Take Heart 3, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R;.
Timeline: After a different Primeval, BtVS 4.21
Author's note: warning: character deaths, horror and possibly even fluff. Don't believe that combination is possible? Try me!
Deep obeisance to the wonder that is Spikejones, who beta’ed this.
Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305
Feedback: Yes, please, loads of it, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
They're back at the edge of the cliff, trying to locate Finn’s patrol down below in the increasing murk. Spike doesn't know what Adam's plans are, but some of his human parts must have overdosed on Lord of the Rings; he seems to be trying hard to recreate Mordor down there. How to pinpoint Mr. Bland in time before they blast themselves to unconsciousness and waste another night? Spike can't afford not to find Riley, he needs to be out of here for his happy ride into freedom. The Slayer will never release him from the spell unless they find the tosser; the soldier is her only remaining link to her old life, what with her mum and the Superfriends pushing up daisies.
"Slayer? Shall we?"
She unbuttons her jeans and he shoves them down for her, opens up his own pants and slides in easily from behind. In spite of his irritation at her, his boredom with the whole shebang, the living heat of her keeps surprising and overwhelming him. The surge of power between them builds to greater heights with each fuck. Spike closes his eyes and thrusts slowly, trying to control the flares of energy racing through them both, wanting to postpone the climax and the total loss of control he fears.
The moment he closes his eyes he’s falling, clawing his hands in the air at the sudden loss of footing and inexplicable vertigo that hits him. They’re falling over the edge, he hadn’t realized they were that close, and they’re…not falling, but floating over Sunnydale. The whole grid is laid out beneath him; he knows they’re up high, but he can still see every detail, like an eagle suspended on a column of hot air.
“Look,” Buffy says in his mind. “A looting party.”
They zoom in to check it out. They’re a motley crew, mostly dressed in khakis, and it’s only when you come close that it’s noticeable there’s not a normal being among them. No pure blooded demons, no humans; each and everyone is patched together from different bits. They shuffle and shamble, not being symmetrical, most of them, and it’s hard to guess why Adam would create beings like these. Can this lopsided lot of Frankenfreaks really be effective in battle?
The leader lifts an orange arm, bits of khaki battledress still flapping from it, and croaks out an order. Spike feels Buffy twitch, and it almost lands them back in their bodies. It’s kinda off-putting to see them crouched there on the cliff, rigid grimaces on both their faces, taut and agonized. They zoom in again to get a better look at the leader, and yeah, it’s Soldier Boy, what’s left of him anyway. Not so pretty anymore, although there are remnants of healthy Idaho hide, sitting strangely tan amidst the green and purple of his assorted parts. Spike could almost pity him. If it were up to him, he’d just put him out of his misery. Well, after having a bit of fun with him, probably.
His focus wrenches back to the Slayer quivering beneath him, about to go over the edge. His own embarrassing level of excitement is a sure sign he's about to follow suit. It'll take them at least an hour to get down the cliff path; if only they could be down there already.
The ground hits his feet with spine-shattering impact, and in his surprise and shock he lets go his last pretense at control and convulses hard, clawing at the Slayer's shoulders. He's strangely sorry he can't see what she looks like right now, next time he wants to fuck her face to face. Kiss her. The unnaturalness of that idea jolts him out of his stupor and he takes in his surroundings, casually holding the Slayer close to him with his hands on her breasts. Her heartrate is slowing down and her body hangs limp and warm against him.
They're in a cemetery, close to his crypt. That's where the patrol they observed a minute ago was headed. How did they get here? Did they actually jump down the cliff and land here? He lifts a dusty boot and sees it's left an indentation of at least 4 inches in the not so soft California soil . Curiouser and curiouser.
Spike's sharp ears pick up the stomping of dozens of clunky demon boots coming in their direction and he picks up the Slayer and shuffles into his crypt. Let's hope they look like one of Adam's creatures themselves, a Slayer-vampire hybrid, the scrumptious Slampire.
He knows he could just have shoved her off his dick and let her walk himself. He's definitely slipping; plenty of hot pussy waiting for him in the outside world, no need to get attached to this one. It may have the strength of 10 Hoover Power Vacs, but quim’s just a starter. He prefers the main course of live blood.
Spike leans the Slayer against the wall of his crypt and she moans throatily when the cold stone touches her bared breasts. Why can’t he stop fucking her? They don't have time for this. She starts sliding down to the floor, her legs won’t hold her up anymore and he lifts her on top of the sarcophagus. It’s too high to fuck her standing up, so he climbs up after her, much hindered by the trousers around his knees, and heaves a sigh of relief when he slides inside her hot cunt again. Ah, now he can look at her. Her face with its golden tan is deliciously flushed, her eyes are enormous and her mouth is the most wonderful ripe red… He sucks on her lower lip, thrusts his tongue in her mouth, stealing her breath and her sanity away from her.
Spike vaguely hears voices outside, but he prefers to concentrate on the scorching hot slayer hips undulating below him. Buffy freezes and starts talking to him, hammering weak fists on his chest. She should shut up and let him get on with it.
"Spike! Stop! I hear Riley out there. We have to get to him now."
Spike's not so sure that’s really necessary. They could just fuck some more. The Slayer pushes him off and he falls down hard. She's futilely wrestling with her clothes, which he could have watched for hours if he hadn’t been planning on fucking some more.
"My hands aren't working. Why are my hands not working? Spike, did you do an evil spell on my hands?"
Time to show her what a vampire is made of. His hands are rock steady and he zips and buttons the Slayer up with impressive speed. His knees are as wobbly as the Marshmallow man after the Ghostbusters hit it, but she won't know if he keeps on kneeling.
They sneak out of the crypt, doing their best silent and stealthy act, which doesn't rate high on Spike's stealth-ometer, but he's making allowances for discomfort in the crotch area. The troop of demonic hybrids is easily visible in the bright lights of the Sunnydale cemetery. Finn is pacing up and down in front of them, setting out a battle plan or some such. All the demons are at least as tall as the overgrown soldier himself; apparently height was a selection criterion, which everybody knows is bollocks. Twenty really tall mean demons. He guesses the Slayer and he need a battle plan too.
They slither back to the shelter of the crypt.
"Did you see Riley? They've given him more demon parts than Adam even! I have to save him! Turn him back!" the Slayer whimpers.
"Not every monster can be turned back, Slayer," Spike says. "It's nothing like putting a soul back in."
Her fists are balled and she looks at him as if he personally transformed her lover into three quarters Nightcrawler.
"We separate him from his troops and take him to a safe place," she says, ignoring his sensible advice. The degree-of-difficulty score hits her. She wilts a little. “We can do that. Right?”
"We could just blast them with our death ray," Spike suggests.
"We have a death ray?" the Slayer says.
"Worth a try, innit? Who knew we had helicopter-view and teleportation?"
"Yeah." She doesn’t sound convinced. "We'd have to…assume position, wouldn't we, for it to work? Nothing is worth Riley seeing me like that. Death ray is out."
Pity. The Slayer looks at him doubtfully. They're sitting very close, knee to knee and almost nose to nose, and he can see every little gold fleck in her irises. She purses her lips and he can't resist kissing them. His brain ejaculates an idea. He never realized he knew so much about military jargon and tactics. Wearing that SS jacket on the sub all those years ago must have rubbed off on him.
"We'll just have to revert to the good old tactic of guerrilla warfare," Spike says.
"Remind me of the good old guerrilla tactics?"
"We pick 'em off one by one under cover of darkness." It sounds like a quote from a movie, but blimey if he can remember which one. He wishes he could, it would give him a clue as to the success of said tactics.
"I can do picking off," the Slayer says, visibly perking up. But then she sags against him again. "What if they have power stations like Adam?"
She's good, Spike has to admit that. Brains as well as brawn, really tiny but effective brawn.
"We could hold hands and rip their hearts out? That worked well that time in front of your house, didn’t it?"
“Okay. Let's go do it." The Slayer trips to the crypt exit, wiggling her luscious arse. “But not Riley. We do not kill Riley. Maybe stun him, but not damage him."
"Cross my heart and hope to die," Spike promises solemnly. She's moving away from him and the connection between them lengthens with it, the power contained for the moment but ready to spring into action.
She raises an eyebrow. “You are dead, remember?”
“Right,” he says. "Dead like me."
"Kay. Let's go kill the cavalry, then," she says.
"I think we're the cavalry."
"Didn’t you learn anything at Thanksgiving? Cavalry equals bad guys. Indians equal good guys.” She pauses. “Shumash revenge-demons may not be the best example. But anyway, I'll be Sitting Bull and you can be Geronimo."
"Geronimo? Don't think so, Slayer," Spike says.
They move under cover of gravestones and crypts.
"If you're Sitting Bull,” he says, “I'll be General Custer."
They’re getting closer to the orderly row of marching demons.
“You do remember Sitting Bull killed Custer, right history-boy?”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, now you mention it, I’ll be Sitting Bull.”
“I’ll buy the “bull” part,” she says.
“Hey—“
“Shh. Don’t talk while we’re sneaking up on people,” the Slayer says. “It kind of makes the sneaking pointless.”
The vanguard demon is a mostly ochre-colored dinosaur thing, whose heavy tail swishes threateningly to and fro, with a human head and hands.
“How do we kill it, Spike?”
“Rip its head off. He’s got an extra heart in his arse, no point in going for the upper heart. On three. One, two, three!”
The moment their hands touch, they don't need to talk anymore; each of them knows exactly what the other's position is. It’s clumsy but effective; they jump forward, holding hands all the while, and with their free hands each grab a jaw and twist. Bright orange ichor sprays all over their clothing, smelling strangely of mouthwash. One down; nineteen to go.
The next one has a certain familiarity about him, a buddy of Riley’s maybe. Spike doubles his pace to prevent the Slayer realizing this and hesitating.
“Assimilate this!” he whispers fiercely as the orange and brown patched thing crumples to the floor.
“Shut up, Spike. And stop channeling Xander, it’s majorly wigging me.”
“Grumpy,” he retaliates. “Also, Dopey, Sneezy, Bashful and Happy. In fact, the only one you’re not is Doc.”
“Spikewhite comes out of the closet of Disney-love,” she sneers softly as they do a tiger crawl over the moist cemetery turf.
Spike grins for a few seconds, enjoying the thrill of the hunt and the rapid back-and-forthing between him and Buffy. Kicking ass is his third favorite thing in the whole world, especially with a partner who seamlessly predicts his every move. Top of the list is drinking blood, of course, and second fucking the Slayer. The grin disappears when he hears himself thinking that and remembers just whose arse is bobbing up and down in front of him. His mortal enemy's arse. The girl who could be his third Slayer. He clenches his jaws and catches up with her again. He shouldn’t forget about this all the time, he has his reputation to think off. What’s left of it.
Two more without a hitch. The fifth, an Initiative soldier-Polgara blend, shouts a warning into the night and they have to make a run for it after they’ve disemboweled him, which didn’t kill him outright as he thought it would.
They press against a crypt wall. The Slayer is panting attractively so that he can’t resist pivoting over to her to get in a quick kiss and a grope. She mumbles protests against his lips but it only buzzes his skin softly. If she really didn’t want to she’d kick him in the balls. Somewhere far away it worries him that he wants the macking. It’s her death he should want as his trophy, not her mouth.
They are like one creature now, gliding through the night, invisible and deadly, depleting the numbers of Finn’s troop steadily. Is it magic? Finn stumbles around in the mist of smoke and blood, shouting for his missing soldiers, but before he gets them in his sight they're all down. The soldier hybrid, bewildered Middle America staring from his blue human eyes, sinks to his knees and bellows at the skies to help him. Buffy lets go of Spike’s hand, but their connection is so strong now he can still feel it, reeling out like a power cord between them, thrumming with sex and magic and victory.
Finn’s human hand stretches out before him in entreaty. “Buffy…” he says, before his other, green, hand whips up the gun and starts shooting.
It must feel like a chip in the head, Spike thinks, wanting one thing and doing another. He touches the chip in his pocket for luck.
Buffy laughs and plucks a bullet out of the air, throws it up and catches it like an M&M.
“Tasty,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Hot. Come to me, Riley, and I will make you better.”
Riley whimpers and tries to crawl backwards. His demon arm covers his eyes, his human hand grabs at the blades of grass as if they will hold his weight. She doesn’t know what she looks like right now, hair dancing around her head like Medusa’s fangy friends, eyeballs orange and glowing and as big as golf balls. Of course Lieutenant Finn in there is scared, and his loaned parts had better be afraid too.
“Riley,” Buffy carols sweetly. “Don’t be afraid, it’s me, Buffy, I’m going to help you. I’m gonna make you better.”
The Slayer kneels down beside Riley and places two hands on his head, as if giving him her blessing. The former Iowa linebacker bucks up and cries out harshly. Spike wanders closer. What the hell does the Slayer thinks she's doing? Is she planning on torturing the poor sod to death?
Demon Finn screams and writhes. His thrashing feet threaten to dislodge the Slayer, and Spike sits down on the meaty thighs to help her.
Finn gives a last gurgling, choking scream before his head falls back on the turf and the Slayer gasps. She jumps off the still body and backs off, stammering and pointing.
One of the green demon arms has come off, bleeding sluggish fluid, but the human stump it was attached to bleeds profusely. That must really hurt, which is okay if it's Finn. Also, yummy blood smell.
"What the hell are you doing, Slayer? Performing field surgery?"
"I didn't do it! I was comforting him, telling him he'd be alright, and then his arm came off just like that!" Buffy stammers.
"The miracle is it took you this long to break your bumpkin boy-toy. If ‘comfort’ takes his arm off, you must have been holding back when you two were doing the nasty. Or should I say, ‘the vanilla’?”
The Slayer Is looking dazedly at the stump and pushes it against the seeping torso like a girl trying to mend her doll.
“Admit it, Slayer, you need a bit of monster in your man. Too bad his monster parts are only tacked on.”
"Shut up, Spike," she says, but there's no heat in it.
She sounds miserable and frightened and he takes pity on her. "Cheer up. We're magic, ain't we? We'll put Humpty Dumbass here together again."
"But its not his real arm, it's a demon arm!"
"Yeah, well, you got any ideas about finding the demon who’s wearing Soldier Boy’s arm? ‘Sides, you still sure you want to save the wanker? When he’s like this? Might not thank you for it.”
The Slayer nods and he feels her attention come back to him. The connection splutters to life with a surge of white heat that shoots straight to his groin. He catches her eyes and sees the same fire there. She licks her lips in an unconscious gesture and automatically he steps closer to her, aching for her touch, her smell.
"No, Spike, we have to join him together."
Right. He knew that. He grabs the surprisingly heavy arm and positions it against the red bleeding stump. A sizzling sounds and the smell of pork chops pervades the air. Riley's chest heaves and he sits up and sinks back down again without opening his eyes or giving any other sign of consciousness. The arm looks to be attached.
"Um, should we maybe check to see if he's still alive?" she says. She’s sort of hovering over the soldier, hands fluttering, obviously afraid of repeating the girlfriendly dismembering act.
"I’m thinking you should."
“Riley? Honey?”
No answer. She taps his cheek lightly. Spike enjoys her impression of gentleness, it’s almost lifelike.
Finally the Slayer takes the thick wrist in her tiny strong hands and takes a pulse. "Well. Thirty beats per minute sound all right to you?"
"Do I look like I know about heartbeats?"
It's getting colder and in addition to the smoke and the darkness a thick mist is forming close above the ground. The Slayer's anxious face floats above it, head cocked to catch a sound Spike himself can barely hear. Is she getting vampire traits? Unobtrusively he checks his throat for a heartbeat. Nothing, thank God. He's perfect just as he is.
He opens his mouth to tell her they should pick up the unconscious Finn and get out of here when a blue-green arm shoots out from the mist and grabs the Slayer by the throat. Adam. She reacts like he knew she would, doing all the right things to get out of Adam's grip, twisting and kicking and elbowing but his strength keeps her dangling above the ground like some low-rent grifter being hanged for petty crimes.
“Buffy!” he yells and throws her the knife he keeps in his boots.
She catches it but the green hide is impervious to her backward stabs. Spike dances around the unperturbed Adam, who’s intent only on choking the Slayer. Spike’s nothing but an annoying insect buzzing around his big important head.
I’ll show him, Spike thinks, ticked off no end. Show the Slayer that he’s someone to be reckoned with, but his mind is a blank. He kicks the back of Adam’s knees, a move that has crippled many a bigger enemy, but the powerful thighs don’t even tremble. Bugger bugger bugger. Adam’s alone now, but of course, there’ll be reinforcements coming in. He can feel the life force draining out of him through his link to the Slayer. He’ll have to be fast. What did the she say? Power cell? Heart? He reaches desperately for the slackening link between them, grabbing as much power as she still has to give and plunges his fist in the green and tan back, under the chromium-plated ribcage, angling upwards towards the heart. He pours in their peculiar magic with all the force he can muster, willing the human and demon patchwork to part ways.
His fingertips encounter a hard lumpy object and just when he grabs tighter to pull it out a green elbow comes at his face with the speed of a military jet breaking the sound barrier.
Spike lies flat on his back, unable to move around the mountainous lump of pain that sits on his face. Occasionally a quick flash of the fight moves across his field of vision. The Slayer flies by at a level of approximately 4 feet, horizontally, head first. Not a good sign. Then Adam stomps on his left thigh while pursuing her. Spike doesn’t feel it. He notices the gaping hole in the hybrid’s back, with a black object visible through the gore, the seams oozing motor oil or whatever it is they use for his Borg parts.
He should tell the Slayer. When he opens his mouth there’s an eruption of pain from the Fuji Yama on his face and he blacks out again. That won’t do. Talking is clearly out, so he pushes himself to his knees silently. He can't see very well. His nose, larger then he remembers it being, sits in the middle of his eyes and he can only see around the edges of it.
Adam and the Slayer come towards him, pirouetting by in a tight embrace. It's like getting into a fast-moving revolving door and he judges his moment as best as he can. He jumps onto Adam’s back and holds on through all the lava flowing and earthquakes happening on his face. What was he doing here again? Oh, right, heart machine, and he digs his slow clumsy hands in the hole he finds. He hasn’t the strength to wrench out the whole thing and snaps a wire.. Adam’s whole titanic frame shudders, and he hears keening form the Slayer, but the giant doesn’t fall. Snap, another wire. The next. Slowly, like a continent sliding into the sea, the broad back beneath him starts to tremble and incline downwards. Spike grabs an ear-shaped handle somewhere and hangs on for the fall.
When he comes to, the situation hasn’t much improved. There’s still pain, Tunguska-sized craters of pain, and he can’t see. A rat is scrabbling at his corpse, trying to open his pants and he swats at it weakly. The rat snaps at him and he cries a little at the indignity that even rats talk back to him now. Life isn’t fair. Has he fallen that low? The world becomes a little sharper, but also stranger when he feels hot hands closing around his dick.
For God’s sake, he’s expected to service the bloody Slayer in this condition? She can just go to hell. A man has his pride, but right now, he has none, there’s just pain and movement he wishes would stop. Adam’s elbow makes the Slayer’s fondness for his nose seem like love taps. He contemplates speaking sternly to the Slayer about unreasonable expectations but he remembers talking’s out.
His cock, however, refuses to lie down and go gently into that good night. The ornery thing perks up and starts sending messages to his brain. Well, he’s not playing. A hot wet velvet envelope slides over his cock and if she wouldn’t move at all it might be passing nice, but no, of course she does. He’s crankily feeling himself tugged towards true arousal and then he realizes he can see again. The Slayer is lying over his legs, combining sucking his dick and anxiously talking in a dizzying variation. Oh, hey, his ears are working again.
“Spike? Spike, can you hear me? I’m guessing this is going to work healing you, making the energy just like we did for Riley. Are you okay? Is it getting better?”
Her head bobs down again.
“Unh,” he says and it still hurts but it’s kind of a victory to speak at all.
The Slayer flushes when they make eye contact and his dick flops out of her mouth onto his belly. “Spike? Are you back? Oh. Okay. I know this looks kind strange, but I thought…”
“Unh,” he says again, making it a nice, drawn out moan. She’s not gonna stop now, is she?
She starts moving again, hesitantly, her tongue swirling around the head of his cock, her hand firmly pumping the root.
“I can feel the healing start,” he whispers dramatically. “There’s brain damage, I think, but if you can hold on for a bit longer?”
This is nice. He stares at the sky, gray in the middle and pink at the edges. There’s a slow gathering of forces through his whole body, excruciatingly slow but inexorable and finally he comes gently into her mouth, managing to move a minimum of muscles. Aah. He does feel better. He might even try moving a fingertip or so.
The Slayer, as is her irritating wont, has other ideas. She has the gall to tug at him, which you should never do with brain-damaged people. “Spike, I didn’t just put my mouth through the grossness Olympics for nothing. Come on. Get up. It’s getting light. We need to get out of here.”
Where’s ‘here,’ exactly? Much to his surprise his brain supplies the answer. In a graveyard in Sunnydale, not ten yards from his own crypt. Yes. And dawn approaching. A good idea to move out of the open, definitely. He sends a reveille to his limbs but they refuse to stand at attention. The Slayer has figured this out, too, apparently. She grabs him by his armpits and lugs him towards the crypt entrance, his boots digging black traces in the turf.
The welcoming dankness and darkness of his home soothe his anxieties. He finds a comfortable spot on the stone floor and plans to sleep.
“Wait here,” the Slayer hisses. “I’m going to get Riley.”
Wait? She must have an exaggerated idea of his powers of locomotion. He’s not going anywhere. He closes his eyes for a minute and the crypt door is banging open already. He knows it’s the Slayer, just like he knows she’s carried the comatose body of her piebald sweetie here in a fireman’s grip. The Slayer even has sufficient sense to crawl over to him and curl up against him tightly. Her warm hands slide under his T-shirt and he falls toward sleep contentedly. Sleep and heal. Get the strength to get his dechipped self out of here tomorrow.
TBC
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