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Chapter Seven

Buffy was cold. Her flesh was fighting against touching a surface that left her chilled. But it was the first thing that broke through her numbness. The first thing that indicated she was still alive and could move her limbs if she wanted to. And she had wanted to. All through the night she’d wanted to run screaming naked into her yard and collapse on the grass, fist handfuls of dirt and dig a hole big enough to fit her body and give her somewhere to belong.

She’d been dead.

She’d felt the beginning passage of the end, her final journey coming to an abrupt stop as she felt a painful surge of beats in her chest, felt the blood begin to slide once again through her veins. It was the most horrible feeling she’d ever experienced. Buffy had spent her night, eyes locked and terrified, with the vampire who had stolen her innocence. Folding her body against his, holding a hand that wouldn’t let go. Revelling in a touch that got colder and colder with the progress of the night. They barely took the time to blink, afraid of that flash of explanation they might miss in a millisecond of fatigued action.

And now she was cold, straining against a vampire who was succumbing to sleep with the rise of the sun, and as much as Buffy knew her legs now worked, she couldn’t summon the determination that wanted her to move.

With his eyes closed in sleep, he was beautiful. Why did she see that? What was this feeling that had her reaching out a hand to touch his nose, his lips, and then through his hair, not even feeling slightly afraid that he might wake and punish her for taking advantage.

He was so beautiful and she wanted to kiss him and make him love her, yet she hated him. Wanted to kill him and could focus easily on the monster in him. Why did she want him? Why couldn’t she kick him out and dust him and just ignore that she had ever managed to live through this experience?

Buffy felt the shudder run all the way through her body even as a hand reached for his, her shakes making it difficult to lace her fingers through his. The cold didn’t recede at his touch, instead encompassing her fingers and palm in an even more pervasive chill that she couldn’t let go of.

Buffy studied the fingers that had automatically tightened around hers. Slim, nicely shaped digits that had touched her all over and had an intimate hold on her now, even as he was hiding in the dark of unconsciousness.

Buffy just couldn’t understand where this was going. Why hadn’t she dusted the second vampire who had killed her? Was she destined to surrender her life to these demons that had invaded her life on a regular basis?

It was a thought that didn’t cause as much fear as Buffy expected. The melt around her heart kept her close to him even as her mind tried to reject the surge of warmth that lit her from within. A realisation was enough to squeeze new tears from beneath resigned lids and Buffy cried for the futility of it all. Despite her youth, she could tell that she was going to love this monster in her bed; this vampire beside her holding her hand. Buffy was going to love him with all the power she had thought was going to belong to Angel.

She couldn’t remember what the brunette looked like anymore.

He’d sat menacing her from her windowsill only hours earlier and yet she couldn’t remember what kind of face he had. The colour of his eyes, the shape of his nose. What he wore and how he smiled. Did he smile? It almost felt like Buffy had never experienced the concept of happiness, so tired were her lips.

So tired was her heart.

Spike rolled onto his back, pulling her along until her head was resting on his shoulder. Before she completely gave in to this strange occurrence, Buffy raised the covers at the end of the bed and prayed it would pass her some of its warmth.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

His body had succumbed to a steady burn, singeing away his skin with his sense from the outside in. Eyes closed he could feel her, smell her. Felt himself surrounded by Slayer and wondered how he managed to be lying against her with his heart blossoming with something new. Something unexpected. Something gifted from his sire from his rebirth to her final death.

For just a moment Spike allowed the loss of himself in her, allowed his heart to just feel the things that had been pushing to be felt. It was freeing to accept that he wanted her. That the thought of killing her was nauseating to him. That the thought of spending his time loving her was a glorious and happy concept rather than a disaster and betrayal to all that he was.

He couldn’t allow it to last. Just this short time while he lay beside her with her warm body heating him. Once they moved and left this room, then it all would come back. That insecurity that came with them being who they were, starting from where they did.

She said she’d hated him, yet their desperation for each other the night before implied other truths. Other possibilities in opposition to that statement of hate directed toward him. Her touch hadn’t felt like loathing. Her tears hadn’t been violent. When together they were far less than enemies and he could understand the fear attached to that. For himself as well as her.

She was young. Not even seventeen, and yet he’d forced his body into hers and created a bond he was unable to break. He no longer wanted to, instead feeling slightly broken that she could ever hate him. Could ever not want to look at him and be with him. He was evil—a monster that didn’t have regrets or think of himself as ever making mistakes, but he acknowledged now that it was possible. How could he know if this thing that seemed to crackle between them was an odd supernatural event that would never have occurred outside of Dru’s odd statements and dramatic end? With time, it could have been something entirely different—consensual and sought. Now he didn’t know what it was, and it left his dead heart scattered and afraid.

Only a small twist of his neck brought her beauty into view—blonde strands spread across his chest like shimmering gold silk, and her face soft and welcoming as she shut out the trauma of daylight. As she surrendered her youth and safety to his slippery grasp. As confused as he was—as much as he didn’t, yet did want this connection with her, Spike had decided that this was as far as it went. The attempts to control her—murder her and make her hurt…it was time for him to stop. Was beyond time for him to accept that the little blonde in his arms was his to protect, and he’d be damned if he would fail that responsibility again. It was his, and no amount of Angel sniffing around her windowsill would put him off that. He’d just have to eradicate the brooding pain in his ass as soon as he was able. And the thought of that put the first smile of the day on his face.

But she hated him; it was her job to do so, and in light of what he’d done to her body, he couldn’t blame her. He had no clue how they could ever get past it. He sensed her reluctance to lose him from her arms—that the link of their touch soothed some burden of her heart that she hadn’t trusted him with confession. Still, it was a high fence to jump, and as much as he was good at leaping to the rooves of buildings, he thought this fence was made out of the strangest, most unfamiliar substance that it might make him trip and fail.

Spike could feel the sun just outside the window, wondering what the Slayer would do when she woke and found herself comfy against his chest. He felt almost terrified about what the look in her eyes would be. Whether she would smile at him—even hesitantly—or would she try and shove him headfirst out into a day that could be his last. The uncertainty of his position was overwhelming to a vampire who had known his place for over a century—forever by his sire’s side whether she was cuckolding him or showering him with kisses.

His world had changed in ways Spike could never have planned. Despite the conflict in Prague that had almost left him alone, he’d never believed it was really possible. Weakened and close to destroyed, Dru had still remained at his side. She’d been cared for in his arms for such a long time that the changed weight was strange. Yet now that he had Buffy in the same place, it felt nothing like replacing one goddess for another.

It was two different lives; two different worlds that he’d existed within. The first was gone—irretrievable and over just like that. And now he had a Slayer beside him, he a vampire cooling her bedsheets as he argued with himself about what was happening with him.

It was an hour before he stopped thinking himself in useless circles and just listened to her heart beat. Smelled the scent of glorious blood under her skin. For the first time it didn’t tickle his tastebuds and he felt his demon soothed by the pulsing presence against his chest. Still, the blood brought him out fangs first, and when a soft hand settled over his belly, he almost bit through his tongue to hold back the moan.

“You’re awake.” Her voice was neither cold nor warm—almost resigned and it was a tone that his demon wanted to punish. It was with effort that Spike pushed against his impulse and recognised the girl stroking slowly his naked flesh and gave her the benefit of her confusion and fear.

Still, he couldn’t help but be a little cheeky. He ignored the subtle shake of his hand as it disappeared beneath the covers and held her fingers still, then moved them to grasp around a heavily straining cock. “That I am, pet.”

Her face was hot as she sunk further against his chest, but her hand didn’t run. Rather, her fist closed around the firmness of his length and she slowly almost skimmed upwards, driving him nuts with the softness of her grip. She didn’t play long, didn’t look up and read his expression. Instead, she made her way to straddle him and took him deep inside herself, squeezing objection all the way. The dryness didn’t last, yet he watched her with shock. The previous night they’d fucked out of furious fear. Out of some need to connect that had no explanation. Now, it was almost out of obligation that she raised herself up and down on his cock, rubbing him to a rough ragged arousal that had his fangs almost reasserting themselves.

But the look in her eyes told him a tale. Told him a story that made him want to hurt her again. Made him want to hurt himself that he’d brought such a strong woman to this self-conscious no-knowledge of herself.

His fingers gripped her hips and slammed her down. Her pussy lips were taut around the base of his cock and he groaned at the sensation, wanting to smack himself that he had to make her stop.

“What are you trying to do, sweets?”

Her eyes glittered green fear and he could see terror making her body seize.

“D-did I do it wrong? I j-just read how men like it i-in the mornings and I thought…I didn’t know what to do and you were ha—“

He couldn’t let her continue, couldn’t let her kill herself in an act she didn’t understand or even seem to want.

“Oh Buffy, you don’t have to feel like you owe it to a bloke to get him off just because his rod is all set to go.”

She hiccuped and Spike felt himself melt by virtue of her tears. The contortion of her face was too much, breaking his heart and making him dwell on all the mistakes he’d made since laying eyes on her the very first night he’d been in Sunnydale.

“You don’t want me?”

She was so utterly miserable that Spike was beginning to wonder if stopping her and explaining the lack of necessity for her to adapt to a man’s needs had been the right path to take.

“Sweetheart, I think I’ve always wanted you. I’m jus’…guess I’m regretting how we first…maybe we should slow down, yeah? Try and sort through the mess a bit before we get even more tangled.”

Her lower lip wobbled even as her eyes hardened—and then her body was once again in motion and he felt her juices seep around his cock and treating him to a slippery ride. It was glorious and he loved the look of power on her face as she controlled his presence inside her. Then she was guiding his itching fingers to her nipples and he groaned, needing to tighten his clamp around them as he squeezed her to a higher arousal.

She didn’t look so innocent as she pounded him into her mattress. Her face was scrunched up with pleasure, her lips slackened in her concentration on the power of manipulating his cock and his mind. He didn’t mind, though. A woman deserved to be queen of her man—and belatedly he realised he WAS hers, couldn’t be more than devoted to one at a time. He didn’t love her, but he adored the sensations she wrought from his cock—craved the continuation of pleasure as she moved over him, circling her hips and squeezing him tight with her hands braced against his biceps. It brought her low enough for him to taste those glorious pink nubs. They were like fresh rosebuds and just as succulent in his mouth. The flicker of his tongue against the hardened peak had her writhing and moaning in pleasure and he was satisfied—more so than when, seconds later, he shot himself free in her darkened hidden depths.

His demon loved fucking her. Loved being fucked BY her. Rejoiced in Dru’s sacrifice to bring him this, as long as he didn’t think about it too closely. When the Slayer seemed to burst around him, her body shuddering in time to the throbbing impulse of her pussy, her nails digging brutally into his skin, he felt the settling of their morose passage through relationship hell as he succumbed to it.

It was pain. They’d shared nothing good yet. Nothing but the satisfaction of making her shake and no truth of the flesh.

He’d never get tired of seeing the wobbling perfection of her tits. When she slumped over him and they brushed his chest, Spike almost thought he felt heaven, and his cock responded with instant rigidity.

The controlled shaking of her body told him she was crying and Spike felt the cold certainty that he’d fucked it up again. He thought she needed to show him who was boss by riding his cock till he blew, but she was still caught in this adolescent misapprehension of sex. He was teaching a baby the rites of love, the needs of the beast, and he somehow hated her for that. Hated Dru for delivering him to a child.

As gently as his blooming anger allowed, he shifted her off his body and made to leave her. He refused to look at more of her tears, wanting to stake himself for his own contrary behaviour and actions. Refused to be so bloody slayer whipped that he resembled the poof he was going to kill.

Once the concentration he’d needed for dressing was unnecessary, he stopped and felt the warmth of day on his leather covered back. He was stuck here till the moon began to glow, but be buggered if he was going to wallow in temptation.

With a barely coherent mind, he stalked from the room and down the stairs.

A door slammed and then silence, leaving no real clue as to how he’d disappeared in the shine of day, but it left Buffy alone. Alone with her thoughts, emotions and fears.

It was a destructive combination. Destructive and terrifying as Buffy resigned herself to the cold vacuum his disappearance left in her heart and her room. The imprint of his head was still sunk into her pillow, and rather than stem the flow of her tears, she buried her face in the soft reassurance that he’d been there and cried harder.

He’d left, completely wordless and revealing nothing of what she suspected was disgust. He’d tried to stop her giving him pleasure. Surely that meant he didn’t enjoy her? Couldn’t bear the thought of her pleasing him even though she made him come?

It was all so wretched…and the horror of it all just confused Buffy more. She hated him, and yet it broke something inside to think he didn’t want her. Didn’t think she was enough.

She supposed it might be selfish to expect him to get over the dusting of his partner of a century, but Buffy didn’t know what to do about any of this. They should be talking. Should be making a plan or working out what they were to each other.

Instead, he made her feel like a real pro…good for a go, but not good enough for love.

And the thought that she might want love from an evil vampire like Spike just confirmed how crazy she actually was. There was no question he was capable of it—not after seeing how devastated losing his partner of over a century made him. Everything about it was wrong—the timing, the being, the beginning of their attachment.

With nothing worked out in her heart or her head, Buffy cried hard enough to traumatise herself into sleep.

A miserable, grief-stricken vampire listened to her devastation from the basement, and wept.





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