From The Ashes (Chapter 11/?)
She steps into him. He trembles at the sensation of her so close, the smell of her fear, her arousal. He can’t control it any longer, the demon within (laughing) taking complete control of his weakened body. Her body is pressed against his without shame, without hesitation, and he knows the fight has gone out of him. He feels his fangs lengthen and sharpen, pressing into her silken flesh. A second more of resistance, and then it is gone, overpowered by her heady smell and the call of her blood (Slayer blood). He sinks the points into her slowly. It fills his mouth and he nearly groans, the flood of her life force awakening and enthralling him like nothing before. It is strength and life and power, such power that he briefly wonders how it can be housed in such a tiny body, before all coherent thought is obliterated by the sticky sweetness. His legs can no longer support his weight, and they topple together onto the cold stone floor. The leather of her pants squeaks as he grinds into her (harder), her throaty gasps and fervent trembles driving him further into the abyss. He sucks greedily, and she shudders convulsively this time. (He’ll remember the way she shudders until the day he’s dust.) She is grasping for something; he hears the crunch of metal as her hand finds purchase. It is as she kicks out, smashing wood, that the orgasm overtakes her, infusing him with a dizzying rush when he tastes it in her blood (almost as good as feeling it from the inside). Of all the things he’s ever known, this is the one that drives him to the edge of madness, the one that brings him the closest to bliss that he’ll ever be. He is aroused too, harder than he has ever been in his long, long existence, and he can feel his own release on the horizon, and though it’s not perfect happiness, it’s pretty damn close (for the beast inside of him). But she’s stopped moving now, stopped quivering, and her blood is flowing sluggishly, and when he tears himself away it’s the most difficult thing he’s ever done (so far. Walking away from her will be much more difficult, but he hasn’t done that yet.) He stares at her, limp and pale, and as he struggles between his (still insistent) arousal and his (now) overwhelming fear, his greatest regret is saving himself at her expense. Her name escapes his lips in a broken sob as his mind solidifies the decision to leave, vowing that he will never put her in this position again. Even if he has to die.
***
He sat bolt upright in bed, his head still reeling from the images. It had been long years since he’d dreamt of this, but the details were still perfectly etched into his memory. His eyes roved the room for her frantically, suddenly very grateful that she wasn’t there when he noticed the uncomfortable evidence of his dream still on full display beneath his slacks. The throbbing was almost painful, but he welcomed it, savoring the long-suppressed emotions.
What had possessed him to dream of this now? Not merely her presence; he had been around her before without evoking that particular memory. Was it the guilt? The feeling of the greatest danger he had ever put her in, namely from himself, warning him that he was doing so again but in a different fashion? As long as Willow’s spell held, they were all safe. But had he once again marked those closest to him for death when the Glamour collapsed? Was the dream a warning of the promises he had made to protect her, no matter what the cost? If he had no other purpose to his existence any longer, he would gladly take up the mantle of protecting Buffy. And Connor. And Faith. Protect them in a way he hadn’t done for the others. He could live with being a bodyguard to the guardians of this dimension, even if he was no longer numbered among them. In his current state though, he wasn’t much use to anyone. He still needed to mend and heal, still needed human blood and superhuman sparring partners. He also needed to stop getting erections at thoughts of an ex- girlfriend who would probably punch him if she knew where his mind had strayed. It was infuriating, the power she still had over him, to awaken the urges and desires no other woman could touch. He thought of the way she’d cradled him, slept by his side, and emotions he was too numbed by pain to let penetrate him earlier began to burrow to the surface. Stupid was right. He had inadvertently lied to Buffy when he said that he’d never been to Heaven. He’d been there. It was where he had lost his soul. It was a place he had, until recently, believed he’d revisit someday, when she was ready, and maybe, just maybe, when he was human. The humanity part could no longer be. Was she, too, woven into a destiny that was no longer his to claim?
Sounds pushed him out of his reverie. He could hear the hushed tones wafting up to him through the air. The words were too soft to make out, even to his vampire ears, but he knew the voices. Buffy. Spike.
So, his wayward grandchilde had come back. The strange notion of ease at that prospect startled him. But he hadn’t been alone in that alley. At least Spike knew without explanation what lay behind the horror etched into Angel’s face.
He wondered if Buffy would be at ease with it too. Wondered what it was like for her to be here with them. Her two resurrected demons. Despite himself, he wondered what she felt for Spike.
***
She felt him in the shadows.
Not the way she felt Angel, of course; every inch of her straining to be near him, every fiber of her being alive with the knowledge that he was within reach. This was different. Not Vampire/Slayer, the prey and the hunter. Not even a connection between old lovers who are still under each other’s skin. She’s wasn’t sure what it was. Sometimes she wondered if it was the soul that made the difference. Always knew that she called out to him long before he had one. With Spike, it was something fierce and primal that snaked it’s way up her spine. Something else too; an unspoken understanding. A shared strength. She had forgotten how that strength had grounded her in the days before she let him burn. Didn’t realize until this very moment how much she had missed him.
“Rome looks good on you, pet.”
No one’s words could ever slice across her skin like Spike’s. No one could ever put as much meaning behind them.
“Rome feels good. Mort sends his regards.”
The cross of lines that ran through his brow dropped as he frowned in confusion. She had always thought it gave his face so much character, and nearly laughed with joy at seeing those small white lines again.
“Mort?”
She cast him a pointed glance. The scar angled sharply upward.
“The Immortal? He calls himself Mort?”
“He’s big on the irony.”
“Pretentious ponce,” Spike snorted. “Didn’t think he’d have the stones to tell you we were acquainted.”
“Well, I kinda figured there was something when he practically got a happy telling me how you guys lost the Capo’s head.”
His teeth flashed white in the darkness.
“I hope you felt inclined to beat the rest out of him.”
“No. But I did feel inclined to convince him to send the head to L.A.”
“That was you?”
“What can I say? I have a way with morally ambiguous immortal guys.”
Spike paused, watching her for a moment.
“Knew we were there, then?”
“What, because you guys are the stealthiest stalkers to ever stalk?”
“Hey! We were stalking with the best of ‘em a century before you were a twitch in your daddy’s knickers.”
“Maybe you’re getting rusty in your old age.”
“You know better than anyone there’s nothing rusty about me, luv.”
She sighed in defeat.
“Ever notice that Webster’s dictionary defines ‘blabbermouth’ as Andrew Wells?”
“Figured as much.”
“But I knew, Spike. In that club. I felt it, even though I wasn’t sure what it was in the moment.”
“It, Buffy, or him?”
It felt like an accusation.
“Well, it’s not like spidey sense is an exclusive vamp thing. I’ve always felt him. Even before…” Her hand flew to her neck instinctively. Spike tsked, a quiet reprimand at being reminded of the mark. He had always avoided the evidence of that particular brand.
“Speaking of Captain Forehead- he around?”
“Upstairs. Being extra broody.”
“Cut him some slack Buffy.”
She couldn’t have been more shocked if Spike had grown a second head.
“I’ll take ‘huh?’ for 500, Alex. You’re defending Angel?”
Spike sighed, grinned sheepishly.
“Well, I’m not gonna make a habit out of it! But the bugger slew a dragon. That’s a helluva thing. Especially for a self-important nancy boy.”
“That’s the Spike I know and tolerate.”
She glanced back toward the hotel, and the smile left her face. She shouldn’t share this with him, even if he was being uncharacteristically empathetic toward Angel. It was only when he spoke that she realized how much he understood. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten; Spike always saw things others didn’t.
“You should understand what he’s going through better than anyone Buffy. Imagine it: you know you’re going to die. You’re finished, done, the final curtain call. There is no more fear, no more pain. There is only the slick rain, the sharp blade in your hand, the battle cry on your lips. Going down in a blaze of glory. Is there any bigger turn-on for someone who fancies himself the world’s champion? Present company excluded, of course.”
Her sad, knowing smile prompted him to continue.
“But then, the Powers, they pull a fast one you see. You’re not finished; you’re in a whole new kind of Hell. And you think, I can deal. This is my final atonement. But it doesn’t end there either. Strong hands reach in and pull you out, thinking they’re saving you. You’re thrust back into a world you had already left behind, moved beyond. And now there is nothing but pain, and fear. Nothing but the faces of those you sacrificed. And you realize, you can never be finished. It is your punishment. Because the hardest thing in the world is to live in it. Sound familiar, luv? Only he has to live forever.”
The truth of his words cut through her, deep down into the heart. For a moment, it hurt to breathe, as she felt the dirt in her throat, the wood of the casket splintering against her hands. The despair of no longer knowing, of no longer having a place in the world. Is that what Angel felt now? Pulled out of time and dimensions, with blood- soaked hands and ash filling his lungs?
She turned to Spike, his ice blue eyes seeing through her. It gave her comfort, the sight of him just as she remembered, a constant in the ever-changing world. He didn’t look different; not like Angel.
“Where’d you pick up that snippet of wisdom for the ages?”
He smirked, stubbed out his cigarette.
“A woman I once knew.”
“She must have been pretty smart.”
“She was. When she wasn’t being a royal bitch. But she forgot her own words. Had to remind her.”
She watched him, the angles of his face sharp as cut glass. Alabaster skin beautiful in the moonlight. No matter what horrible things he had done, he had also pulled her back from the brink. It didn’t absolve him, but it meant something. It meant a lot.
“I’m sure she was grateful, Spike. I’m sure it was the thing that saved her.”
“I’m glad.”
She took in a ragged breath.
“I wish I knew what he needed.”
“Besides growing a pair?” That sardonic chuckle. Then, serious, “Time. A sense of purpose.”
“I guess he didn’t really expect to be back here among the living. No plan for what he would do.”
“Well, you know, the git never was too bright. But I gotta tell you Buffy, I never saw the old man so happy as he was in that alley. Not since Romania anyway. And watching him slay that dragon? Really was a helluva thing.”
As they sat in silence, she pictured it: a great beast silhouetted against the sky, its leathery wings spread wide. It circles the alley drenched in rain, predatory neck craned, smoke billowing from its nostrils. It lunges at a figure, so small by comparison, down on the ground, but he’s gone in a swirl of leather. His powerful hands cling to a ladder, inching upwards with preternatural speed, and soon he stands on the roof of a building. The leather of his coat billows around him, as the leather of the wings bring forth a gust of foul air. There is water in his eyes, and he grins, his teeth shining like the sword in his hand. The beast hovers in the air before him, gold eyes meeting brown, monster to monster, each seeing the worth of their adversary. He bellows, the avenging angel, and lunges, tarnished sword in one hand, sacred blade in the other. In the air, they clash, and he digs in his heels and makes the dragon his Pegasus. The long neck cranes towards the unruly rider, but cannot reach, and then the blood spurts from it from around the blade, and they are barreling towards the ground, two demons tangled together, the shrill screech of death mingling with the roar of triumph.
She shook her head to clear the thought, wishing she had been there to see it and not just imagine. Felt Spike next to her, the weight of his silence more probing than any question he could have asked. Buffy took a breath, took the plunge.
“He… Wes left him a letter.”
Spike sucked in an unneeded breath, nodded, the light casting strange patterns in the brightness of his hair.
“How is he?”
She looked at him, shook her head softly.
“Broody bastard.” There was no trace of mockery in Spike’s voice.
“I’m sorry about your friends,” she told him. He nodded.
She felt like she was back on her porch at Revello Drive. They sat together, looking at the moon quietly, just as they had many times before. She still found a strange sort of calm in his presence.
“I’m glad you’re alright, Spike.”
“Me too.”
Another long silence stretched between them.
“I meant what I said before….in the Hellmouth.”
“I know, luv.”
“I love you. Just not the way you want.”
“I know, luv.”
There were no more words.
***
Pacing the floor like a caged animal by the time she finally came back to the room, he didn’t waste any time in asking.
“What did Spike want?”
“God, Angel! What did I tell you about that sniffing people thing?”
Angel chuckled softy, but the laughter didn’t reach his eyes.
“I heard him, Buffy. Remember, vampire hearing?”
“Oh.” She sounded contrite. “He wanted to see you.”
Dark eyebrows arched quizzically.
“Really? I highly doubt I was the one he wanted to see.”
She didn’t blush, didn’t fluster. There was no shame in her voice or body language. Whatever the relationship between her and Spike had been, whatever it amounted to now, she obviously felt no conflict about it.
“Well, he did ask about you. May have mentioned something about… Oh yeah, ‘a manly session of getting piss drunk and smashing things’.” Buffy smiled. “You two get drunk together on a regular basis or something?”
“No. Just the once or… twice.” Angel suddenly seemed very defensive.
“Hey, don’t get defensive with me buddy. I was the one who told you he was different now, remember?”
She stared at him, and very suddenly doubled over, her whole body shaking with laughter. “I can just see it now. You and Spike… sitting around your fancy L.A. digs… wasted… arguing about…anything… everything…” She could barely get the words out between her giggles.
“Cavemen and astronauts.”
She had no idea what that meant, but for some reason that made her laugh even more. She looked at Angel, and for the briefest of moments imagined that a smile may have played on his lips.
“So, why did he leave?”
Buffy’s hands wiped away the tears of laughter as she finally managed to calm herself.
“I told him you weren’t up to visitors just now.” I’m not ready to share you yet, she thought silently.
“You could have gone with him.” She heard no anger or resentment in his voice, only curiosity.
“Yeah, ok, Angel. Demon pub crawl? Not exactly on the forefront of my ‘To Do’ list just now.”
He just looked at her, wordlessly prodding.
“Faith was more than happy to step in. Minus the manly part, of course.”
This time Angel did laugh, a soft, tentative sound.
“She has seemed a bit restless, hasn’t she?”
“Who, Faith? You have met her, right?” Buffy stopped, then added a little more earnestly, “Well, the girl has been hanging out on a Hellmouth for a while. No rest for the wicked Slayer.”
He stared at her hard for a moment, taking in her fuller figure, her tanned skin, her sun-bronzed hair.
“And you, Buffy? You look…. rested.” Beautiful. Breathtaking. He didn’t dare voice those words.
It took a force of sheer slayer strength to keep herself from flushing under his intense stare. She remembered him looking at her like this, lust beneath his hooded eyes, stripping away cloth and flesh with that gaze until she felt like he could see into the very core of her. Never had she felt more naked, more exposed.
“Yeah, you know, when in Rome…”
“Go clubbing with the Immortal?”
She looked at him sharply, hardening a little. But there was still none of that jealousy from him that she had expected, only impassivity and a hint of sadness. He was still good with the cryptic, could still frustrate her with his seeming lack of emotion. She wondered if it only seemed like he didn’t care, or if he actually no longer did.
“That’s not really any of your business.” Her tone was clipped, more from anxiety than from anger. It really wasn’t his business, he had no right to judge her, and yet all she could seem to care about was the fact that he wasn’t jealous. Maybe he really had moved on.
It was a thought she had never considered before, never dared to consider in all the years gone by. Whatever else had happened, he had always been there. There were the good times, and the horrific ones. There was slaying and death and other men and another vampire. There was afterlife and resurrection. There were demons to kill and battles to fight. There was always another apocalypse around the corner. And there was always him, in her heart. Two constants, like death and taxes. Apocalypse and Angel. Without one or the other, her world could never make sense.
He answered mildly. “You’re right, it’s not.” For some reason, this response seemed to agitate her even further.
“You two have some nerve, you know that? I mean, charging over like a pair of demented knights in billowy armor to rescue poor little Buffy! You, with your, ‘I’m not getting any older’ crap. And don’t even get me started on Spike.”
He fought to maintain control over his voice, and failed. Badly.
“We thought you were in danger! How were we supposed to know you were…doing the wacky with him?!?”
“The wacky? Angel, what the…”
Love makes you do the wacky.
Her hands flew to her mouth as the realization suddenly dawned on her. She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe both, simultaneously.
“You think that…?” She couldn’t even finish the sentence, because it seemed too ridiculous.
“We kept trying to figure it out. How he got to you, if he was controlling you. And then Andrew told us. You fell for him all on your own. You were happy.”
He could never explain to her how that had made him feel. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted it more than anything else. It was what had enabled him to walk away and stay away. But how could she be happy with the Immortal? Never mind that he was a bastard. That certainly hadn’t been the normal future he had envisioned for her.
Buffy watched him struggle with his emotions, push them down, keep them down. She could never explain to him how she felt. The freedom of finally doing what she wanted, the burden of the world no longer solely on her small shoulders. He wanted her to have a normal life. But she was a slayer. Her life would never be, could never be normal. She had learned to accept that. Why hadn’t he?
“Angel… sure I was happy. I finally had the chance to live on my own terms. I got to go out and dance without looking for the Big Bad around every corner. The Immortal… he was fun, exciting. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. But it’s not…what you think. Not even close.”
“Oh? The Immortal wasn’t eating cookie dough?”
She flushed at the reminder of her analogy.
“Am I ever going to live that cookie thing down?”
Angel shrugged mildly, his shoulders easing from their tense set. He moved to stand closer to the window, feeling the call of the moon. He should be out there, cloaked in night, helping the hopeless, instead of having this pointless conversation with her….
“Angel.”
Her hand fluttered at his back, tentative, barely touching. But she said his name like she always had; a soft, throaty whisper, as if the weight of the word could sum up all that she felt for him.
“Buffy.”
It was their usual exchange. It rolled off his tongue, sacrosanct, and it felt like a caress.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the breadth of his back. She could feel the coolness of him, even through the fabric of the sweater. A tremor ran through him, and she wondered if it was from the contact or because he could hear the pounding within her chest.
“What are we even arguing about?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” His voice was soft, laced with sadness. “It doesn’t matter.”
She felt him shift, his body turning slowly to face hers. His eyes were hooded, darker than she had ever seen them, and her breath caught as he hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face. The pull of him, as strong as ever, was too much to resist. He knew her too well to miss the flash in her eyes.
His hand moved to her cheek, brushing his fingers against the skin gently, feeling the warmth and the shudder as it passed through her and into him. He held her gaze as he inched forward, slowly, deliberately, barely glancing her lips with his. He lingered for a moment, savoring the jolt that worked its way through him, and then molded his mouth fully to hers.
Her lips were pliant, responsive. The taste of him, intoxicating and familiar, overwhelmed her senses. Her tongue darted out, grazing against his teeth, trying to deepen the kiss. And then, somehow, the gentleness became a hunger, and something in the pit of her stomach lurched, the intensity jarring her away. She stared into his eyes, heart in her throat, seeing the question there, the unrelenting desire. Suddenly, the sight of him frightened her more than any monster or demon she had ever faced. She backed away even as he reached for her, all but running from the room, relieved when he made no move to follow.
Next: Chapter 12~ Hunting Darkness