[Reviews - 172]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 3021 times

- Text Size +




A/N Hooray for April who provides these "punctuation-enhanced" versions for your enjoyment.

...............................

He was sitting on the floor outside the basement door when Buffy came to him, smelling faintly of tears, and the smile he had tried to welcome her with had come out as a grimace. He'd had to leave the basement. Hadn't been able to stay there a moment longer with her vacant eyes on him.

He'd loved her for so many reasons. Loved her in gratitude for all she'd given him. Respected her strength and wisdom the uncomplicated morality that made it so easy for her to live with loving him and with her calling. The way she saw him in vibrant colours when he'd been convinced he was nothing more than a spectrum of lusterless grey.

Buffy is settling herself next to him, side on against the wall, her head tilted to lean against the plaster as she watches him. It has always been different with Buffy; never in all the years that she has captivated him has he been able to think of a single good reason for loving Buffy Summers. Oh, he could fill pages with reasons not to. Could list her faults for days and give a million reasons why he should hate her. But not one single reason why he should love her. Why he does love her still with such all-consuming passion?

"How you doing?" she asks, and even though she's been so good to him since his return he still finds himself surprised by the gentleness of her question and the depth of concern in her pink-rimmed eyes.

"You been crying?" It's not really a question; he can smell the linger scent of salt water on her skin.

The surprise registers in her eyes for just an instant and then she nods, making her hair ruck up against the wall. "Yeah. Got all weepy on Giles." She tries to lighten the mood but it's half hearted at best. "He did pretty well, considering he's British. Didn't clean his glasses once."

It's a sham, this light banter, but God knows it's better than the alternative, so he joins in. "Spent too long in the colonies then. Next thing you know he'll be all talking-about-his-feelings and great nauseating group hugs."

"I think he's got a long way to go before he talks about his feelings. But he can listen now without mumbling 'oh dear' and 'quite, quite.'" She attempts a British accent and it's a poor enough effort to make the vampire smile slightly.

She waits a moment, her sparkling green eyes locked on his, just staring into him as if she's trying to decide something about him. It's not as disconcerting as he'd have imagined; it's actually strangely comforting.

"You should take a break. You've hardly slept in days. Come and get some sleep. She'll be okay for a couple of hours; I'll have Xander check on her." She stands up and offers him her hand. It's tempting; he's so tired, bone achingly mind numbingly tired. And did she say come and get some sleep or go and get some?

She's looking expectantly at him, her little hand with its girly sugar pink nails still stretched out to him. "Come on," she invites more forcefully. "You kinda need to shower, too."

He takes her hand and she hauls him to his feet with that effortless strength that always made him feel deliciously weak and incredibly powerful all at once. "You just come here to criticise my personal hygiene, pet?" he asks sardonically, and she gives him a cheeky grin.

"That's kinda the idea. Come on, stinky." And with that she leads him away by the hand.

…………………..

Her mind works quickly as they climb the back stairs. Spike needs a shower but she can't take him back to the room where he and Carlotta stayed together, certainly can't expect him to use that bathroom. She isn't sure which of the free rooms have running water, not to mention towels and soap. They could just start wandering from room to room but she doesn't really want to draw his attention to where they're not going.

That leaves her own room. Her and Angel's room, she corrects herself mentally. She can't take him there; it wouldn't be right. But it's not like Angel would know. He's gone into town with Kennedy to get supplies and sort out travel arrangements for Maria and Emily, and won't be back for hours. Damn it, she's even thinking like an adulterer now. He's just coming back for a shower and a sleep. Perfectly innocent. He can do that in her room.

"Your room, pet?" he asks as they step inside, and she's glad she changed the sheets this morning, would hate the room to reek of her and Angel having sex.

He looks uncomfortable so she plays it cool and lets go of his hand as they enter the room. "Yep," she throws over her shoulder with deliberate casualness. "I gotta get a change of clothes. You go shower. It's through there." She points to the bathroom without turning to look at him. Perhaps her room was a mistake. He might read too much into it, might think she wants something from him.

She turns around ready to apologise, to suggest they look for a free room, but he is already disappearing into the en suite and she can relax and flop down on the fresh linen of her bed.

A moment later she is waking up without having been aware of going to sleep, and he is in front of her, crouching by the bed in just his jeans, smelling of steam and soap. Her eyes latch on to his and she feels a shudder of fear ripple through her body.

He has been so sad and vulnerable, so human in his grief, that she had almost forgotten that he is soulless. She remembers now that he is a hundred percent demon. Perhaps the shower was a mistake. She had hoped to give him distance, even a little respite. What she has given him is time to think. She dreads to think where his mind has gone as she takes in his coiled muscles and hard, glinting eyes. There is nothing vulnerable about him now.

"Spike?" she questions softly, and his eyes flash with danger. She can almost see the anger burning just beneath the icy calm of his exterior. He is compelling like this, with ice-cold fire in his magnetic eyes. It is like this that he first captivated her, even while she denied it with every fibre of her being. And now she must admit to herself that while she loved him in that last year in Sunnydale, it was in spite of and not because of the convenient excuse of his restored soul.

"I could kill the witch," he tells her in an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Been thinking about how best to do it. Don't want it all over too soon; gotta see she suffers."

"You won't," she replies, her voice sounding with more conviction than she feels. "And even if you tried, I'd stop you."

His lips curl into a disdainful sneer. "Course you would." She can almost feel his anger redirecting on her. It's okay, she can take it; will willingly do so if it could help him even for a moment. Her mind flashes back to a dark Sunnydale alley, what had he said? "Put it all on me, that's my girl."

She stands, forcing him to straighten and step back. "Defender of all things pure and innocent. That's you, luv, ain't it?" He pushes her hair off her face in a parody of tenderness, his eyes flashing poison, his hand rough in the tangled strands.

"She's not innocent." Where the hell had that come from? She was supposed to be defending her friend, not condemning her. But the voice of the slayer within her, dark and primal, calls for vengeance as surely as his demon does. The witch wronged all slayers when she did this.

"But you'll protect her anyway, 'cos she's human and we're not." It's not a question, but his hard eyes demand that she answer.

"Yes." And it's true. Despite that she loves him, despite that at this moment she hates Willow, it's true.

"Still as sanctimonious a little bitch as you ever were." His callous words are like physical pain in her chest, but she can't back away from his anger. It calls to her with an irresistible, primal attraction. He pushes forward again but she's not about to step back from him like some frightened little girl.

"I do what I have to, what I was made to do. You know that." Her voice is low and sure, and even she can hear the power in it.

"Don't we all." There is venom in his voice and she knows what is coming even before she catches the movement of his arm in her peripheral vision. She'll let this one land, then all bets are off.

Her cheek stings with the force of his unrestrained backhand as she flies back across the bed. That's it, baby, lay it all on me. She understands him in this moment better than she has ever understood another person, understands his pain his brutally violent ways of dealing.

The bed is between them as she rises to her feet, and he is eyeing her with malicious intent. The pain in him is like poison in an open wound. It must be drawn out before it gets too deep and kills him the way it almost killed her.

"So that's it? She's gone, so you may as well stop caring about anything. Right?" She hates to have to attack him when he is hurt, but he needs this. A creature like Spike can only grieve for so long before he must let rage take over in order to survive. It's used to frighten her.

"Right." He surprises her when he lunges across the bed, lightening-fast hands grabbing her throat and pulling her across the innocent white linen until she is kneeling, facing him. "You try to be better, to be something, and the powers just bloody shit on you. I'm done with caring about anything; it's easier not to fucking bother."

The 'F' word surprises her more than it should. It's not like soulless demons usually watch their Ps and Qs; she's just unused to hearing him use it. "So you just stop? Just like that?" His hands are gripping her slender neck with choking force and she's forced to respond. Her forehead hits the bridge of his nose with a sickening crack and he rears away from her with a roar.

Regaining his equilibrium quickly, he throws a jab that has her own nose spilling a fine rivulet blood over her lip. He freezes suddenly, nostrils flaring, eyes riveted to the sluggish trail of red. She should wipe it off but the intensity of his stare is paralysing so she continues more softly.

"If it was that easy," she murmurs, and his eyes flash from her bloodied lip to her eyes just for a second. "If it was that easy, we'd all do it."

She comes to her knees on the mattress again, bringing their bodies closer together. He is still fixated on the trickle of blood that is almost running into her mouth, his hooded eyes dark with rage and hunger.

She shouldn't do it—it won't help either of them—but she remembers vividly how easy it could be to bury the desolate pain of loss beneath an avalanche of wanton sensation. Maybe she can give him a few moments of distraction, of hard and violent comfort. And, weak as she is, the prospect of that closeness—of any closeness with him—is too much to resist.

Slowly, deliberately, she licks the advancing stream of blood from her top lip, pulling her tongue slowly back into her mouth under his avid gaze. This time his growl holds no threat, only possessive hunger as his hand comes up around her back to grab a handful of her thick blond hair.

"I hate your games, slayer," he tells her in a deadly soft voice that is like a bucket of cold water on her lust-filled senses, and she would pull away but his hand is still gripping her hair. A quick rough jerk and she is off the bed and trapped between his body and the bathroom door and he is sucking the blood roughly from her upper lip.

She responds, just as she always has, pushing against his mouth, hard and demanding in a ruthless attempt to kiss away the pain in him. She shouldn't do it. It's wrong on more levels than she can count. Could hurt so many people. Will without doubt hurt at least the two of them, but she can't help it. It is part selfishness, part weakness and all lust, and it is wrong.

It's so wrong. It's not real. Her mind desperately tries to exert control. This isn't real to him, it's only so much cold comfort. But at this moment she doesn't care. If it's what he needs then let him take it from her body; she owes him that for all the times she took the same from him.

His hands are uncharacteristically clumsy as they find their way up beneath her shirt, rough unsophisticated caresses that at any other time would be anything but arousing. But it's him and even if his touch is artless and his kisses boorish they are his and it's still the only thing she wants.

God, she should stop this. It isn't even real: she could be anyone, any port of comfort in the emotional storm that has battered him ceaselessly for days. She almost pulls away but can't deny herself even this misbegotten scrap of intimacy.

"Buffy." There is desperation in his whispered voice, her name almost a plea, a cry for help as his rough careless hand pushes into the waistband of her jeans. She tastes tears on their joined lips and knows she must stop this. It's cheap and ugly and it will only make things worse for him. But her legs open of their own volition and she tugs at his belt loops with undignified neediness.

He stills suddenly and she can't stifle the frustrated noise that escapes her throat, then the sound of someone clearing his throat renders her equally immobile. It's Giles. She'd know that gruff sound anywhere. Saved by the bell then. Saved from herself. Spike pulls away and turns to face the watcher, leaving her leaning heavily against the wall for support.

"We think we may have something," he informs them calmly, as if he did not just find her crawling up his body like the high school slut on prom night. "Perhaps if you two could come to the library we could fill you in." Thank God for British reserve; she didn't think she could have taken a confrontation at that moment, and would have done anything to spare Spike one.

"We'll be right there, Giles. We'll just check on Carlotta on the way down"

....................................................

A/N hope all you bloody yanks had a good thanks gviving :)

Beth, you hard hearted girl you wanna stake poor Carlotta?

Pin - Xander has always been positive and mature intermittently on the show, I've tried to stick with that and not let anyone be a real baddy. Willow for instance. Would you have done the same for someone you loved? But as always she won't admit clupability. Altered Kennedy entirely to make her positive, I just hated her in th eshow so I reinvented her, she wasn't that important anyway :)

Samica, Buffy was letting more than Angel go she was also accepting that she couldn't have Spike and that she'd have to settle for friendship. Sniff poor Buffy

Jen - Grown up Buffy is quite nice to write, glimpses of it in the show give you something to work with .

Hello CordyK - I always saw the Spike Dru, Dru Angel, Angel Darla relationships and it seemed as if teh younger was compelled to love the sire but none of the Sire's even Darla who clearly loved Angel had a lot of respect for there offspring. It's interesting to play with that thought.





You must login (register) to review.