Chapter 25:
Spike was aware of nothing but sweet yielding flesh as he and Buffy kissed and moved back into the bedroom. They tumbled gently onto the bed, and Spike was just starting to reach for the hem of Buffy’s top when she stopped him.
Silently, Spike cursed whatever god seemed to want to keep him from being laid.
“Something wrong, luv?” he asked gently.
She nibbled nervously on her bottom lip completely unaware of the way that teased him.
“Are you sure you’re okay with. . . this?” she asked.
“Pretty sure,” he said and leaned into kiss her again.
But she stopped him again. “But I mean after everything that happened back when you were. . . you know my slave, how can you . . ?”
Spike could help but laugh a little, which he knew was wrong, but her nervous guilt was almost endearing, except for the part where it was keeping him from getting what he wanted.
“Luv, have you been paying attention at all the last few weeks? I’m a vampire. Dominance, violence, and sex are part of the package.” He could see she was about to object. So he switched tactics. “Doesn’t mean we can’t be gentle though.”
Before she could form her objection he kissed her, letting his tongue slowly explore her mouth. As she began to relax into his arms he lifted his leg and gently pressed it up between hers, until little moans escaped her throat.
Once he was sure that she was thoroughly occupied by the kiss and that the last of her resistance had faltered, he pulled back.
“Maybe it’s time the two of us got a fresh start, yeah?” he asked. “A new life. How does that sound?”
She closed her eyes for a second and licked his taste off her lips. “That sounds good,” she agreed.
Smiling at having won this little battle, and satisfied that there wouldn’t be any further interruptions, Spike leaned down to begin kissing her again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spike brushed a lock of hair away from Buffy’s face as she slept. The gentle movement of her chest as she breathed in and out was enthralling to him, as was the heat that seeped from her body into his. In fact he was enraptured by all of her.
It was too bad they couldn’t stay in L.A, he thought. He could have shown her a good time here. But the longer they stayed, the easier it would be for Angelus to find them. They had a few days he was pretty sure. Now that Angelus was free of both the soul and the chip, he would indulge himself in a massacre or two. Luckily the old sod liked to take his time with his killing, so even if he noticed that Spike and the Slayer had left, he probably wouldn’t chase them down right away.
Spike bent down to kiss Buffy’s exposed neck, and smiled as she snuggled deeper into his arms. This Slayer was his, and there was no way he was letting Angelus touch a hair on her head.
New York would be a great place to take her, he thought. There was a lot of fun he could show her there, bring her back out into the world. On the other hand, the mid-west was rather boring, and it was between them and The Big Apple.
Maybe they’d head south instead. Carnival was only about a month off, and that might be a good time to teach the Slayer how to indulge in life.
He played over various scenarios in his head, ignoring all the complications that might arise in life between a vampire and a slayer. Spike was sure of one thing only, this wasn’t a chance he would get again, so he would hold on as tightly as he could for as long as possible. Someday he’d go back to his family, face up to whatever punishment Angelus would cook up for him. But for right now, all he wanted was to share some fun with the girl in his arms, and teach her that it was the moment that really mattered.
The End
A/N: This story ended a few hundred words short of the minimum to post here. So for no particular reason at all, here is:
1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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