The Open Halls of the Soul, chapter 2
TITLE: The Open Halls of the Soul
AUTHOR: Cindy
RATING: R for now
SPOILERS: post-NFA
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: Spike, Buffy, Spike/Buffy, others
WARNINGS: Character death, violence, disturbing post-Apocalypse-type imagery
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine, but Joss said I could play with them.
SUMMARY: Spike always said it would take the end of the world to keep him away from Buffy. And he was right.
A/N: thanks always to kellyhk for her support with this fic
A/N2: I wrote this chapter a while ago, and kelly beta'd it...and then I rewrote nearly the whole thing. I have already apologized to her. *g* It will be re-beta'd eventually, but I wanted to post it, as I said I would, and Kelly is busy today saving lives and stuff :-) As always, any and all boo boos are my own.
He's not sure how long he's been here. Hours, days...weeks, maybe? In an out of consciousness, not sure anymore the difference between his nightmares and the horror of his reality. He tries to think of the last thing he remembers before he came to in this tiny cave.
And then the memory hits him, all too vividly. He can practically smell the acridity of the air as it fills his nose and throat, make his eyes water. Feel the weight of the sword in his hand, and then the emptiness when it's ripped away. A demon grins at him and breaks it in half with its bare hands. Spike pulls the only weapon he has left from the leather sleeve strapped to his leg, and faces down three ten foot demons with only a hunting knife. He wonders if he'll see Buffy soon, but instead he figures he'll be stuck with Angel for all eternity. His own personal hell. Bizarrely, he starts to laugh.
That's when she comes to his rescue, soaring through the air, hair flying out behind her like a superhero's cape. And that's what she is, a sixteen year old superhero, all knobby knees and elbows and dead certain aim. The axe she throws splits one demon's head down the middle; she takes off the heads of the other two with a single pass of her sword. She's saved his life. Only trouble is, he's not sure the alternative wouldn't be preferable. And while he's contemplating this, one of the demons falls like a tree, all of its dead weight landing on Spike. He feels his lower leg break. Hears it as it snaps in two - no three - pieces. He yowls in pain, like a wounded animal.
Karen...or Kathy, is it? Why can't he remember her name? She drags the demon off him and helps him stand. Together they look out at the unbelievable sight before them. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands, more demons than he ever imagined Hell could hold, swarm out from the Hellmouth in every direction, like termites. Their only mission, seek and destroy.
Kathy, that's her name, looks up at him with big, round, blue eyes. She reminds him a little of his Sweet Bit when she was a kid. Of course, Dawn doesn't even wear her hair like that anymore. She's all grown up now. Dawn is...
...gone. They're all...gone.
Oh, Christ. Oh, Dawn.
"Spike?" The girl's looking at him like he has some answers. Like he knows what the fuck to do. Like he didn't just watch their two best warriors go down fighting. Just had to play the bloody heroes, the both of them. Because that's what they were, he supposes. Didn't know any other way. Like father, like son.
He's not sure what happens next. His memory begins to fade at this point. He thinks a few more stragglers join them, bruised and bloodied. They want to bring him with them, but he sends them away. He can't remember where. He'd just slow them down with his busted leg. And they barely have a snowball's chance of surviving as it is.
The very last thing he remembers is looking over the edge of the Hellmouth, just like he'd done once before. Except this time, he was alone. Back then, it'd been full of Turok Han. This time it was empty, and he had contemplated throwing himself in.
And maybe he had. He’s not sure exactly where he is or how he got here, but it sure feels like he's in hell, trapped in this tiny, airless, stifling hot space that's barely big enough for him to roll over in. Which is probably a good thing, as every time he tries to move, slivers of pain like broken glass travel up his leg and through his body until even his teeth hurt. But that kind of pain he can deal with. That kind of pain is nothing compared to the other.
He tries to avoid thinking about it, but he sees their faces every time he closes his eyes. Buffy. Dawn and Xander. Faith. Willow and Rachel - Willow's girl. A slayer. His favorite sparring partner, next to Buffy. Twenty-five, and she'd looked about half that age. A tiny little firecracker in high top sneakers and spiky hair that was a different color every week. She'd given him a hard time, all the time. He'd been crazy about her. He'd had a home in Cleveland, something he'd barely dared hope for. Love. Friends. Family. Never really thought he'd have that kind of life. Knew he didn't deserve it. It hadn't been perfect, of course. They'd lived on a Hellmouth, after all. They'd lost people. But he never thought he'd lose everything. He should've known better.
So his days and nights blend together, and he only notices the passage of time from the bit of light that leaks in from the entrance to the cave. There’s scrub trees and shrubs outside; he figures he’s somewhere at the beginnings of the California desert. And all he has is time. Time to think about the people he’s lost. Time to feel the pain in his fucking leg that won’t heal. And then there's the hunger.
What began as an annoying gnawing in his gut has now expanded into a full-fledged, overwhelming obsession. The only food he's had are a couple of desert rats that were unfortunate enough to wander into his humble abode. His leg won't heal without blood, and he can't hunt for food with a useless leg. It's a classic Catch-22. He remembers watching that movie with Xander, and arguing with him about how the book was so much better. Fuck. Spike looks down at himself, the incredible shrinking man. Human skeleton, isn't that what he told Giles all those years ago? A complete fabrication at the time, but it turns out he wasn't far off. He contemplates his options. The desert sun is hot and bright. Dependable. But up till now, crawling to his death has seemed too pathetic a prospect, even for him. He's reevaluating his position when she appears.
She's crouched in the entrance, backlit by the burnt orange sunset, her face in shadow. She's like an angel. She glows.
"Buffy..." his throat is dry and scratchy and his voice is more a croak than actual human speech.
"It's alright. I'm here now." Coming forward, she inspects his wounds with the touch he's become so familiar with. Strong yet gentle at the same time. He feels her warm, wet tears fall on his face, soft as rain, as she bends down to kiss him. When she raises her eyes to his, he sees her face is streaked with blood and dirt, like war paint across her cheeks.
"How did you find me?" he asks.
She looks puzzled. "I don't remember."
"I'm starving," he says. It's practically all he can think of.
"I know." She straddles his hips, lifting her hair off her neck with one hand. Her jugular pulses enticingly.
"No. I can't..." he says, although his mouth starts to water, and his fangs itch to descend. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. Though it's not like they haven't done this before. There was the time he was nearly torn in half by that K'rathok demon, and she'd insisted. Of course, he hadn't been starving to death at the time.
"It's why I'm here," she answers.
"No," he repeats, even as his fangs sink into the soft flesh of her neck, and she groans, grinding herself against him. She's like heaven, his Buffy. Love and sex and power and need fill his arms and flow down his throat. He flips her over on her back, his broken leg forgotten, pushing clothing aside he enters her, pounding her into the dirt floor as he swallows mouthfuls of her blood. He can't stop; it's too good. She moans and bucks beneath him, calling his name. The only thing better than fucking a slayer is...is ...
"No!" He cries out as he pushes himself off her. She lies impossibly still beneath him, the marks on her face standing out in stark contrast to her pale skin. Oh God, what has he done? Tears run down his face, obscuring his vision.
"It's okay," her hands are in his hair, her voice comforting, and he clutches her too him.
“No, it’s not okay love,” he says, oddly unrelieved. “Nothing’s okay anymore, is it?”
Buffy pulls away gently, smiling her sad smile. “You did the best you could.”
“Well it’s not bloody good enough! Never wanted to hurt you, Buffy. Last thing I ever wanted was to let you down.”
"But you can't hurt me, Spike." She touches his face. Her fingers are cold. "I'm already dead."
He comes to with a start that sends a fire raging through his broken leg. His face is wet with tears, and he's sweaty and sticky and disgusted with himself. Again. Time after time he's had this dream or hallucination or whatever the bloody hell it is, and it always ends the same fucking way. And she's still gone. God, he can't take it anymore. He may not have much to live for, but anything would be better than this. Burning to death in the middle of the desert. Being eaten alive by coyotes. Torn apart by demons.
Anything.
Spike struggles to sit up in the small space. Throwing his head back, he roars until his throat is so sore he can't make another sound. His anguish echoes in the small chamber, bouncing back at him, finally fading away until the soft sounds of the desert night are all that he can hear. He knows without looking that the sun has finally dipped below the horizon. It’s time for him to leave this place.
"No more," he whispers. "No more of this. Got one more thing to do before I dust. Owe her that, at least." Ignoring the daggers that are shooting through his leg as best he can, he crawls outside the cave and finds a couple of sturdy sticks. Tearing up his shirt with shaking hands he uses it and the sticks to fashion a makeshift splint. His coat is filthy and covered with gore, but he shrugs it on, his only protection from the elements. Lightheaded, he sways on his feet and has to grab onto the cave wall until his head clears. Spike tightens his belt a few notches and gazes up into the night sky, eventually finding the star he's looking for. He doesn't know exactly where he is, but he knows where he's headed - though he hasn't a clue what he'll do if he ever gets there. Finding a gnarly old branch to lean on, he braces himself, grits his teeth against the pain, and heads east.
Chapter 3
AUTHOR: Cindy
RATING: R for now
SPOILERS: post-NFA
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: Spike, Buffy, Spike/Buffy, others
WARNINGS: Character death, violence, disturbing post-Apocalypse-type imagery
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine, but Joss said I could play with them.
SUMMARY: Spike always said it would take the end of the world to keep him away from Buffy. And he was right.
A/N: thanks always to kellyhk for her support with this fic
A/N2: I wrote this chapter a while ago, and kelly beta'd it...and then I rewrote nearly the whole thing. I have already apologized to her. *g* It will be re-beta'd eventually, but I wanted to post it, as I said I would, and Kelly is busy today saving lives and stuff :-) As always, any and all boo boos are my own.
He's not sure how long he's been here. Hours, days...weeks, maybe? In an out of consciousness, not sure anymore the difference between his nightmares and the horror of his reality. He tries to think of the last thing he remembers before he came to in this tiny cave.
And then the memory hits him, all too vividly. He can practically smell the acridity of the air as it fills his nose and throat, make his eyes water. Feel the weight of the sword in his hand, and then the emptiness when it's ripped away. A demon grins at him and breaks it in half with its bare hands. Spike pulls the only weapon he has left from the leather sleeve strapped to his leg, and faces down three ten foot demons with only a hunting knife. He wonders if he'll see Buffy soon, but instead he figures he'll be stuck with Angel for all eternity. His own personal hell. Bizarrely, he starts to laugh.
That's when she comes to his rescue, soaring through the air, hair flying out behind her like a superhero's cape. And that's what she is, a sixteen year old superhero, all knobby knees and elbows and dead certain aim. The axe she throws splits one demon's head down the middle; she takes off the heads of the other two with a single pass of her sword. She's saved his life. Only trouble is, he's not sure the alternative wouldn't be preferable. And while he's contemplating this, one of the demons falls like a tree, all of its dead weight landing on Spike. He feels his lower leg break. Hears it as it snaps in two - no three - pieces. He yowls in pain, like a wounded animal.
Karen...or Kathy, is it? Why can't he remember her name? She drags the demon off him and helps him stand. Together they look out at the unbelievable sight before them. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands, more demons than he ever imagined Hell could hold, swarm out from the Hellmouth in every direction, like termites. Their only mission, seek and destroy.
Kathy, that's her name, looks up at him with big, round, blue eyes. She reminds him a little of his Sweet Bit when she was a kid. Of course, Dawn doesn't even wear her hair like that anymore. She's all grown up now. Dawn is...
...gone. They're all...gone.
Oh, Christ. Oh, Dawn.
"Spike?" The girl's looking at him like he has some answers. Like he knows what the fuck to do. Like he didn't just watch their two best warriors go down fighting. Just had to play the bloody heroes, the both of them. Because that's what they were, he supposes. Didn't know any other way. Like father, like son.
He's not sure what happens next. His memory begins to fade at this point. He thinks a few more stragglers join them, bruised and bloodied. They want to bring him with them, but he sends them away. He can't remember where. He'd just slow them down with his busted leg. And they barely have a snowball's chance of surviving as it is.
The very last thing he remembers is looking over the edge of the Hellmouth, just like he'd done once before. Except this time, he was alone. Back then, it'd been full of Turok Han. This time it was empty, and he had contemplated throwing himself in.
And maybe he had. He’s not sure exactly where he is or how he got here, but it sure feels like he's in hell, trapped in this tiny, airless, stifling hot space that's barely big enough for him to roll over in. Which is probably a good thing, as every time he tries to move, slivers of pain like broken glass travel up his leg and through his body until even his teeth hurt. But that kind of pain he can deal with. That kind of pain is nothing compared to the other.
He tries to avoid thinking about it, but he sees their faces every time he closes his eyes. Buffy. Dawn and Xander. Faith. Willow and Rachel - Willow's girl. A slayer. His favorite sparring partner, next to Buffy. Twenty-five, and she'd looked about half that age. A tiny little firecracker in high top sneakers and spiky hair that was a different color every week. She'd given him a hard time, all the time. He'd been crazy about her. He'd had a home in Cleveland, something he'd barely dared hope for. Love. Friends. Family. Never really thought he'd have that kind of life. Knew he didn't deserve it. It hadn't been perfect, of course. They'd lived on a Hellmouth, after all. They'd lost people. But he never thought he'd lose everything. He should've known better.
So his days and nights blend together, and he only notices the passage of time from the bit of light that leaks in from the entrance to the cave. There’s scrub trees and shrubs outside; he figures he’s somewhere at the beginnings of the California desert. And all he has is time. Time to think about the people he’s lost. Time to feel the pain in his fucking leg that won’t heal. And then there's the hunger.
What began as an annoying gnawing in his gut has now expanded into a full-fledged, overwhelming obsession. The only food he's had are a couple of desert rats that were unfortunate enough to wander into his humble abode. His leg won't heal without blood, and he can't hunt for food with a useless leg. It's a classic Catch-22. He remembers watching that movie with Xander, and arguing with him about how the book was so much better. Fuck. Spike looks down at himself, the incredible shrinking man. Human skeleton, isn't that what he told Giles all those years ago? A complete fabrication at the time, but it turns out he wasn't far off. He contemplates his options. The desert sun is hot and bright. Dependable. But up till now, crawling to his death has seemed too pathetic a prospect, even for him. He's reevaluating his position when she appears.
She's crouched in the entrance, backlit by the burnt orange sunset, her face in shadow. She's like an angel. She glows.
"Buffy..." his throat is dry and scratchy and his voice is more a croak than actual human speech.
"It's alright. I'm here now." Coming forward, she inspects his wounds with the touch he's become so familiar with. Strong yet gentle at the same time. He feels her warm, wet tears fall on his face, soft as rain, as she bends down to kiss him. When she raises her eyes to his, he sees her face is streaked with blood and dirt, like war paint across her cheeks.
"How did you find me?" he asks.
She looks puzzled. "I don't remember."
"I'm starving," he says. It's practically all he can think of.
"I know." She straddles his hips, lifting her hair off her neck with one hand. Her jugular pulses enticingly.
"No. I can't..." he says, although his mouth starts to water, and his fangs itch to descend. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. Though it's not like they haven't done this before. There was the time he was nearly torn in half by that K'rathok demon, and she'd insisted. Of course, he hadn't been starving to death at the time.
"It's why I'm here," she answers.
"No," he repeats, even as his fangs sink into the soft flesh of her neck, and she groans, grinding herself against him. She's like heaven, his Buffy. Love and sex and power and need fill his arms and flow down his throat. He flips her over on her back, his broken leg forgotten, pushing clothing aside he enters her, pounding her into the dirt floor as he swallows mouthfuls of her blood. He can't stop; it's too good. She moans and bucks beneath him, calling his name. The only thing better than fucking a slayer is...is ...
"No!" He cries out as he pushes himself off her. She lies impossibly still beneath him, the marks on her face standing out in stark contrast to her pale skin. Oh God, what has he done? Tears run down his face, obscuring his vision.
"It's okay," her hands are in his hair, her voice comforting, and he clutches her too him.
“No, it’s not okay love,” he says, oddly unrelieved. “Nothing’s okay anymore, is it?”
Buffy pulls away gently, smiling her sad smile. “You did the best you could.”
“Well it’s not bloody good enough! Never wanted to hurt you, Buffy. Last thing I ever wanted was to let you down.”
"But you can't hurt me, Spike." She touches his face. Her fingers are cold. "I'm already dead."
He comes to with a start that sends a fire raging through his broken leg. His face is wet with tears, and he's sweaty and sticky and disgusted with himself. Again. Time after time he's had this dream or hallucination or whatever the bloody hell it is, and it always ends the same fucking way. And she's still gone. God, he can't take it anymore. He may not have much to live for, but anything would be better than this. Burning to death in the middle of the desert. Being eaten alive by coyotes. Torn apart by demons.
Anything.
Spike struggles to sit up in the small space. Throwing his head back, he roars until his throat is so sore he can't make another sound. His anguish echoes in the small chamber, bouncing back at him, finally fading away until the soft sounds of the desert night are all that he can hear. He knows without looking that the sun has finally dipped below the horizon. It’s time for him to leave this place.
"No more," he whispers. "No more of this. Got one more thing to do before I dust. Owe her that, at least." Ignoring the daggers that are shooting through his leg as best he can, he crawls outside the cave and finds a couple of sturdy sticks. Tearing up his shirt with shaking hands he uses it and the sticks to fashion a makeshift splint. His coat is filthy and covered with gore, but he shrugs it on, his only protection from the elements. Lightheaded, he sways on his feet and has to grab onto the cave wall until his head clears. Spike tightens his belt a few notches and gazes up into the night sky, eventually finding the star he's looking for. He doesn't know exactly where he is, but he knows where he's headed - though he hasn't a clue what he'll do if he ever gets there. Finding a gnarly old branch to lean on, he braces himself, grits his teeth against the pain, and heads east.
Chapter 3