller hand, slim fingers dancing over the fluttering muscles of his belly, working their way slowly lower, raking through those coarse curls and wrapping as far as possible around the thickness of his shaft.
It's then he gasps, shocked, as he actually feels the first timid strokes down his abs, a gentle finger rimming his navel before dipping down and trailing along his length. Feather-light kisses patter down on his shoulder, neck and chest, the warm, soft skin of a naked body pressing deep into his side. Those fingers now lace with his own, stroking along to the relentless tempo of base to tip, tip to base…
He tries to turn his head, wanting to capture those teasing lips with his own. The kiss from before flits through his mind. Honey-sweet and filled with promises of more, of better and best yet to come… and now she's here with him.
It's been a week since she's
found him, but today, she's taken him back.
The kisses falling on his skin become dainty nibbles and nips. He moans as her teeth scrape the skin of his neck, nuzzling and suckling a path to his ear, the tip of her tongue licking along the shell before sucking the lobe into her mouth.
So lost to the sea of sensations washing over his body, his orgasm takes him by surprise, white-light flashes of blissful agony tensing and twisting every muscle as he cries out, spilling cool, sticky jets over their twined fingers. Spent and quivering and deliciously sated, he now dares to crack open his eyes and look towards his girl.
"God, love, what you do to me… so full of surprises…"
She laughs. "So glad you liked."
He freezes in mid-turn, eyes flying open, confusion and dread souring in his gut.
It isn't blue eyes that meet his frantic gaze, nor is it dark curls brushing off his shoulder as he scrabbles into a sitting position. Green, feline eyes fix on his. A sweep of blonde splashes over the feather pillows as Buffy snuggles deeper into the thick softness of the bedding, a cheery smirk on her cupid-bow mouth.
"Spike, don't look so surprised. This is what you've wanted all along, isn't it?" Her foot kicks slightly under the covers, and she slowly starts toeing the linen down the length of her body. "And you can have it. All of it."
He blinks, then pulls his eyes away from the girl stretched out before him. This isn't his room. Isn't his bed - his narrow twin now a generous size, sitting in the middle of a finely appointed silk and brocade space. He feels heat on his naked back and turns in alarm. Soft sunlight filters through the white gauze curtains of enormous French doors. The bed, his body - the whole room - is awash in the fatal yellow glow. But, he isn't burning. He wafts a hand through the beam, marveling at the lack of damage.
"Wonderful, isn't it?"
Her voice brings him back and he dares to look in her direction. The wrinkled sheets now pool around her waist, her bare, golden skin shimmering in the morning light.
"I… I don't… Buffy, I don't understand this…"
"Shh," she soothes, climbing to her knees and inching her way towards him. "You don't have to understand… you just have to accept it. This can be yours… I can be yours…"
He flinches as her arms encircle his neck. It makes her giggle and press even closer. Her breasts brush against his chest and he can feel the hard tips of her nipples dragging across his skin as she breathes.
"You did it for me," she whispers, "Got It for me. It's so beautiful, Spike… you have no idea…"
Her lips hover over his, the ghost of a kiss passing between them, making him shudder.
"So beautiful, and perfect, and all for me… all mine…"
"Buffy, please, tell me how… why…"
A real kiss this time, her mouth landing across his, hungry and demanding. He sinks into it, melting from the heat of her body and mouth, her arms holding him tight, squeezing a gasp of pleasure from his lungs.
"I thank you for that, Spike," she mutters into his mouth. "God, I can love you for that…"
"L… love me?"
She nods and kisses him again.
"It's what you deserve…"
He buries his nose into the silky gold of her hair, smelling the familiar scents of vanilla and gardenia as he breathes her in. She's all around him, making him dizzy, making him want…
"Are you real?" he asks. "Is this… is this real?"
"It can be. I can be… be all you want. All you need." Another kiss, as she rocks in his lap. "But, you know what you need to do first."
The light pouring through the French doors starts to weaken, the room growing dimmer and duskier as the gloom bleeds across the opulent space. Buffy slides away from him, wrapping herself in a white silk robe. He sees a black one draped over a nearby chair. It feels cold and slick as it slithers on over his skin. The fine doors are now completely dark. He looks at them, then back to Buffy, who simply nods.
The carved gold handles are like ice in his hands as he turns the knobs. He's back in the hotel room, back within its dull confines…
But back with Isobelle.
She's sitting on the settee, looking much as he'd left her, loosely dressed in a terrycloth robe, idling time with a magazine. Seeing him, she sets it aside; the smile she gives him is placid and sweet as she rises to meet him.
Wrapping his arms around her is a rote response, one she reciprocates with gentle enthusiasm, her head nestling under his chin, her small hands roving the silk-covered expanse of his back.
Closing his eyes, he savours the contact, willing that the comfort of their embrace be enough to drown out the cold confusion prickling his brain. Both can't be here… nor be real… but he feels it all… senses it all…
"Aw, that's sweet."
Buffy's voice snaps him back into the moment. She's standing behind Isobelle, her arms folded across her chest, a knowing grin on her face.
"No, really, it is. You have a big streak of sap in you. She brings it out. I like that." She sidles closer until she's hovering over the brunette's shoulder. "But it isn't going to get you what you want."
She circles ever closer, until, on tiptoes, she can whisper into his ear.
"And that will always be me, won't it?"
The knife appears as if by magic from the billowy folds of her robe. She cants it in the dim light of the room, the dull gleaming of the blade entrancing him.
"You know what needs to be done," she prods. "I could do it for you, but it would mean so much more if you did it yourself… " A kiss brushes over the shell of his ear. "And did it for me…"
But, it is already done.
He feels the weight of the knife in his hand and looks down, to Isobelle, crumpled at his feet. There's blood everywhere: dripping off the blade, running in rivulets down his hand… his arm… staining the black silk of his wrap, making it stick to his chest and belly… the fat, hot crimson drops falling on the already-saturated carpet…
"I knew I could count on you…"
Consciousness didn't come quickly for Spike, the last threads of the dream being slow to snap their hold on his mind. Wakefulness finally came with a shuddery gasp, his lungs heaving like bellows, breaths coming fast and harsh, as if by breathing hard enough, they could purge the horror of those nightmare images from his psyche.
JesusFuckMeChrist…I killed her…
No. He didn't. It was only a dream - a shit-kicking-scare-the-soul out of him dream, but a dream nonetheless: it wasn't real. None of it had happened…
Well, some of it had, he noted with a grimace: bedclothes stuck to his bare skin, wet and tacky from - Goddammit - he'd soiled the sheets like a sodding 12 year-old who'd had his first wet dream. Groaning, he peeled the stained bedding off his body and kicked it to the floor.
It wasn't until he'd swung his legs over and tried to stand that the dizziness hit him: as the fear and revulsion he'd felt from the nightmare started to fade, the effects of his drinking binge struck in full force. His stomach rolled and he fell back onto the mattress, fighting a killer wave of nausea.
While he waited for the room to stop spinning, he put what was left of his brain to work recalling his talk with Isobelle. She'd made him a brave promise before sending him off to bed; for both of them, it would take a great deal of courage to plainly ask the questions that their wounded prides (and bruised hearts) needed to have answered.
He knew what he wanted to ask. He just hoped that when the time came to spit it out, he'd have the balls to carry through with it; he didn't know what he would do if she didn't…
It was then he realised that - despite the drum-like thrumming in his head - he hadn't heard so much as a peep or shuffle from the other room. More usual than not, he'd hear her rambling around the small space, but at the moment it seemed deadly quiet.
Gingerly, he got back up on his feet and pulled on a robe, making his way to the door with only the slightest stagger to his step.
Isobelle wasn't there. The bed was made and the room had been tidied to a presentable state. A note lay on the now-clean coffee table, marked with a flourished S.
Hey there,
Ran out for supplies. Won't be long. Hope your head doesn't hurt too badly.
I
PS - I'm ready if you are.
He folded the slip of paper and dropped it back onto the table.
Ready or not, it had to happen.
"Bring it on, love…"
The Other sighed in utter contentment, pleased with the efforts of the previous night. The Red Witch in the library, the shrill brat at home… and Spike, the little masterwork of the piece. Not bad for a few hours of cheery torment…
The seeds of doubt - and fear - had been successfully sown on many fronts, and the dream - well, dream-play had worked so well in the past, with that other pathetic specimen of souled demon. Not that the last go-around with the bitty Slayer and her pet vamp had gone the way it should have… but the thing about evil - about The First - was that persistence eventually paid off.
Another silent sigh, this time in anticipation of the fun to come.
TBC…