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I wasn't going to post tonight, but a little spider twisted my arm, which worked, because hey, dislocated shoulder OUCH so here it is

[A/N: If you look for love poetry, don’t shy away from Sappho, just because of the lesbian themes – when its translated “correctly” its sublime. The title comes from a translation done by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and the entire poem is the quote. Disclaimers still in full force and effect.]

Previously: Giles has almost all the information he needs, Willow’s missing and Buffy let Spike bite her. . . This follows directly from the last chapter.

28. A charmed slumber

I watch thy grace: and in its place
my heart a charmed slumber keeps
while I muse upon thy face;
and a languid fire creeps
through my veins to all my frame,
dissolvingly and slowly: soon
from thy rose-red lips my name
floweth; and then, as in a swoon
with dinning sound my ears are rife,
my tremulous tongue faltereth,
I lose my colour, I lose my breath,
I drink the cup of costly death
brimmed with delicious draughts of warmest life
I die with my delight, before
I hear what I would hear from thee
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Eleanore, 1832


Buffy felt him all around her, his strength enveloping her, gently holding her in place. His injured forearm tightened around her, pulling her even closer. She gasped as he fell back against the mattress, pulling her with him.

There were goosebumps all over her skin, her throat dry and her breathing uneven. Soft whimpers and gasps escaped her, mostly just long exhalations of his name, all the more moving for their near silence.

There was no coherence to her thoughts, the sensations bombarding her from every direction. His skin made her burn, his touch on her, inside her put torch to the flame, his growls set off an answering hum within her throat and she could feel his tongue and teeth caressing and nibbling as he drank.

Every time she sighed, gasped, or whimpered his name, Spike growled low in his throat in response. His hips bucked up against her nearly bare ass and Buffy’s convulsive shudders signaling another climax began again.

There was no beginning or end to the climax, just one continuous shudder moving through her each time his fingers pumped inside her.

Her skin felt like glass again, only this time it was like hot melty glass that can be molded and shaped, instead of brittle and breakable. He was forming her, forging a brand new Buffy, pliable and made for his hands only, smoothing away the brittle edges, softening her lines. Heat surged through her, flooding, surging toward his questing fingers.

She convulsed again, his name a constant litany interspersed with soft whimpers of nothing more than unintelligible moans of “oh”.

Body taught like a fine Stradivarius, Buffy kept climaxing, every muscle in her contracting, centering on his fingers thrusting in and out of her, on his mouth sucking on her skin.

Spent, replete, thoroughly exhausted and satisfied beyond thinking, Buffy curled in on herself, rolling back onto her side, bringing him along with her. Sighing into her pillow, Buffy settled back into her skin, her mind blissfully blank.


******************************* ****************************************

Spike could feel the aftershocks of her orgasms chase themselves through her muscles, though his own body was still aching for release.

It had been a calculated risk, and worth every second of it. Prolonging the actual bite as long as possible and giving Buffy an orgasm or two had been enough to not trigger the chip.

Or if it had fired, Spike was too involved to even notice it.

Buffy was sound asleep, still curled in his arms, still in the same position, her body still next to his.

He hadn’t taken a lot from her, not near to draining her at all. He’d made a silent promise to her, to only take the bare minimum of what he needed, and that was exactly what he did. Didn’t take much anyway, a little bit went a long way, and Buffy’s was the strongest, sweetest and most potent slayer blood he’d ever tasted.

And now he couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want too. His hand was itching crazily as her blood did its job, healing the cuts and breaks, knitting flesh and bone back together. And as much as he wanted to crawl between her legs, slide into her warm wetness, Spike knew now wasn’t . . . as much as he wanted too, he couldn’t fulfill the promises his body wanted to deliver.

His hand wasn’t healed for one, for another, he didn’t want this to be once and then for Buffy to have second thoughts and dump his sorry ass when she faced reality.

And reality would hit, sooner or later. More than likely in the form of the whelp’s disapproval or worse, in the realization that he was just a substitute for Angel.

He’d lived through that once, didn’t need a repeat, thank you very much. The spectre of Drusilla’s feelings for her sire was always a ghost he fought, and while he’d won the battle many a time, that war was a lost cause. Drusilla loved Angel in a way that she’d never loved Spike, and now, with this woman still in his arms, Spike faced the same fight all over again.

Unattainable women.

He nearly got up from the bed, exasperation and self-pity flooding him. Somehow his body’s tension communicated itself to her, because Buffy rolled over, reaching for him, whispering his name. Wrapping his healing arm around her, Spike kissed her forehead and smiled despite his prior thoughts.

She had reached for him. Called out for him. Said she wanted – needed him here – couldn’t do it without him. Allowed him . . . . oh yeah . . . to drink . . . to touch her.

A feeling he’d never experienced before in his life surfaced, a hope, that maybe, just maybe, this time around the battle would be worth it, and the outcome was not already a foregone conclusion.

Settling himself closer, Spike breathed in her scent, closed his eyes and tried to sleep.


******************************* ***************************************

Giles wasn’t thrilled with the information he’d found. Once he’d seen them, he’d known immediately what they were. He figured Spike must’ve also, because his calling the lead one Baskerville was a dead give-away.

What he didn’t understand was why here and why now – Anya’s comment about them being far from home striking a chord.

There was still the question of the huntsman controlling the pack of hell hounds, and since he usually wasn’t far behind them, Giles was forced, again, to wonder why here and now.

The how was becoming abundantly clearer with each reference he consulted.

He really was going to have to keep a closer eye on Willow.


******************************* ****************************************


Tara hadn’t gone back to her room after she and Dawn left Buffy alone with Spike.

Despite the late hour, by unspoken agreement, perhaps knowing what might occur between the two, both girls headed down the stairs to watch movies.

That’s where they both fell asleep, never knowing if Willow was home or not.


******************************* ***************************************


After leaving the quad, Willow had tried to calm down, but her mind was too confused to settle long enough to even focus on one thing, much less calm enough to meditate.

She walked. Walked for hours and hours without thought or care to direction, to wherever it was she was going, until she found herself in a playground. Sitting on a swing, Willow waited a few moments, wondering if her mind was going to follow her feet and just settle down for a bit.

Clearing her head, Willow finally registered her surroundings. She remembered this playground. It was halfway between her house and Xander’s parent’s. They’d spent a lot of time here as little kids, nothing more important than deciding what area to play in weighing on their minds.

Before life got complicated, before they found out about the monsters, before she knew the monsters had different names, and that she could fight them.

Looking up at the moon, Willow thought, that maybe, she could fix things, go back to before she knew about the monsters, she could fix it all, change things so she didn’t know Xander or Buffy and . . . she gave a half huff. Well that won’t do, because then I wouldn’t have all this power. Silly wish. I like this me much better, way better than old scaredy, dorky Willow.

Firmly on board with the self-liking, she thought.

And the power . . . yeah. Oh yeah.

The power was worth changing everything for, but not if it changed the power itself. She’d sooner give up her arms than this feeling.

Willow stood up, taking three steps away from the swing set. Stretching her neck side to side, Willow inhaled deeply, extending a hand toward the swing set, setting it in motion.

Directing her gaze around the playground, Willow set in motion all the movable pieces. The swings were going, the see-saws bouncing up and down, the circle thingy was whirling like a demented top, everything was in motion. Grinning to herself, she decided to test the boundaries, see what else she could do. Focusing on the slide and jungle gym, Willow wiggled her fingers.

At first, nothing happened. Nothing moved and there was no indication she’d even looked in that direction. Screwing her features tighter, Willow re-focused.

And the slide began walking, goose-stepping, almost hopping around the field, while the jungle gym began re-constructing and creating new shapes and forms, as it slowly moved from its stationery position, even the monkey bars were moving, rolling over each other back and forth between the longer bars. Willow clapped her hands together, laughing out loud in absolute glee, throwing her head back.

Looking up at the sky, Willow wondered what the limits were – if she even had any. It was a clear, late summer night, warm and sultry. The sky was dark blue velvet with silver stars and a nice fat, still nearly full moon in the sky. Staring up at the moon, Willow thought, at first dismissing the notion, but as she stood there, the thought became more irresistible. Stretching her hand up, Willow focused all her energy on the moon, willing it to dance in the sky.

It took a while, forcing her to concentrate all her energy, but, just as she was about to give up for good, the moon began wavering and shifting in the night sky. Shaking and laughing out loud, Willow spun around and around, watching while the moon dipped and spun in company with her.

Drunk on her power, Willow spun round and round and round, laughing until tears sprang from her eyes.

This was wonderful.

This was amazing.

This was what she was born to do.

Falling down onto the grass, Willow rolled over, once more facing the night sky.


******************************* **************************************


Buffy shifted in her sleep, nuzzling closer. Muscles twitched, in response to her brain’s stimuli. She was back in the box, unable to escape, her balled fists pushing against the walls holding her in. The air getting . . . . no air. Whimpers fought with a scream. No air. Help. Her feet were caught. No air, no escape. Cool air brushed past her face and strong hands. . . .

Hands. . . . Spike. Where is he? I need him. He’ll save me. Buffy reached to grasp those hands, calling his name. “Spike, help me. Don’t leave me here. Help me.”

Her voice grew as the fear did. Panic set in, her only lifeline the thought of him. “Spike please, please don’t leave me. Help me . . Spike . . . Spike. . . help”

A voice, deep and sleepy, sounded in her ear. “Right here love, ‘m right here. Not leaving. Never leave you kitten.”

Buffy collapsed against him, harsh yet soft noises rasping from her throat. Clutching at him in need, she sobbed against his chest. Cradling her in his good arm, Spike pulled her closer.

“S all right, kitten. ‘M right here. Just a dream. Nuthin more ‘en that. Shush, now.” Low and deep, Spike just held her close, his voice echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

Buffy held onto him as if he was the only solid thing in her world, that he alone could chase away the fears and help her. Everything crashed within her, the stress and strain of being the slayer, countless impossible decisions on her shoulders knowing, at times, one wrong step, one failure could end the world. She’d been dead, done, at peace. Thought it was all over. But no. Willow had dragged her back, into pain and hard decisions. Buffy was suddenly afraid she had nothing left inside her, no well of strength left for any battle, not even a little one. And the only person who appeared to understand was the man holding her in his arms.

She was hollow, a bare husk of that crazy brave fifteen year old she’d been when she found out she was chosen. Now she was barely in her twenties and everything she had, every dream, every hope had been stripped and torn away. She had nothing left. She needed this man, needed his support, his strength, his protection to help her through. Because he was the only one that stayed. And she didn’t know how, anymore, to ask for his help. Help she knew she desperately needed.

His eyes barely opened, he could still see the fear in her scrunched up features. Her words, when they came, roused his protective nature. “Scared. Been scared. Can’t do this anymore. So tired being strong.”

She clung to him, her arms burrowing themselves around him tighter. “So tired of always being the strong one. Can’t show emotion, can’t . . . have to make tough decisions . . . always comes down to me. But I’m scared Spike . . . I can’t do this alone anymore.”

He didn’t know what to say, how to respond. He’d had a feeling this was a problem for her, even before she’d jumped. Too much responsibility dumped on the shoulders of a young, fragile girl, who’s only defense was to erect walls around herself, yes, in protection – but also in isolation, which was not good. Before he could respond, she started speaking again.

“Was dreaming I was trapped again, in that place . . . and you couldn’t . . . I needed your help. Needed you to help me out.” Her tears started falling again, pooling onto his chest.

“‘m right here kitten. Not going anywhere.” He could only re-assure her of his presence, his willingness to stay. Spike didn’t think pointing out he’d stuck by Drusilla for a hundred plus years would be a good thing at the moment, but it was on the tip of his tongue to remind the woman in his arms that he wasn’t the leaving type. Instead he just held her tighter, pressing her against his side.

“Promise me you won’t leave.”

Dumping her flat on her back, Spike raised himself up on his elbow, so he could look down at her. A thousand thoughts were racing through his head, none of which made any coherent sense. Too much for his poor brain to process. Spike stared down at her, his injured hand just dead weight against her side.

“Buffy” he started, then stopped when her eyes focused on his lips.

“Buffy” he tried again. She looked back into his eyes, hers filled with unshed tears.

Before he could speak again, she reached up to touch his face, her thumbs across his lips.

“Promise me, like you did before, like that night . . . promise me you won’t leave me.”

He couldn’t talk. His own unshed tears pooled and his throat was dry and tight with emotion. Clearing his throat, Spike brushed her hair away from her face with his left hand. “For as long as you want me, kitten, I’m yours.”

Pulling his face down to hers, Buffy kissed him.





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