Tara had no belongings to gather up, so her leaving was nearly immediate. Buffy agreed to drive her back to her dorm. Tara came down briefly and said goodbye with a short wave and one of her soothing smiles. He tried to smile back at her, but what were pretexts between them now?
“I love you, Tara.”
“I know you do. I love you, t,t,too,” she said.
“Take care, there are monsters about,” he said.
His Toy didn't spare him a farewell. He paced the cage for hours after they left, keeping on the television for company. Eventually he literally began climbing the walls. Spike found that with a running start he could launch himself like a cat and catch himself in the corners of his enclosure using his long legs as a wedge.
“Like a fucking ninja,” he said to no one.
He dropped down a few times, giggling madly at the thrill of discovering his new skill. Eventually he got bored hopping about like a flying squirrel, so he just did pull ups from the bars on the ceiling of the cage. He kept up his reps through two infomercials and part of a talk show. By the time he dropped down to the floor, his arms should have been wobbling with exhaustion but they weren't. He stared at his steady hands and felt unsettled.
Spike wished he hadn't smashed the orange he'd been juggling with for there was nothing left to do with his hands. Almost nothing; he considered a wank, but he didn't want to traumatize Tara further. The thought that he didn't have mastery over his own body irritated him and made Spike want to do it more. He wondered when Tara had become such a prude. In high school she'd been the one to explain to him what cunnilingus was and how to sort it out.
This was different though, he supposed. She was probably feeling the way he was; out of control of her own thoughts, her own flesh. Still, where did all that rot about family unity go? The first sign of trouble and she'd left him. Actually it wasn't the first sign of trouble, more like the fifth or the sixth. No wonder she left, he thought.
Spike laid down on his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He concentrated on Tara and found that she was peaceful, blank. Asleep. That meant he had the all clear. He dripped his fingers across his stomach and realized what Buffy had said was true. His skin was incredibly, unnaturally soft.
“God, I am luscious, no wonder she can't finish me off,” he said, laughing to himself.
He dragged his hand over his own stomach for a long while because it felt so foreign to him, like he was touching a stranger. It reminded him of the trite expression often used by aging actresses on talk shows--”Comfortable in one's own skin.” Spike wasn't remotely comfortable in this new skin. His body had always been a known quantity until this point. He could rely on his own physical strength; he knew how to test it, how to bend it without breaking. But now...he was hard and soft in odd places; immersed in the world to the point that he was becoming alienated from his surroundings. Spike couldn't eat a sandwich without tasting the wax paper it was wrapped in, he couldn't talk to his best friend without telling her more than she could ever want to know, he couldn't get tired, but at least he could still jerk himself off, he thought.
He undid his zipper and took out his penis. It was semi-erect, it always was since he'd been changed. He thought of Buffy and it lengthened under the pressure of his fingers.
Spike knew now he would do anything; submit to anything, to stay in Buffy’s orbit. He’d said he was hers before playfully, but now he was truly her possession to deal with as she pleased. That excited him and terrified him all at once.
Spike couldn’t be with a regular girl because she couldn’t defend herself if he lost control of his blood lust. There were no other vampires like him, with a sense of conscience for people outside their immediate circles, with a soul. Buffy was all he wanted, but more than that, she felt like the only woman who could ever match him. The notion flooded him with unexpected resentment.
He stroked his length until it hurt.
Like Lacy had said, forever was a long time to be alone, and Buffy was going to leave him no matter what. Even if she opened her heart to him and gave him her body, he would outlive her. Both Buffy and Tara would leave him. Then a mad thought warmed him; he could get Tara to do the soul spell on Buffy. He could turn her and Tara, too. Then they'd be his; irrevocably, eternally his.
The thought of sinking cock and fangs into Buffy at the same time was enough to finish him. Immediately he felt ashamed, but he couldn't stop the images playing through his imagination as he came. Buffy baring her neck to him and spreading her legs; pressing his bloodied lips to hers.
As the cum spilled into his hand, he wondered why he even had ejaculate at all. He didn't piss or shit and he hadn't been sweating but he could still shoot buckets. What was the purpose of all that besides being terribly inconvenient? Maybe it was demon seed and he should've used a rubber with Buffy. Satanic pregnancy, that would be good for a laugh, Spike thought.
“Charlie would've thought it was funny,” Spike said aloud.
Spike wondered how Charlie was doing, if Fred was alright. Charlie would be really uncomfortable if he knew Spike was thinking of him at such an intimate moment. He kept laughing until fat tears were rolling down the side of his face.
And he still couldn't sleep.
Spike wiped his hand off on the hem of his black tee before he remembered it was his only shirt. He sat up and took the shirt off, then sauntered over to the pile of books Tara had given him. Spike scooped off the top book and began reading “Wuthering Heights.”
Around the time things started to get really feisty on the moors, he heard Buffy get home.
**
Buffy made Spike wait an entire day before she finally gave him his allotment of blood. When she finally came to him it was like a specter; invisible. Spike heard her precise step at the top of the stairs as he was lying on the floor. He set his novel down after carefully wedging an old envelope between the pages.
“I had no idea how disgusting this book was until I actually sat down and read it. Did you know Heathcliff desecrates Catherine's corpse not once, but twice? The second time she'd been in the ground for more than a dozen years prior to his excavating her for a little postmortem hanky panky. That's what passed for a love story in Victorian England,” Spike said.
Buffy's movements stopped as he spoke. He imagined she had one foot hovering, one hand on the rail. The scent of the pig's blood she was carrying and the smell of her body was driving him crazy with hunger.
“There's a shocking amount of depravity in your classic literature. Both those Bronte sisters were sick twists if you ask me. In Jane Eyre Mr. Rochester keeps his lover locked in an attic till' she reverts back to a feral state. And let's not even get started on Dickens,” Spike said.
The third stair from the bottom squeaked though Buffy's tread was featherlight.
“I know you're there, pet, I can feel you. Don't know why you persist in these children's games. You think if I can't see you, you can't see me? Doesn't work like that,” Spike said.
She moved closer, ignoring his words until she was right next to the cage. As Buffy snaked a hand through the bars and set down his cup, Spike shot up from the sleeping bag. Without spilling a drop of blood he grabbed her loosely by the throat. The instant their skin came together he was able to see the startled look in Buffy's round, green eyes.
“Gotcha,” he said with a smirk.
“Let me go,” she said, softly. Her voice had a chilly command that he loved.
He followed the lines of her neck with his fingers. It turned her on to have him at such a tender spot; he knew the scent of her arousal now. She was wearing one of her tiny tank tops, this one in heather gray and she had on matching panties; her feet were bare. He didn't take his hand away as they rose in unison, like two people lifting a table. Without freeing her neck, Spike's left hand went through the space between the bars to cup her breast. Buffy was statue still, her arms rigid at her sides. He pinched her nipple until he felt a hard circle under his fingers and Buffy's breath came in sawing gasps. Spike moved his touch lower until he was pressing against the triangle at the top of her legs. He traced the outline of her sex through the soft, cotton fabric. Buffy arched into his touch. She closed her eyes and the tip of her tongue poked through her pink lips.
“Do you still want me to let go?” he asked.
She flinched away from him; the moment they broke contact she went from solid flesh to empty air. He gripped one of the bars while clawing at the space where she'd been.
“It can't go on like this,” he shouted, though she was probably still standing right in front of him. After a few moments he spoke in a normal tone, hoping she would listen.
“I'd rather you just killed me,” he said.
**
After the blood had been drunk and the floor had been pounded by his bare feet for a few more hours, Spike decided he ought to try to have another lie down. He curled up on the sleeping bag and closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he found himself immersed in Tara's emotions. Whatever she was doing was making her nervous in a test-taking vein. He tried to send her reassuring feelings, but he wasn't certain that was possible given the circumstances.
Suddenly, Spike found himself sitting in the lotus position on a marble floor in an expansive, white church. He looked up and saw stone arches carved into the ceiling. Stained glass windows streaming with red and blue light were lining the walls and the pews were also white. He looked to the altar at the plain, gold crucifix, wondering why the holiness and sunlight weren't setting him aflame. Then he glanced down at his hands folded in his lap, his long, pink skirt creating a hammock between his knees. He recognized the diamond on his soft, feminine hand as his mother's engagement ring, which Tara had taken to wearing since their mom passed.
Spike was looking out from Tara's eyes, hanging around wearing her body.
“I have squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles such are promises.”
Spike turned toward the familiar voice and saw Lacy standing next to him. The words spoken next were in Tara's voice.
“Is that a spell or something?” he asked.
“Nope, Simon and Garfunkle lyrics. For a witch you're terrible with metaphor. Wait a second, what are you doing here?”
Though the sentence came out of his mouth, it was spoken without his control.
“He's with me. Besides, that's not metaphor, it's just a really broad hint,” Tara said.
“We can't do this with him here,” Lacy said.
“Right, I t,t,think I just did it wrong, I'll be back in a s,s,second,” Tara said.
Then the church vanished and Spike was lying in a bedroom he didn't recognize. He knew it was a bedroom instantly, even though he hadn't taken in the furniture yet. He heard moaning coming from above him; a man and a woman. The girl was making soft, sweet sounds. There was nothing theatrical about the noises, they were natural, intensely intimate. Spike knew he didn't belong there. The oriental rug he was lying on was wheat colored and the walls were a warm shade of beige. It was daytime, but his skin wasn't burning even though the sheer, white curtains were streaming with deadly sunshine.
The bed above him had a down coverlet in softest blue. It was Buffy's shade of blue and he knew that this was her room back home. She was the girl in the bed, but he wasn't the man. The man was dark haired, broad shouldered; Angel.
“I don't belong here,” Spike said.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Things are crazy in the DeLovely household. Only one chapter next Sunday, but it will include weird sex and Spike questioning his sanity.
Chapter End Notes:
The song lyrics Lacy speaks are from the the song, "The Boxer."