Love knock'd one night at a gentleman's heart,

When his passions were snug asleep;

But they all jumped up with a terrible start,

All heels over head in a heap.   -McDonald Clarke-

Chapter 23

Buffy knelt on the bed, on all fours, while Spike pounded into her from behind.  Even without his voice in her ear, she’d have known it was him.  The slide of his cool chest against her back, the chipped black nail polish as his fingertips pressed into her arms, the chilled column of his cock driving into her from behind.

“Like this game, do you, pet?”  His words a frantic rumbling in her ear.

She shoved her rump against him, desperate to take more of him, to bring him to the center of her.  She quickened their pace – slamming against his cock with a steady thwack, thwack, thwack.

“Harder, Spike.  Rougher.”  She reached a hand behind, sinking her nails into a round globe of his buttocks.  She could feel him shiver, his cock twitching within her.

“God, you’re an animal.”  Twisting her hair in his fist, he shoved her face down into the bed and drove into her with a fresh ferocity.  He wrapped one arm around her middle, just to anchor her for the pounding.

“Love you, Buffy.”

She ignored his words, ignored all of him but those parts she needed.  She thrust her ass against him with increasing desperation.  Just as she began to feel the edges of her orgasm beginning to flutter around him, her pussy contracting in pleasure-pain … she woke.

In William’s arms.

Dear god.  Had that moment with Spike been a dream?  Or a memory?

She was lying on her side, with one leg tossed over his.  Her crotch was grinding against William’s hip, and she could tell by his unsteady, trembling breath that he wasn’t asleep.  Oh god.  Maybe she could just … pretend to still be asleep.  Or, better yet, levitate out of bed to hover down the hall and out of the hotel.

She stilled her hips and held her breath.

William’s Wooing:  Day Four

“Good morning, darling,” his baritone rumbled, sounding so like Spike that she could only wince in response.

His hand tangled in her hair, and he wove careful fingers through it in a manner that was fantastically soothing.  He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Not really,” she muttered, wondering why no one had ever told her that horniness and hangovers were the recipe for humiliation.  Her stomach burbled a reminder of last night’s abuses, and she turned to face the wall.

He eased himself from their bed and went over to his trunk to dress for the day.

“Then I shall breakfast alone this morning, if you don’t mind.” 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she mentally thanked him for having the good grace to give her a little solo time.

Buffy remembered everything about the previous evening.  Last night she’d been naïve enough to worry that she’d wake up shamed, having no idea that she’d manage to do something in her sleep that would dwarf her previous debasement.

When she heard the click of the door latch behind him, she climbed out of bed shakily.  The floor felt as though she were still aboard The Adriatic, moving subtly beneath her cautious feet.  She wove a more or less direct path to her trunk, picking her rose-patterned dress, based on the simple fact that it was her least complicated dress to button.  Though her stomach threatened to spill its meager contents, it remained reluctantly cooperative.  As she dressed she began to get a better hold of her bearings; the merry-go-roundness of the room slowed, then stopped all together.

Since dressing while hungover was a fairly complicated procedure, she’d just finished buttoning her boots when William returned from his breakfast.

“I brought some toast for you,” he said, placing a neatly folded napkin on the small table by the bed.

“Thanks,” she said.  “What’s the plan today?”

“And ruin the surprise?  I couldn’t.  But we shall need hats.  You seemed to so enjoy our outing to Coney Island, and since it’s our last day in New York City, I thought another outdoor adventure might be in order.”

“Our last day, already?” 

He confirmed with a nod.  “Our train for Chicago leaves tomorrow morning.”

The news of it shouldn’t have rattled her.  It wasn’t as though she felt at home in New York City.  But it did seem as if the moment she settled into any kind of pattern or familiarity, everything upended again.

William reached over and patted her shoulder.  It was a strangely parental gesture and she couldn’t help but smile at him.  He could always sense it when she was disturbed, even when she was very careful to keep it under wraps. 

He gave her a grin of his own.  “And then you’ll be home again.  We’ll both be home – in California.”

“How long will the trip take?” she asked.

“To Chicago?  A day and a half.  Shocking, isn’t it?  Considering the distance, I’d imagined it to take a week or more.”

“And how long until California?”

“Assuming good connections and no troubles along the track, we should arrive approximately eight days after arriving in Chicago.”

“That’s no time at all.  When I played The Oregon Trail in fifth grade, it took months – and even then most of my crew died of dysentery.  I’m impressed, William.” She finished tying her hair into a simple knot.  “So … hats today?”

“Yes, and you may wish to bring a parasol.”

“Oh, hell no.  I draw the line at straw hats.”

He leaned down and deftly stripped the top sheet off their bed, folding it carefully before stuffing it into the satchel he’d brought to the beach with them a few days ago.

“You’re stealing hotel sheets?” she asked.

“Borrowing,” he corrected, adding a small guidebook to the satchel.

Buffy couldn’t help but feel a little stunned by his actions.  The shy man she thought she knew had devolved into a sheet-stealing card cheat in the last twenty-four hours.  Just when she thought she had a grip on who he was, he found a way to surprise her.

“If you’re ready, we can leave for our outing.  I think you’ll be extremely fond of our manner of conveyance.  It’s quite modern!”

“I can’t wait,” Buffy said, surprising herself by meaning it.  His enthusiasm was endearing and absolutely contagious.

After a quick trip through the lobby and a short stroll of a few city blocks, William led her into a small grocery, informing her that they’d need to gather supplies for a picnic.  They selected some meats, cheeses and rolls.  She also picked up a couple of peaches and a small cluster of grapes by way of hydration, since bottled water seemed out of the question.  After they added their purchases to the satchel, they left the shop.

They walked another block and a half, then he turned and guided her up a wide set of stairs which opened out onto a platform three stories above the city streets.

“The elevated train!”  William announced.  “Or the ‘El’ as the locals call it.  It’s fantastically modern and efficient.  It costs only ten cents to ride anywhere within the city – making it convenient for all manner of people.  I knew you would like the egalitarian nature of the thing.”

“Well, I like horses as well as the next person, but this looks like a nice change of pace.”

They didn’t wait long before the steaming engine roared into the station, sprinkling a shower of ash and soot on the poor unfortunates below.  Modern conveyance, my ass, she thought.

Jostled and slightly ash-covered, they worked their way inside, where they managed to find a seat in the middle of the car.  Immediately after they’d settled, a striking red-headed woman approached William.

“Is this seat taken?”  She gestured at the small bit of bench next to him.

“Oh, please,” William stammered as he began to stand. 

Red-head waved her hand in the air.  “No, don’t get up.  I’m sure I can fit.” 

The hussy wriggled in next to Buffy’s husband, then turned to him with a bright smile.  “Are you English, perhaps?  I thought I detected a British accent just then.”

He nodded, clearly uncomfortable.  This did nothing to discourage Red, however.

“I know, I know.  I’m too friendly, even by American standards.  But you English with your little accents and standoffish manners.  I can’t help but find it so charming.”

William blushed furiously while Buffy felt a green-eyed monster stretch to life and let out a roar inside her head.  I’m the one who makes William blush like that.  Nobody else has a right to it.  Grinding her jaw shut, she fired a glare at the intruder.

Red held a gloved hand out to William. “I’m sorry.  I should properly introduce myself, shouldn’t I?  I’m Miss Violet Shedd, of Brooklyn.  And you are?”

“Fingerbottom,” Buffy interrupted, laying on a thick English accent.  She reached across William and grabbed the woman’s hand in what she hoped was a fantastically painful grip.  “Reginald Fingerbottom.  And I am his wife … Penelope.”

“Ah,” Red said, wincing as she worked her hand free from Buffy’s grasp.

“You’re here on vacation, I suppose?”  Miss Shedd addressed her question to William, who appeared to be occupied with staring a hole into the floorboards and was in no condition to respond.

“Yes,” Buffy replied.  “We needed a break from the routine, you know.  Doing things on our estate with the hounds and the scones and the … wrangling of serfs hither and yon.  It can be fantastically tiring.”

Violet blinked at her.  “I can well imagine.”

The El rumbled along, and an uneasy silence fell around them.  Violet took a sudden interest in looking out the window while William remained transfixed by the railcar’s floor.  Buffy watched Violet like a cat looking out the window at a bird feeder.

When the train sighed to a halt at a particularly popular station, Violet stood and shook out her skirts.

“Pleasure to meet you,” the red-head mumbled, giving William a tight nod.

“Tally-ho,” Buffy said enthusiastically, watching the door close behind Violet’s retreat.

He shook his head, recovering at last.  “That may well have been the worst English accent I’ve ever heard.”

“Whatever,” she shrugged.

“And ‘tally-ho’ is not a way we say goodbye.  It’s a fox hunting term, dear, although strangely appropriate considering your attitude during the encounter.”

“It beat ‘skanky-ho,’ which would have been way more fitting.”

“You know, darling, my eyes only see you.  You needn’t be jealous.”

“Jealous?”  She scoffed.  “I wasn’t jealous.”

“Of course, Mrs. Fingerbottom.  Whatever,” he mimicked, not even having the decorum to hide his laughter.

After a few more stops, the train rumbled to a stop which appeared to be the end of the line, as the car emptied entirely.  They followed the crowd off the train.

Green-Wood Cemetery, the sign read.

“For real?  A cemetery, William?”  She grinned at him.

“It’s the second most popular tourist destination in New York, just behind Niagara Falls.  It’s quite famous; Central Park was based on its design.”

“So, that’s why you brought me here?”  She felt a twinge of disappointment.

“Not quite.”  He blushed and led her down an uncrowded path, tucking her arm in his, while he carried their picnic lunch beneath his other arm.

“Why then?”  She pried.

“Because I thought the slayer in you might appreciate such a place.  That you might feel at ease here.”

His thinking of spending a day at a cemetery was as odd as it was perfect.  She couldn’t imagine a place she’d rather be.  It felt strangely comforting to be walking amidst the tombstones … with him.

Green-Wood was a delightful garden, she had to admit.  It was thickly forested, providing shaded pathways wending their way past flower-lined ponds.  It was worlds away from the grass-covered parking lots that Sunnydale had called cemeteries.   She grinned and squeezed his arm.

He’d clearly been reading up on the cemetery.  As they strolled past a crypt-lined pond, he pointed out which ones were adorned with Tiffany glass.  They paused for a long while to admire a curious tomb that was shaped like an Egyptian pyramid.

After a long walk through the ponds, they made their way through the more forested area of the cemetery, where the graves were few and far between.  When they did appear, they tended to be monumental, with a small gate and garden around them.  Even better, there were relatively few people around and it felt as though they were in a private sanctuary of their own making.

Buffy was especially charmed by a grave for Do-hum-me, an Indian princess of the Iowa tribe, according to the stone.  Carved into her tombstone was a profile of the brave who loved her, head bowed in mourning.

On a small mound next to the princess was another monument which held William’s attention.  McDonald Clarke, read the inscription.

“The Mad Poet,” William said solemnly.

“Was he famous?”  Buffy asked.

“Not particularly.  He was a great inspiration to Walt Whitman, however.”

“How did he die?”

“He was never of the most stable mind, sadly.  He died as a victim of some cruel youths.”

He shook his head, then tilted a look toward her.  “But today is for brighter things, love.  Does this spot agree with you for a picnic?  Without breakfast, you must be famished.”

“Looks great,” she said, realizing that she really was feeling pretty ravenous.

William unpacked the satchel until he came to the sheet, which he unfolded with a snap before laying it out upon the grass beneath the branches of an elm. 

The last vestiges of her hangover had been burned away by the sun, and she was beginning to feel more like herself again.  She sat on the sheet and stretched her legs out with a sigh - the perfect way to spend a day.

Before William unpacked their picnic, he untucked two cloth napkins from his pocket, pilfered from the breakfast buffet no doubt; her formerly innocent husband’s proclivities towards criminal activities caught her off guard once again.  He laid out the meats and cheeses, then settled in close by her side.

Though William ate slowly, Buffy had a hard time finding the brakes.  She busily made the rolls into mini-sandwiches with the kind of dedicated determination usually reserved for Subway employees.

After tucking away her third mini-wich, she noticed William looking at her.  It was the look he reserved for when he thought she wasn’t looking – absolute honesty mixed with adoration.  As usual, it made her slightly uncomfortable, so she resorted to her go-to solution of inane chatter to distract him.

“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses today?”

“I don’t strictly require them, except for reading.”  He popped a grape into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.  “You encouraged me to stop wearing them when I knew you as Elizabeth.”

“Why did I do that?”

He smoothed out the blanket and his eyes wore a kind of smiling expression.  “Initially, you said because it was easier to kiss when I wasn’t wearing them.   Later you said that you thought I used them as a way to distance myself from others.  That I used them as a barrier, a protection.”

“I said that?”  She was incredulous.  On the rare occasions when he would talk about her as Elizabeth, she felt like a pale shadow of the more enlightened, Obi-Wan version of herself. 

She let out her breath with a whoosh and squinted out to the harbor, sunlight flashing off the water in the distance. 

He reached over, threading his fingers through hers.

“You hold a great store of wisdom, love.  You just underestimate yourself.  Need I remind you how well you handled our situation on the ship when Dru made an appearance?”

“Well sure,” she scoffed.  “When it comes to things like that I’ve got it handled.  It’s the other stuff that I tend to make a mess of.”

“What stuff?” he asked, as he plucked a grape from the cluster and held it up to her. She parted her lips, and he slid the fruit into her mouth. 

“The relationshipy stuff.”

He lifted her hand to his mouth, then kissed the back of it tenderly, his bright blue eyes watching her carefully every moment.  “You’ll get no complaints from me.”

“Was I good with the relationship stuff as her?  As Elizabeth?”

“I keep telling you, Buffy.  You’re her, my love, my wife.  I see no difference.  But if it eases your mind, yes, we had our troubles.”

“We did?”  She knew she shouldn’t have sounded quite so overjoyed at the news, but she couldn’t help herself.

He laughed and squeezed her hand.  “Indeed, we did.  The thing that matters is that we got through them.”

“For how long, though?”

He raised a brow at her.

“I mean, William, how long had we even been together?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment before responding.  “Just over six months.  Dear God, has it really only been that short a time?”

She shook her head.  He was so utterly convinced of them as a couple, yet he hadn’t really known either version of her for very long.  Maybe if ‘Elizabeth’ had been given enough time she’d have fucked this up as surely as Buffy was bound to.

Feeling uncomfortable with her sudden burst of talkativeness, she reached over to grab a peach.  As she bit into the juicy flesh, she felt a small trickle of juice run down her chin.  She reached a finger up to catch it, then slipped her fingertip into her mouth.  William watched her with a look of such hunger on his face that it startled her for a moment.

“Want some of my peach?”  She held it out to him, but he didn’t take it from her.  Instead, he leaned down and bit into the flesh of the peach slowly, watching her carefully through half closed eyelids.

Once his teeth had bitten through the fruit, she pulled it back, her breath catching in her throat.  It was another one of those moments that happened between them from time to time – when they would change on a dime, going from innocence to eroticism in an instant.  The experience was like a kind of time-traveling in its own way, and she had no idea where the portals lay that caused the shift.

“I wish you would tell me,” he said.

“Tell you what?” she asked, perplexed.

“Some of what you’re thinking.  I’d settle for half.  I see a thousand thoughts flying about behind your eyes, but you let very little slip from between your lips.”

He tilted a look at her, giving her a half-smile and looking so hopeful that she had no resistance to it.

“I was thinking about Elizabeth,” she admitted.  And it wasn’t entirely untrue.  She’d been thinking of her just before she’d been mesmerized by how fantastically sensual he looked while eating a peach.

“Well, that is fortuitous.  I was thinking of her as well.”

“You were?”  She sounded as disappointed as she felt, damn her voice.

“About how you persist in thinking that you’re different people.”  He sat up and leaned over to root around inside the satchel as he continued.  “I had intended to give this to you today, during our picnic.  I suppose now would be the time for it.”

He withdrew a black jewelry gift box from the confines of the bag.  Immediately she felt her heartbeat begin to pound away inside her throat, like a rabbit trapped in a snare, thump-thump-thump.

“Oh!  Err!”  She attempted to stand, but was thwarted by her dress and landed back on the sheet with an umph.  If she had her way, if she hadn’t been slowed down by her evil skirts, she’d be bounding off, Nike-style, halfway across the cemetery.

“Please,” he looked at her, raw and all defenses down, his lips thinned to a worried line.  She had no choice but to still her nervous attempts at fleeing.  Clenching her hands into fists and balling up the sheet, she willed herself to stay.

“I had this made for you.  I hoped that it would be something to remind you of how much I adore you.  You, Buffy.” 

He pressed the jewelry box into her hand.

“Oh William, I have a wedding ring already.  You didn’t need to …” She stalled.

“It’s not a ring, love.”  He smiled tenderly.

She opened the lid. 

Nestled down within folds of black satin, a silver necklace winked at her.  Slipping her fingers inside the box, she pulled it out and held it up to examine in the sunlight.  The necklace was made of an intricate chain and featured a small token dangling from the center:  a delicate silver stake, about a half inch in length.

“Is this a … stake?”

He beamed a smile at her.  “It is, exactly.”

A stake.

Not a cross, to protect her from evil.  A stake, to celebrate the slayer that she had been – the slayer that he knew her still to be, deep inside. 

Her eyes filled with tears in an instant, coursing out and splashing down her cheeks.  Even though she wasn’t supposed to remember her drunken antics, she knew – and she felt the fool, knowing it was the second time she’d wept within a day.

He lifted a gentle hand to her cheek, rubbing her tears away with his thumb.

“May I put it on you?”

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded and scooted around on the blanket so that her back was to him.  He placed the necklace around her throat, his fingers soft against the back of her neck when he fastened the clasp.

He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear.  “And you should know, since you’re always comparing yourself to ‘Elizabeth,’ that you handled this magnificently just now.  Back when I gave you the ring, it was something of a disaster.”  He placed a bold kiss on top of her heard.  “You weren’t a saint, then or now, Buffy.  Neither am I.  It’s good to keep that in mind, I think.”

“I’m an ass,” she admitted, as she turned around.  “Thank you.  I didn’t even thank you.”

He chuckled.  “I don’t know.  I think ‘I’m an ass’ might soon replace ‘thank you’ in these situations.  And you’re most welcome, love.”  His eyes flashed down to where the necklace lay against her throat.  “It suits you – delicate and deadly, just like my Buffy.”

It came to her then in an instant, like waking up and finding her house on fire. 

She was his Buffy and he was her William.  She loved him.

She’d probably loved him for a while, if she’d stopped long enough to be honest with herself.  Maybe it had been imprinted on her brain, like the synapse highways she’d learned about in Psychology class.  Maybe it was just his constant wearing down of her walls with his love, his Williamness.   Or maybe she’d never know why, because maybe ultimately nobody ever knew why.

She loved him.

And now she had to decide what to do about it. 

 ---------------------------------

Author’s Notes:

Not my blog, but there are some lovely photos of Green-Wood here! If this hyperlink works this time, it's because of Passion4Spike, so thanks P4S!!

Also:  McDonald Clark, the Mad Poet, was very real.  He was a very eccentric character who lived on the outskirts of the social circles of NYC in the mid-nineteenth century.  People described him as being “as innocent as a child,” gentile, inoffensive, always mild and always happy.  He carried a torch for a young woman, but it was unrequited love.  When a group of youths led him to believe that she cared for him too, they let him down very cruelly, leading to his breakdown and admission to an asylum.  Eventually, a policeman found him destitute and put him in a jail cell where he drowned himself with an open faucet.

This may have been going through William’s mind when he looked at that grave.  And McDonald’s story so echoed William’s original story that I had to tell you.