Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.
Many, many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm. I've yet again done some tweaking, so any mistakes are mine for not sending it off again to her.
Awakening
Chapter Two
Spike sprang forcibly into consciousness, every inch of his body aching, fire searing along his right side. He tried bolting upright, instinct screaming at him to scramble into the shadows. An animal yowl seeped from between lips stretched tight over sharp canines, as the long bones of his legs ground together.
Spike blinked the blood from his eyes, glancing down the length of his body. A large slab of metal pinned him helplessly to the floor in a pale pool of weak sunlight.
The intense burning warned him to move or be ash in the wind. He wrapped his bloody hands around the sharp, twisted edge of the metal and ignoring the agonizing protests of his body, he strained to thrust it aside with a vamped-out roar. The heavy metal slab flipped through the air, landing outside the plane with a hollow thump.
He belly-crawled across the slick metal floor into a thin veil of shadows, dragging his crippled legs behind him. Frantically, he patted out the small sparks of flames igniting his clothing, ignoring spurts of pain rippling across his burned flesh.
Certain he was safe, he allowed himself a moment of complete stillness. He closed his eyes, concentrating on emptying his mind. His harsh panting echoed inside the metal bowels of the plane, and it took effort and all of his meditation tricks to still his convulsing lungs. The stillness that came with the complete lack of breathing brought a sense of serenity to him. A sense of safety and calm.
Only then did logic assert itself over his panicked animal brain. He opened his eyes to examine his surroundings. He was still inside the mangled plane, of which a large section had been ripped away, allowing midmorning light to flood most of the compartment, effectively trapping him until the sun dipped below the horizon.
He stared out the large gash, his nocturnally oriented eyes stinging at the bright light. Desperate for any familiar landmark, any recognizable sign of where they crashed, he blinked away his tears, making out an expansive mountainside thickly blanketed with evergreens through his blurry vision. Between the trees, deep in the shadows, muddy heaps of snow piled against the sappy trunks. He took a deep breath of thin, cold air unpolluted by the stink civilization.
Blood tainted the air – gallons of it, and mostly dead. Corpses, dressed in military fatigues, were strewn about the fuselage, body parts littering the ground outside. A singular, spicy scent called to him, so much sweeter than normal blood it made his mouth water.
He shifted his weight, grimacing when pain radiated through his entire body. He blinked his yellow eyes to adjust to the shadows of the plane, swallowing at the sight before him.
Buffy hadn't been as lucky as Spike to be thrown free from the cage. Instead, she dangled off the ground, impaled on the thin shaft of rebar connecting their cages. It speared her through the back, exiting just beneath the ball of her shoulder. The serrated edges of the wire mesh pierced her back along a jagged line from shoulder to hip, and he could tell she had a pierced lung from her ragged breathing.
One of her sandals was missing and the shell pink of her toenails captivated him as they dragged through the growing pool of blood beneath her. It was achingly clear to the monster who'd spent a century watching death steal away souls that it wouldn't be long before Buffy shuffled off the mortal coil.
Terrible thirst wrenched his gut, twisting his broken body, his injuries demanding he feed. He slithered over to the Slayer, dipping his pink tongue into the deep crimson pool of blood at her feet, lapping like it was a saucer of milk. The orgasmic pleasure of his first taste of her unique flavor ignited all his senses.
She was exquisite. She tasted bright as sunlight, as powerful as a summer storm, and as sweet as honey. Her blood zinged through his veins, until his body sang with a new, never before achieved level of awareness. The air took on colors, sounds became ripples, his senses soared until he was certain the answers to all the questions of the universe were within his feeble grasp.
Beneath his layered muscles, cracked bones realigned, angling into place, knitting themselves together at a rate that could never be achieved feasting on humans. It was amazing. She was amazing.
Addicted and ravenous, he licked the floor clean. He could almost feel the individual cells of his body vibrating, her blood effervescing just below his skin, like champagne running through his veins. He was desperate for more. He needed more.
He threaded his fingers through the diamond wire mesh of the mostly intact cage and pulled himself to his feet. The bones in his legs ground together, the newly knit breaks barely holding. Panting with exertion, he leaned against her swaying body, her blood soaking through his shirt until he could feel the warm dampness of it on his skin. She hung limply, and he had to balance his weight with one hand on the cage so he could wrap the other in her hair to lever her face up to his.
The diffused light caressed her flawless skin. He had always thought of her as a golden goddess with her deliciously bronzed skin and honey blonde hair. He may have been loyal to Drusilla, but he was a bloke who knew how to appreciate a woman. The slayer had always been attractive to him, even now with skin vampire-white from blood loss. He didn't like her as much all colorless and cold, but she was still beautiful. It was a shame to see her go.
He licked a swath across her cheek, shuddering bodily at the sweet, liquid sunshine taste of her. He lapped at her like an excited puppy. If he had a tail he would've wagged it. She was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, and that included his first mouthful of sire blood and the Chinese chit he'd drained.
So immersed in bliss, he didn't notice when the atmosphere changed. Ions charged around him, ozone singed the air. Something dominant and primal approached, swamping him with power, calling to him on a basic level. A visceral urge in his guts drove him to flee, but the feeling of ominous inescapabilty paralyzed him. Instinct forced his demon to the forefront as he jerked away from the Slayer with a snarl.
Her dainty hand snapped around his throat, lifting him up until his toes brushed the ground. Just as well. He had the feeling that if she wasn't holding him, he would have sunk to his knees in abject submission.
The woman staring back at him was not the Buffy Summers he knew. This was a being of unassailable power. Ancient and elemental. Her lineage sang to his demon, making him feel insignificant on the scale of her awesomeness.
He stared at her, transfixed. Ethereal eyes stared out of Buffy's face. They were devoid of a pupil, glowing white with misty tendrils of power seeping from the corners, dispersing into the ether. She looked blind, but he was struck with the certainty that she saw everything, including the very darkest of his secrets hidden deep inside.
When she spoke, her voice resonated with the strength of a hundred clarions, overwhelming and incomprehensible, shaking the world out of focus. He whined deep in his throat, unable to struggle away to cover his sensitive eardrums. Blood dribbled from his ears, and he angled his head away in helpless defeat.
The reverberation ceased, but the world still trembled with the echo of her power. Spike slumped forward in her hand, staring at her with frightened yellow eyes and felt himself sink further into a sense of predestination. There was no escaping her. There was no eluding her. She was a force of inevitability.
She spoke again with authority, her voice the soothing tranquility of waves crashing upon a beach. Still harsh to his ears, but understandable.
"We will not allow you to eliminate this vessel, vampire. She is the first in a millennia to have potential."
Spike was torn. On the one hand, his innate rebellious nature demanded he take a poke and to hell with the consequences. A brassed off primordial slayer would be something to see, even if it was the very last thing he saw. However, another, larger part of him was pissing his trousers in fear. Vampires didn't grow as old as he without having a healthy respect for the things that could spectacularly kick your arse.
His inner debate proved inconsequential when she tossed him across the cargo hold, his already partially-crushed body exploding in pain. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a silver trace of something indescribable at her back. It couldn't possibly be what he thought it to be, and as he sank into unconsciousness he told himself it was only an aura of displaced sunlight.
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A soft weeping awakened Spike. At first he thought it was Dru. She often collapsed into quiet sobs after a painful vision, requiring gentle handling to comfort and soothe her. He pulled himself to his feet before even fully conscious. Only when the sunlight singed his hand did he fully became cognizant of his surroundings. It wasn't Dru who was weeping. It was Buffy.
She hung helplessly impaled. She had one hand wrapped around the gory spike thrusting beneath the ball of her shoulder, the other arm hanging limply at her side. Her toes kicked uselessly at the floor, scrambling for any kind of purchase to help ease the heavy weight of her body.
A wave of dizziness washed over Spike and he braced one hand against the naked ribs of the hull to keep himself from falling forward. His leather duster rustled around him, prodding Buffy to lift her head and whimper weakly. Her unbearably pale face contrasted with her shockingly green eyes. Her very human eyes in the wake of the mystical mistiness they exuded before.
"Help me," she pleaded with a pitiful, shaking breath. He could tell by the painful haze of her eyes that she didn't register his identity, only potential aide.
He glanced around the wreckage, noting the shifted streams of sunlight. He hadn't been unconscious for long, and would be trapped for several more hours with a Slayer with a wicked personality disorder. He had no problem ignoring the uberbitch. He wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. The problem was ignoring Buffy-a scared, wounded girl who was begging him to help her.
It would be kinder to kill her. Who knew how long it would take for her die, especially with her slayer healing fighting to repair her wounds? Wounds that would never heal while she was strung up and bleeding out like a side of beef.
He didn't dare approach her and try to drain her again. He had no doubt the uberbitch would put in an appearance and rip his spine out through his throat, despite her grievous injuries. But how could he possibly spend the next few hours waiting for dark to fall while listening to Buffy's pleading? Could he really leave her suspended in endless agony? He was a merciless monster. The idea of leaving someone to die wasn't disturbing or new to him. But this wasn't someone. This was Buffy. She was a warrior. A fighter. She didn't deserve such an ignoble death.
He cautiously crossed to her. She reached for him, her bloody fingers twisting into his leathers. She blinked her tears away, focusing on his face.
"Spike?" When he didn't reply her fingers tightened on his collar, trying to stop him from retreating. He watched the flickers of confusion, fear, and finally resolution pass over her bloodless features.
"Help me," she whispered again. This time Spike could hear the twist in her words. She no longer hoped for him to save her from death, but to give her respite from a short life filled with agony.
Is that what he wanted? Her, dead? When she was unconscious and dying the idea of finishing her off hadn't disturbed him. He could smell the stench of death on her, and helping her along almost seemed like a mercy. But now she was staring up at him with wide, green eyes filled with complete trust. Not trust that he would save her, but trust that he would follow his nature and release her from her agony. And that, for some inanely insane reason, seriously brassed him off.
"Thought you were a fighter?" he spat. She blinked at him, looking closer to the side of dead than living. Her brow crumbled in confusion, before her eyes flashed with anger. Something stirred inside him-a sense of victory. That's my Slayer. My beautiful warrioress.
"I am a fighter. Help me off this spike and I'll show you." She set her delicate jaw with determination as she stared him straight in the eye.
"I'll help you." He bracketed her ribcage with his large hands. Despite the fierce power her body held, she was fragile beneath his strong grip. He had to remind himself of how he felt her ferocity crash over him time and again during their numerous conflicts. Glorious and constant like the sea. "But you better keep your inner bitch on a leash."
Her lips were thin and tight and she spat her words between clenched white teeth. "I'm only a bitch when I'm hurt or sick or fighting-or you know, stuck with annoying vampires."
Spike's lips curled into a lecherous leer. "How about shaggin', pet? You a right bitch then?"
"You're an ass-." Her tirade ended in a scream as he abruptly yanked her off the spear of metal while distracted. All her anger drowned beneath a flood of agony that rushed over her. Her flesh released with a sickly wet pop, then she was bleeding and unconscious, cradled against Spike's chest.
Well, fuck. Now what? Spike stared down at the wounded girl, wondering when he had gone from trying to take her life to trying to preserve it. He was struck with a sinking feeling of inescapable predestination. The knowledge that by this one act of violating his inherent nature he had become responsible for something no vampire should ever be held accountable for.
The life of a slayer was now his to keep.