And things that are yet to be done. Open the door!’
It was the cold that nudged Buffy’s senses first, a deep, bone jarring cold. As awareness began to filter through her sleep-addled mind, she became conscious of the hard, uneven surface beneath her. Her brain still fuzzy, she frowned, bewildered about why she might be laying somewhere so unsnuggly.
She opened her eyes. Nothing! She’d either gone blind or her surroundings were utterly void of any form of light, natural or artificial. Either way, she was in the dark, and a claustrophobic terror began to claw at her as adrenaline flooded her bloodstream like a shot of ice.
Cautiously, she sat up, her hands clutching at the wet, rough surface beneath her naked legs and panty covered backside. She shivered, her thin tank top offering no protection against the bitter chill.
She was encased in utter silence; no sound, no sight, no sign of life. She took a deep breath, the thick, stagnant air seeping sluggishly into her lungs, reluctant to surrender its measure of oxygen. Straining all of her senses, she desperately sought to detect any clues about her surroundings. But the silence continued to wrap her in its indifference, and the darkness blanketed the space around her like a sneer. Buffy felt isolated, alone, imprisoned in the dark nothingness, and a sense of foreboding swept over her. The eerie sensation of total solitude intensified, and a feeling of emptiness welled up inside her as she realized why.
Ever since his return, Buffy had been able to sense Spike’s presence. To be honest, she’d always experienced a little quivery sensation that signaled he was in the vicinity, a prickle of awareness that seemed more defined, more personal, somehow more sensual than the standard back of-the-neck tingle that she got off other vamps.
Over the years of their acquaintance that tingle had become so ingrained, so familiar, that its loss had contributed significantly to the deep depression she’d suffered from during those early weeks in England. In her state of despair and mourning, she probably wouldn’t have even been able to separate out the loss of her long standing Spike-tingle from the misery of the loss of him, so disoriented and overwhelmed by grief had she been.
But later, after his release from the amulet, she had welcomed that tingle back with almost the same enthusiasm she had used to greet the vamp that caused it. As the pieces of Spike’s body, his flesh, his very essence had begun reassembling themselves before her eyes, the prickling sensation that always announced his arrival had washed over her, bathing her in its familiar warmth and security.
Over the next few days, particularly after his little love bite, that awareness had deepened and strengthened until it had settled into an almost solid presence in the depths of her soul. They still hadn’t carried out the mating bond, in fact they hadn’t even discussed it properly, and Spike hadn’t bitten her since that first night, yet the link between them was strong and comforting.
They couldn’t read each other’s thoughts or sense one another’s emotions or injuries. She didn’t think they could use it like a locator beacon or a homing device, but to be fair they hadn’t done any research on bonds and she hadn’t even asked Spike how the connection felt from his side of the bridge. She’d just pretty much assumed it was as good for him as it was for her.
They had also never formally tested how far away they could be from one another before the link started to fade or cut out. Whether extreme distance would cool the familiar, deep-seated warmth that she now associated with Spike, shift it down a gear to the more garden variety, back of the neck vamp tingle, cause it to pass through a staticky stage before the signal faltered, or simply allow their awareness to continue unabated, Buffy couldn’t say.
But she did know that moderate distance had no discernable effect. The odd day they were apart was generally because one or other of them went up to London, either for council business (Spike) or shopping (Buffy). She missed being away from him, even for a few hours. But she was always comforted by that little background buzz of awareness, still coming in loud and clear, no matter that he was outside her immediate vicinity.
Even significant distance seemed to have little impact. Three weeks ago, she, Dawn and Svetlana, the Russian field slayer, had portal hopped over to the Ukraine, then flown on to Moscow. They were officially there to scan and identify the Russian baby slayers, but unofficially to hit the shops off Red Square. They’d spent the evening and the following morning at their hotel, scanning and identifying 38 girls over thousands of miles, then they’d rewarded themselves with an entire afternoon’s shopping. All three girls picked up some awesome bargains, including Dawn’s find, a floaty, shimmery vintage Valentin Yudashkin creation that she’d worn to the wedding.
The whole time, Buffy could feel the link humming quietly in the background, maybe not as strong and tingly as when they were near one another, but still there, like a silent, warm presence in the back of her mind. The only momentary glitch had been as she’d stepped through the key portal, the signal stuttering and fading away, but only for a second, surging back again as soon as she stepped into Colleen and Matt’s motel room in Kiev.
The homeward journey had been the same, a little falter, before roaring back to life as she stepped out of the portal and back into the lounge at the Lodge, back into Spike’s arms.
Buffy didn’t know how the link worked or whether it was mystical – part of some new psychic sensitivity Spike had picked up during his little vacation in Nirvana, the to-be-expected side effect of her having been vamp-bitten, or even some off-shoot of the dream-claim he’d made on her while trapped in the amulet: or purely emotional – the intuitive connection that two people deeply in love with one another can develop. She had little or no knowledge or experience of either. But she knew how it made her feel – loved and safe and always connected, never alone.
But now, sitting here in this cold, wet, pitch-black space, a terrifying awareness swept over her. The connection with Spike was gone; she couldn’t feel it at all. No comforting hum, no reassuring warmth, it was gone. It wasn’t fuzzy or weak or stretched out; it was just gone. Gone.
Terror bubbled up inside her again, this time sharper and more absolute than before, amplified by a devastating feeling of abandonment. She felt dizzy and weak, overcome by fear-induced nausea. In the silence she could hear an anguished howl, a beseeching voice screaming out for Spike, a wailing in the night for love lost. Whether the sound passed her lips or simply echoed through the blurred corners of her distressed psyche, she could not say.
Time passed, slowly, painfully. In the darkness, Buffy squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists, struggling to slow her ragged breathing and settle her pounding heart rate. Gradually, reason began to seep back into her mind. She tried to soothe the grief in her soul, quieten the dread in her blood. She needed to calm down and think, work out what this loss of connection could mean.
It didn’t have to mean he was dead, did it? But what did it mean? Maybe they were just really far apart? Maybe she was dead, except this dark, cold, hard place surely didn’t seem like her idea of Heaven! Anyway, her heart was still beating and she was still breathing, even though she felt so cold, so empty and so sore.
Huh! She hadn’t realized that earlier – that she was in physical pain, besieged as she had been by fear and emotional pain. But now she thought about it, she was – filled with a deep gnawing agony. She tried to block it out, tried to build a barrier around the pain and what it meant. A deep, primal horror washed away all reason, all conscious thought. But even as her mind froze, her hands took on a life of their own, and began to drift slowly towards her abdomen. Her fingers brushed against the wet, sticky hem of her tank, before fluttering downwards, naively searching out the gentle swell of her belly.
The appalling, incomprehensible message her questing hands finally relayed back could not be decoded by Buffy’s conscious mind, it simply did not make sense. In any event, her brain had shut down, a rational reaction when faced with a shocking horror too foul to contemplate.
But her subconscious mind understood what the jagged edges of torn flesh and muscle ripped across her stomach meant, what the cooling blood and barren agony signaled, and she tipped her head back to the foul darkness around her and screamed her boundless, incessant grief and anguish out into the void.
~~~
Buffy’s scream reverberated around the room. She panted harshly and moaned as tears flowed down her cheeks and her hands clutched blindly at her belly.
Spike reached out to gently stroke her rigidly tense back and whisper reassuringly to her. “It’s alright pet, its okay now, just a bad dream sweetheart. You’re safe. Spike’s got you my luv. I’m here Buffy. Hush now kitten, you’re okay.”
As his soothing words flowed over her, calming her terror-stricken mind, his hands stroked and petted her, gentling her frozen body. He felt her muscles soften and relax and she swayed before collapsing in his arms. The tears began again, this time heralding relief.
Spike was here beside her. Buffy could feel his hand stroking her shoulder, his arm gently draped across her back, his chest pressed against her side and his cheek pressed lightly against her head. She could hear his words of reassurance whispered lovingly into her tangled tresses. And most importantly she could once again sense his link with her, humming away in the back of her subconscious, instantly soothing her just as effectively as his words or hands.
Gradually, as shock abated and awareness returned, Buffy’s hands flew back down to her abdomen. Relief and elation surged through her body as her fingers stroked the smooth, gentle swell of her pregnant belly. She grabbed Spike’s hand and placed it under her own, lightly pressing his palm against her navel. Wordlessly she looked up at him, the question revealed clearly in her moist eyes.
“Little Bit’s fine luv, heartbeat thumping away as strong as ever. Can’t say the same for your’s though pet. It’s slowing down a mite now, but it was fair rocketing just before you woke up.”
He pressed a kiss on her forehead, scooped her up onto his lap and gathered her back into his arms. Quietly they sat there, Spike propped up against the headboard, Buffy cocooned in his embrace.
Spike waited until her heart rate had returned to normal and she felt relaxed and pliant in his arms before he slid his finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “Ready to share yet luv?” he asked gently.
Buffy looked back up at him, her eyes big and shiny. She bit her lip and hesitated, staring deep into his soul before slowly nodding twice.
“Yeah. I guess,” she granted reluctantly. “But I’m really parched,” she pouted, “Could you make me a drink first?”
Spike grinned and shook his head, relieved that she was again feeling comfortable enough to use her girlish wiles on him, not that she didn’t already know that he was slave to her every whim as it was. He pressed a kiss to her forehead then slipped out of bed, ambling through to the kitchenette, unconcerned about his nudity in the warmth of the centrally heated suite. Having to worry about the air temperature was one of the few drawbacks of his Atar-gifted enhancements, but being able to walk by Buffy’s side through night and day, more than compensated for having to adjust to feeling hot or cold.
He popped a jug of milk in the microwave and frowned. Life had been very quiet over the two weeks since Rupert and Doc had gotten hitched. The place had literally emptied out the day after the event, he and Xander in charge of shuttling most of the senior slayers and field watchers out to Gatwick. Even the Bit had flown out, off to New York with Vi and her crew to do the slayer scan, and from there, all over the sodding Americas. Poor chit had only arrived back that afternoon, must be bloody exhausted.
Mind you, the imports far outweighed the exports, another batch of baby slayers, from Greece or assorted Eastern European countries, needing pick up from the airport the following day. There were over 200 of them squeezed in to the dormitories now, hell on a vamp’s nerves.
Still, it was the only action he got these days, working out with the little girls. He and Buffy worked together with the younger ones, just for the first week or so until they began to settle down around him. The young slayer Mai, one of their t’ai chi instructors, had flown off to set up the offices in Beijing with Chao-Ahn, but Heng was still here, taking three classes a day. They’d set up a fitness circuit, running, swimming and gym workouts, but the girls mostly supervised themselves through that class. Finally they’d introduced a bit of weapons work and unarmed hand to hand combat, nothing too heavy but the sparring was enough to get his blood pumping anyway.
Classes proper were due to start in two days time, and at that stage they’d have to compete with the academic subjects for slots in the timetable so they were making the most of the time they had now, building up the girls’ fitness, strength and flexibility.
The bleep, bleep of the microwave, signaling the milk had reached its optimum temperature, interrupted Spike’s thoughts. He grinned as he glanced down at his rigid cock, which had been enjoying a little reminiscing of its own. Fighting a slayer, any slayer, even the play stuff, always made it sit up and take note. Wasn’t a slight on his girl, was just slayer pheromones and battle lust combined. Stupid cock didn’t know any better, and being surrounded by the bloodthirsty little packages day in and day out, well he could hardly blame it. Luckily the Slayer didn’t either, just shook her head in amusement and took advantage of the situation whenever she could. Spike grimaced and gave his straining cock a few conciliatory strokes, more than aware that now was not the time for a show of rampant hormones.
The memory of Buffy’s recent terror-filled nightmare, communicated so clearly by her increased heart rate and moans of anguish that he hadn’t needed a bond link to know how distressed his girl was, subdued his libido more effectively than a bucket of ice water. She’d been horrified and in shock. And something told him that this was no garden-variety nightmare.
He hadn’t told the Slayer, but he’d been having dreams of his own lately, him lost and alone, searching someplace far underground, racing through a labyrinth of caves and tunnels, dagger in hand, danger ahead. He didn’t know what it meant, or where the Slayer was in his dreams, but his heart beat out a tattoo of danger and despair as he ran down the never-ending tunnels.
Sighing in recognition of the daunting task ahead, Spike finished making the two mugs of sweetened cocoa and placed them both on a tray along with a packet of biscuits (not cookies – they were in England now after all). He carried them through to the bedroom where he found Buffy propped up against the headboard, rapidly scribbling notes into her hard-backed journal.
Dawn had bought it for her so she could start recording her dreams, determined that no-one would ever have the opportunity to point the finger of inattention at her again. Although she was the younger sister, after all the sacrifices Buffy had made for her over the years, Dawn had felt bad that she hadn’t noticed how much Buffy was struggling since the Hellmouth Battle. That she hadn’t even known that her sister had been still having the Spike dreams after they arrived in England had made her feel like a nominee for bad sister of the year award. Not that Buffy herself could have escaped that dubious honor at times, but she did after all have the excuse of having to save the world at regular intervals.
Anyway, Dawn was obviously determined to make up for what she’d seen as a serious breach of sisterly protocol given her recent demonstration of overly solicitous behavior. She was constantly checking that Buffy was okay or happy and was the number one supporter of the Buffy and Spike 4ever fan club. She scowled at anyone who even looked sideways at the new couple and would openly chastise any who dared to make snarky comments. Not that anyone did these days. Weird that.
The dream journal was her attempt to ensure that Buffy was recording anything of importance so that they could analyze them for clues and deal with any up and coming apocalypses. Spike thought it was more than likely a thinly veiled hope on the teenagers part that by recording her dreams in the book Dawn gave her, Buffy would feel more inclined to share with her little sister.
Whatever the outcome, Buffy was certainly using the journal for its intended purpose at the moment. He cleared his throat as he walked around to Buffy’s side of the bed to place her hot chocolate on the bedside cabinet. She started as he moved into her peripheral vision, so absorbed in her task that she hadn’t heard him enter the room.
He watched her glance up at him warmly, before quickly noting his state of undress. Her eyes were drawn downwards, an admiring expression crossing her face as she checked out his flaccid, but still slightly engorged, member. She dragged her gaze upwards again and raised her eyebrow in question before gracing him with an impish grin.
Spike just shook his head in mock censure, pleased that she had recovered enough from her nightmare to indulge in a little flirting. But as much as he’d like to follow up on her invitation, now wasn’t the time.
“Later sweetheart, I promise. But for now we’ve got work to do right. Gotta get this dream thrashed out yeah. So drink up your cocoa and let’s get to. Sooner we start, sooner we get this little nightmare sorted out, and back in each other’s arms pet.”
This sobered Buffy pretty quickly, and the mood was catching as she prepared to tell her tale. Spike settled back into his side of the bed, both of them grabbing their hot chocolates before he leaned back against the headboard, and propped Buffy up between his spread thighs. There were no sexual overtones in their embrace, just comfort and support and unconditional love, freely given and received.
Buffy began by reading through her notes. Spike was still amazed that Buffy was so open with him. She had always been reticent about sharing her thoughts and feelings. Even in the early days of her slaying, Rupert had had to push to get details out of her about the demons she’d fought and things she’d heard. And over the years she had only got more guarded.
Spike guessed that some of it may have stemmed from her natural personality, but most of her reluctance to share came from the many secrets she’d had to keep. The big ones, like I’m a Slayer and vampires and demons are real she’d had to hide from everyone except a select few, even, to begin with, her parents. Their response to her early confession had taught her a harsh lesson, don’t tell anyone anything – they won’t believe you.
Her entire schooling was an exercise in secrecy, the Watcher’s employment as her school librarian ensuring that what could have been a refuge from the nightly dangers simply became an extension of her undercover life. She had to hide herself at home, hide herself at school. Hell, she lived in a town that made an art form of hiding from its own reality, what chance did she ever have of becoming an over sharer. Later she was forced to hide her relationship with the Big Poof from her friends and watcher, fearful that they wouldn’t approve. Not that Spike could blame them on that front.
As she’d got older and Rupert had begun to question or disagree with her decisions and then just stepped out of the picture altogether, she pulled even further inside herself. By the time she’d been dragged out of heaven, she didn’t know how to share, what to say, or who to tell. So for the most part she’d just shut up. To everyone. Except Spike.
And the amazing thing was that over the last two years that pattern had pretty much held true. Not that she would ever win the title of Little Miss Blabbermouth, but she did unload more with him than with any of the others, both verbally and non verbally.
She freely admitted that she should have been more open, both before and after the Hellmouth. She’d put herself through way more angst than was necessary had she just opened up to the others, at least Willow and Dawn. So she was trying to be more chatty and forthcoming, more in touch with and open about her feelings and fears. But the only one she really felt comfortable disclosing to was Spike. And he was fine with that, if not a little astounded.
So now she was ready to do the big dream reveal. Spike used his most encouraging words, his most supportive body language. Not that he had to put this on, he didn’t, it was just that being her major sounding board was such a huge responsibility, throwing him into the role of pseudo-Watcher as well as fiancé. And he took that responsibility very seriously.
Buffy’s account of her dream experiences began confidently enough, her narration strong and firm as she tried to describe the setting she’d found herself in. But she became increasingly more nervous as she began to unveil her emotions and sense of dread. Her voice shook as she explained her discoveries, adding details here and there so that Spike could get a pretty good idea of the landscape of what would be any woman’s most horrific dread. Describing the loss of bond was bad enough, both of them reaching for the other, as if their fingers could clarify the existence of that which only their souls could touch.
But outlining the denouement had been almost more than Buffy could take, and it had taken several attempts and a bucketful of tears before, curled up in the security of Spike’s arms, she haltingly began describing the sickening horror that her searching hands had discovered.
Spike could feel his heart stop, then lurch into an erratic cascade of staccato beats, as her words confirmed the dark suspicion he’d been harboring since her fear riven awakening. But her description painted a scene that flooded his soul with dread, the clarity of the image that danced in his head made more horrific by its familiarity.
He’d never himself committed such an act before, but he’d witnessed it more than a few times, usually with a sense of casual indifference. He’d watched Drusilla weave her dance of death, dealing out depravity and destruction with an insane glee. At times she would use her gift of thrall to lull her pregnant victim into a state of torpor before utilizing her razor sharp talons to tear and rend. At others she would tear out the expectant mother’s throat first, at least ending the poor woman’s misery, before swiftly seeking out the innocent child within.
But at her most sadistic, Dru would tear the child from its mother’s belly while the woman still lived, perfuming the air with her frantic screams of pain and terror. His sire had reveled in those occasions, swearing that the child’s blood tasted sweeter when seasoned by the mother’s fear-laced adrenaline. Spike didn’t know if that was true or not, never having partaken of the fruits of Dru’s obsession. In fact he’d thought it more than a little senseless, and somewhat barbaric, even for a vampire. But he had been happy to indulge her whim, the rewards he received afterwards more than making up for her acts of hedonistic bloodshed.
Now, in light of Buffy’s dream, Spike felt sick with a horror-filled remorse. His hands pressed shakily against her stomach, blindly seeking out the reassurance that the tiny heartbeat provided. But behind his closed eyelids the images danced on, the screaming faces of Dru’s victims morphing into Buffy’s terrified countenance.
He shook himself, ridding his head of the ghastly vision. The fire cleansing had gone a long way towards washing away his guilt, but it couldn’t remove the memories of all the atrocities he’d been a part of, all the lives he’d taken. All he could do now was to accept responsibility for his past actions and work towards doing enough good to balance out even a fraction of the evil he had inflicted on the world.
And he’d start by making sure that his love was safe, that nothing or no-one would get anywhere near Buffy or their baby. He swore that while he existed, no harm would come to either of them. His hand sought out their child, comforted by the tiny heartbeat pitter-pattering beneath his palm. They were his, his to love, and his to protect, and protect them he would, to the ends of the earth.