Part Five
Spike didn’t understand what had just happened. One minute Buffy was sitting on the couch, looking a bit anxious but generally all right. The next minute, she was on the floor, crying out as if she was in great pain. She swiped at the air in front of her like she was trying to ward something away. There was no apparent reason for any of it that Spike could see.
He was at her side in a second, and he gripped her by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “Slayer. Buffy. Snap out of it. What the hell just happened there?”
“What do you mean, what just happened?” she cried, trying to push him away. “Didn’t you see it?”
“See what?”
She stopped struggling against him, and a shaky breath eased its way from her chest as she looked at the ground around them. “The glass disappeared,” she whispered as she touched her face, “and I’m not cut.”
Spike watched her expression transform from fright to bewilderment. “What are you talking about? You’re not making a bit of sense.”
“That mirror,” she said, pointing toward a beautiful framed looking glass on the far wall. “It flew at me. It crashed into me. The ghost threw it. I watched him do it. Didn’t you hear it smash?”
Spike shook his head. “Had my eyes on you the whole time. Didn’t see a ghost or anything else fly at you.”
“Well, I didn’t imagine it,” she shot back, defensive and flustered.
“I didn’t say you did,” replied Spike carefully. “Probably our ghosties playing a nasty joke at your expense. It was a trick, Buffy. A mind game. You’re not hurt, right?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, her voice shaking almost as much as her body. “I can’t stay in here anymore, Spike. That’s it.” She pushed past him, toward the parlor door. The room seemed to be crushing her, and she couldn’t get out of it fast enough.
Spike was at her heels, following her to the foot of the stairs. “This isn’t a good idea, Slayer. I don’t know how safe the other rooms are.”
Buffy spun around. “You think it’s safe in there with those … those things?” When she turned back to the hallway, something caught her attention upstairs – a light flickering in one of the bedrooms. She thumped up the steps after it without a second thought.
“Not upstairs!” argued Spike vehemently. “Slayer. I’m not kidding here.”
Buffy wasn’t listening. They hadn’t been upstairs yet, so everything around her was new to her eyes. She couldn’t see much in the dim hallway, but what little she did see pleased her. It was more open on the second floor, with better circulation in the air, so it was cooler despite it being upstairs. The light she saw was coming from one of the bedrooms to her right, on the opposite end of the house from the parlor.
The lit bedroom was charming, and it appealed to the woman inside her instead of the girl. Instead of antiques, she found tasteful wrought iron and a white cotton awning over the bed. Several candles were lit all around the room, and they gave off a clean, soothing scent. She wondered if the ghosts had lit the candles? If so, why – especially when they’d purposely blown all the candles out downstairs?
“Here,” she told Spike, who was hovering in the doorway. “I want to stay in here.”
Spike was eyeing the window in the room with a wary expression. It was boarded up, but he obviously didn’t like being so close to the outer walls of the house. “I dunno about this, Slayer…”
“I’m staying, Spike,” insisted Buffy. “You can go back to the parlor if you don’t feel safe.”
He sighed dramatically, with a bit of a growl at the end, as if he would like nothing better than to wring her neck. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, giving in. “I guess I’ll go get our supplies then.”
Watching Spike head back downstairs, Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around her new surroundings. The candles were brightly lit and showed no sign of blowing out. They were so radiant that she almost felt the need to squint; her eyes were slow to adjust from the dim light downstairs. Yes, this room was far more agreeable, she decided. The rain and wind sounded closer than ever, but with the light surrounding her, she somehow felt safer.
Her serenity was short-lived. Downstairs there was a sudden commotion – a loud crash followed by a thud. She heard Spike cry out and curse. Just when she’d gotten to her feet to see what was wrong, she heard his boots coming up the stairs.
“Ghosts are after me now,” he grumbled when he came into the room, his arms full of their supplies. He set Buffy’s pitcher of water on the nightstand and dumped everything else unceremoniously on the floor. Then he rubbed the back of his head gingerly, as if it pained him. “Threw a damn dictionary at my head. A big one. It’s like they don't want us in that room for some reason. Leaving us alone in here. I wonder why?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, there was a terrible sound above the house. A slow creaking, like a door creeping open on rusted hinges, followed by a deafening CRACK – louder than a rifle shot. Buffy gasped and leapt to her feet. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, as if the air had suddenly become electrified.
“Slayer…” said Spike slowly, grabbing a hold of her wrist, ready to run.
And then part of the house simply exploded.
Both of their ears popped with the sudden change in pressure. The floor in the bedroom shook, and the furniture shifted, sending pictures and vases tumbling. None of candles toppled, thankfully. “What the hell just happened?” cried Buffy.
“I think a tree just fell through the house,” Spike told her. Releasing her wrist, he opened the bedroom door and looked downstairs. “Oh,” he said quietly. “Guess that’s why the ghosts wanted us out.”
Spike had guessed correctly. An enormous tree, snapped right in the middle, had taken up residence inside the left wing of the house, causing part of the second floor to collapse down onto the first. The parlor was almost completely destroyed. The right wing of the house, where they’d relocated, was dusty and windy now that it was open to the storm, but otherwise unscathed. “Hopefully the structure’s still sound,” said Spike. “If it isn’t, we might being taking another tumble before the night’s through.”
“Oh, God,” whispered Buffy, inching back toward the bed. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Closing the bedroom door to shut out the wind, Spike glanced at her wearily. “Just lay down, Slayer. Ghosties led us in here, right? Even lit it up for us. Must be safe.”
Buffy didn’t care about the damn ghosts. They had frightened and tormented her, and she didn’t trust them. Her heart was racing and she looked around the room wildly, feeling trapped. There was simply nowhere to go. The house could fall down around them, and even if they got out of it in time, they’d only be pushed outside into the wrath of the storm. She put her face in her hands and tried to stop shaking.
“Slayer…” Spike said in a low voice, eyeing her with concern. “Come on now; just calm down. We’re all right.”
She nodded and tried to take deep breaths, but the edge of panic refused to leave her. He took her by her elbow and led her over to the bed. She pulled away from him instinctively when his hands lingered too long. “Here now,” he said, ignoring her brush off. “Lay down. God, you’re burning up.”
She pushed his hand away from her forehead. “Don’t touch me.”
But a second later, she felt something wet on her forehead, replacing his hand, and she changed her mind about objecting to his touch. There was a splash of water, and Buffy opened her eyes to see Spike seated next to her, dipping a handkerchief into the pitcher of water he’d brought up from the parlor. He touched the wet cloth again to her face, and it felt amazing on her skin – refreshing and cool and very much needed.
Still. He was touching her. She felt she shouldn’t allow that, much less enjoy it. “Spike…” she started to protest.
“Hush now, Slayer. I’m not patronizing you, so don’t start with me. Just trying to calm you down, yeah? So shut your gob and let me treat you proper for once in your life.”
She did. He took his time tending to her – starting with her face, going all the way down to her feet, blowing lightly on her wet skin so that she shivered. It was a wonderful feeling, being wet and cool after such a hot, muggy day. Her heartbeat slowed as she relaxed down into the feather mattress, feeling her body become loose and heavy. He guided her over onto her stomach eventually, and he washed her back and shoulders as well – as much as he could around her tank top.
When he was done, he left the damp handkerchief on the back of her neck. “Wish I had some ice,” he said. “Know how much you like that. This will have to do.”
His words angered her and stirred her from her reverie. Who the hell did he think he was, trying to work her like this? She felt like he was taking advantage of her fear. If he was trying to soften her up and weasel a pardon from her, it wasn’t going to work. “I hate you,” she whispered.
“No, you don’t,” was his quiet reply. His hands were in her hair, his thumb on the pulse of her temple. He sounded quite convinced of the truth behind his words.
He was right.
“No, I don’t,” she admitted, speaking more to herself than to him. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I don’t think I could ever really hate you, Spike. It’d be like hating a part of myself.”
He took his hand out of her hair but didn’t rise from his place beside her. “Know the feeling, pet.”
Her eyes opened then, and she suddenly realized that the fear had left her. At some point, she’d forgotten all about the storm and the ghosts and the tree that had nearly crushed them. Spike was beside her, and for the first time since she could remember, she was glad to have him there. She didn’t feel alone anymore.
When she looked up at him, she saw that he had turned away from her. He sat on the edge of the bed with his feet on the ground, elbows resting on his thighs, hands folded in front of him. She stared at his back, like a black pillar in front of her. She could tell from his posture something heavy was weighing on his shoulders. It hurt to see him like that, and she almost reached out to touch him.
He started talking before she had the chance.
“It was the first falling out Dru and I ever had,” he said, out of the blue. “The first big one, anyway – where we actually parted ways for a while. We had an argument about Angel. We’d seen him not long before in China – Boxer Rebellion, you know. I got mad at her, really puffed up, and…”
Buffy blinked in surprise, realizing he was telling her about the 1900 hurricane in Galveston. “And what?” she prompted gently, urging him to continue.
“And I left.”
“You left Galveston? Before the hurricane hit?”
Spike nodded. “Was trying to punish her, you know? Let her know I wasn’t going to put up with her, if she was gonna be that way. Anyway, I didn’t make it far. I ended up right across Galveston Bay, in Texas City. Loved her too damn much to go further, and besides, she had called my bluff. I thought she would have tagged along with me, regardless of my little tantrum. I told her if she didn’t get on that train with me, that was it. We were through. I didn’t really mean it, but threats were the only thing you could really use to motivate Dru when she had her mind made up.”
Spike ran a shaky hand through his hair as he continued. “And then the storm hit, and it tore into Texas City – and that was nothing compared to Galveston. There it was just Atlantis. The whole place turned into the sea, Buffy. Little houses sticking out of the bleeding ocean. You can’t imagine it. And the whole time the storm was passing – hours and hours of it – I knew Drusilla was out there on that fucking sandbar of an island, all alone, with no one to take care of her. Stupid girl couldn’t find her gloves if they were on her bloody hands. And I had just left her there. Spent the whole night crying and worrying about her. Felt like the world was coming to an end, smashing all to pieces around me.
“And then the next day came, and the storm finally passed on. And you know what the real kicker was? The fucking sun came out. After all that hell the sky had unleashed the night before, it decided to do me one better and offer something that would kill me for sure. I had to hide all day, and you know how long summer days are. I thought I was going to go mad. And then the boat ride came, across the bay to the island. I’m not sure what bothered me more – the thump of hundreds of dead bodies hitting the boat, or the lack of buildings left standing on the island.
“I got to the island and went to the place where our hotel had stood. The lot was scraped clean. There wasn’t a stone or a piece of wood to be found. Nothing but sand. And I looked at that sand, and I thought surely her dust had to be mixed up in it.”
“Obviously you found her,” said Buffy gently.
Spike smiled. “Yeah. The daft cow was on the beach, dancing in the waves when I found her, hours later. She never did tell me what happened to her during the storm, and she kept teasing me that I’d missed a right good show. I could have ripped her lungs out, I was so angry. I think I might have tried. Vowed never to go through one of these storms again. But then my intentions always get shot to hell when I’m around you, don’t they, Slayer?”
“Huh,” said Buffy, after a moment of thought. “I just figured something out about you. That’s what all your fussing tonight’s been about, hasn’t it? You needed to take care of me because you weren’t able to take care of Drusilla that night.”
“Don’t try to turn this into some chauvinistic thing, Buffy, when you know bloody well that’s got nothing to do with it. Don’t need you poking fun at me now. I know you can take care of yourself, but sometimes it’s nice to let someone do for you, you know? Wouldn’t kill you to let someone in once in a while.”
“I let you in tonight, didn’t I?” she asked. “And I wasn’t poking fun. It just wasn’t what I expected, I guess. So thank you … for taking care of me.”
“Thanks for letting me,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “So yeah … I ‘fessed up about Galveston. Now it’s your turn to let me in on a secret.”
Buffy frowned. “I don’t have any secrets.”
“Sure you do,” he shot back. “Like why you won’t forgive me.” When she looked away quickly, he pressed on, unwilling to let the matter drop. “Already admitted that I fucked up, Slayer. I don’t know how many other ways I can say I’m sorry. What exactly do you want from me? What do I have to do?”
“I can’t forgive you, Spike,” she said simply.
“Why the hell not?”
“If I did that, I might start feeling things for you again.” She blinked up at him. “It’s already starting to happen. I can’t let it.”
“Being with me’s that terrible, is it?”
“No. But this is the way my life goes, Spike – the second I let myself love someone, they’re taken away from me. You were.”
He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “You think me burning up had anything to do with you?”
“Would you have gone down into the Hellmouth it wasn’t for me?”
“I dunno. Maybe. Buffy, this is ridiculous. Please tell me there’s another reason you’ve shut me out.”
She turned her face away from him and didn’t reply.
Spike chuckled incredulously, shaking his head. “Well, then. At least now I know. And I have to say, Slayer – that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life. And I’ve lived a hell of a long time, pet.”
She couldn’t help but smile a bit into her pillow, knowing he couldn’t see. Maybe it was a little stupid, she thought. “It’s hard though, sometimes,” she told him. “Remembering that I’m angry with you.”
She felt his fingers in her hair again – just a brief touch before he rose from the edge of the bed. “That’s good to know,” he said quietly. “I hope you’ll change your mind.”
She sat up and watched him walk away from the bed. “You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked anxiously.
“Have I ever?” He stooped and retrieved a book from the floor, one of the things he’d brought up from the parlor. “Well, except for that one time.”
He seated himself in a chair beside the bed and opened the book. “Wuthering Heights,” he read out loud. “Chapter one. ‘1801. I have just returned from a visit to my landlord - the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with…’”
The storm faded away in the background, and only Spike’s voice remained. Buffy sat back against the pillows, letting her eyes drift shut as he weaved her a story.
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The night was long but bearable after their reconciliation-of-sorts with each other. The storm did its worst to the old antebellum home, but it was still standing when the sun finally came out again the next day. Neither Spike nor Buffy had slept a wink through it all, and they were glad when peace fell outside. Both felt physically battered by the storm, as if their own bodies should bear the same sort of injuries the house had.
When they peeked outside to see the damage, Buffy’s jaw dropped at what she saw. The yard was submerged under several feet of water. Had the house not been elevated, it would have flooded. Branches were everywhere, and they got their first good look of the large tree that had hit the house. It had snapped in two halfway up the base. Other trees were blown down in the yard and down the street.
The car had seen better days. The hood was dented in, and most of the windows had been completely smashed out. Still, it might have been drivable had it not been for the fact that it was radiator-deep in water.
“Not that bad actually,” said Spike, staying inside the safety of the shadowed porch. “We got off easy.”
Buffy turned to stare at him. “That was easy?”
They were hesitant to go back inside the house, still unsure how safe it was, so they lingered on the porch, where the air was cool and clean. The storm had blown the humidity out of the city. Together they unearthed a porch swing from under a pile of branches and roof shingles. The house owners had apparently taken it down for safety for the duration of the storm, but Spike and Buffy managed to get it hanging again. Together they sat on the swing and watched the floodwaters begin to recede.
Spike stretched out his arm behind Buffy’s back. She tried to pretend it bothered her, though it really didn’t. “I’m still mad at you, you know,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Uh-huh.”
“Last night didn’t change any of that.”
“Of course not.”
“Haven’t forgiven you yet either.”
“Whatever you say, Slayer.”
She glanced over at him, trying not to smile, knowing he was teasing her. “But other than that, I’m glad you’re here, Spike.” She looked out into the watery expanse before them. “Do you think the flood will recede soon?”
“Eventually, yeah,” Spike replied. “But I think we’ll make it though just fine anyway. Don’t you?”
His words carried a deeper meaning, she knew. Buffy smiled at him – just a hint of a smile, so he wouldn’t think she was melting inside or anything. “Yeah, I do.” They swung back and forth in silence for a long, peaceful moment. “Okay, so maybe I forgive you,” she said, suddenly, all in a rush. “You know … just a little bit.”
Spike smiled as he lit up a cigarette. “Yeah. Kinda figured.”
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The end.
But to be continued in another story. This is a series, remember? ;)
A/N: Want to read about the symbolism in this story? Check out this entry in my livejournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/ladywenham/174092.html?thread=3030284#t3030284
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