| 6 Things That Should Have Happened Post-Chosen (And An Epilogue!) by lovesbitch91 |
| Chapter #1 - Come To Sunnydale |
The birds were singing and the sun was shining. People made love in words and glances and embraces down below in the Parisian streets. Ringing sounds of laughter, snippets of songs and the low hums of pleasant conversation drifted up and into Buffy’s window, trying to draw her out. Instead she slept, huddled beneath the silky comforter, head resting on the pillow. She got up once or twice to pee, or order food she wasn’t really hungry for, just to keep her friends from worrying - too much, anyway. Her friends had noticed as she sank lower into depression after the fall of Sunnydale. They had crowded around her at first, making her the center of everything. But after the first few weeks they began to drift away. The tight group of Scoobies had broken from the confines of Sunnydale, and were fighting evil across the globe. Nowadays, Faith called from Cleveland to share stories of slaying and her wild, passionate affair with Wood. Dawn and Andrew had left for Italy soon after arriving in Paris – Dawn for school, and Andrew as head of a small group of Slayers-in-Training. But they called nearly everyday to let her know they were happy and fighting the good fight. Giles and Willow were in England, rebuilding the Council and communicating with short e-mails and late-night phone calls. Xander had stuck around, but there was some pretty new Slayer he’d started to fall for… which left Buffy pretty much alone in the city of love. Not that there hadn’t been other men. She’d been here a year already, first arriving wide-eyed and ready for shopping and dancing beneath the Eiffel tower, like in some sappy Meg Ryan movie. There were men – plenty of them – that she brought back to her room, men that helped her forget with their French accents and sensual love. And then there had been a flash of white, once at a late-night club. A head bobbed across her line of sight, and her heart had seized up for a moment before she raced through the crowd of warm-bodied dancing, thriving people. But it wasn’t him, just some punkish girl with bleached hair and bits of silver piercing her ears and nose and lips and eyebrows. Buffy turned and fled. After that there were no more men, just lonely nights and days in bed, thinking of him. The knocking at the door was getting very annoying Buffy decided as it roused her from sleep. Couldn’t a girl mope around in peace anymore? Moping was better than a self-induced coma, anyway. So she trudged her way through the half-lifted veils of sleep to wrench open the door and growl in her annoyed-Buffy voice. There was a smiling man in the French-style postage service uniform of dull brown, holding a clipboard for her signature. He spoke a few words in French, which Buffy didn’t understand, and then a form to sign which Buffy didn’t understand, either. He then handed her a sealed envelope, which she hastily snatched away. She shut the door in the man’s face, staring at the crisp, white envelope in her hand as she walked blindly to the little white desk. Sitting in the padded chair, she felt around for the silver letter opener – something she’d rarely used, but which seemed appropriate - and slid it along the crease. Inside was an airline ticket. A one-way to L.A., which she tossed aside in favor of the cream colored paper inside. It was folded in half, her name written in an ornate style with rich, black ink. It was in handwriting she didn’t recognize, and she paused before unfolding it. B, Come to Sunnydale. Three words, written in the same style as her name on the outside, gave no clues as to the writer. For a moment, a flash of warning crossed her mind. It could be a trap, she thought, trying to lure her back there, all alone, and finish her off. But then, none of her enemies had ever bought a ticket, and written her name so prettily. She would go, she decided. Just to see. She’d finally made herself comfortable driving, after years of refusing to learn, so she rented a sleek, silver convertible for the trip north. Arriving in L.A., she’d half expected Angel to meet her. But then, she hadn’t told him she was coming – hadn’t told anyone, simply changed her voicemail to say that she was out and about on personal business, and that she was fine. She left L.A. as the sun was setting, fighting through the slow traffic that steadily moved north until she broke through and was cruising along at seventy miles an hour with no headlights before or behind her. It wasn’t a long drive – only an hour – yet her heart raced and the time seemed to draw itself out into days as she drove through the warm, May night. Almost exactly a year since she’d left. Almost exactly a year since she’d left behind dead friends and family. Almost a year since she’d left him in that Hellmouth to burn up and dust. But no - it wasn’t him calling her. He was dead, after all. She’d felt his ghost clinging to her skin all those nights in Paris when she dreamt it was him in her bed, and between her thighs with his arms holding her close and murmuring such lovely proclamations into her ear. She pulled up to the edge of the massive crater, now filled up with water and sparkling in the half-light of the moon. There was no one around for miles, yet she felt….something - a presence. Stepping out of the convertible, she left her keys on the seat and walked up to the edge of the lake where her town had once stood. Spike was here. His essence was all around her, whispering to her. She could feel him, now, she thought. How his arms went around her that last night in the basement. How his cool breath tickled her neck when he whispered to her. How she got that tingle at the back of her neck when he was around, that was so singular, like his kiss and his voice and his arms; so unique and identifiable. No. Her eyes snapped open, and she turned on the spot. Not him, it’s not him. Oh, but it was - right down to the hair and the jacket and the soft smile he shared only with her. It was his stance and his arms and his eyes and his mouth and his voice calling her forward. “Buffy…” She broke then, just broke and collapsed in the dirt and felt the tears burning hot down her cheeks as she reached her arms out like a sad, lost child. And then he was scooping her up, holding her tight to his chest and running his hand through her hair and whispering “Shh, luv, s’alright. I’m here. I’m here.” “You were gone,” she croaked, burying her head in the crook of his neck. “You were gone and it was too hard without you, and now you’re back and you didn’t believe me!” The last phrase was a screech, and he winced as she batted him on the arm in her hysteria. He smiled at her, pulled away a bit. She looked up at him with watery eyes and wiped them hastily on her sleeve. “I love you, you stupid, arrogant, pig-headed vampire!” But it was okay then, because he was suddenly kissing her, and holding her close, and her arms were around his shoulders and everything was okay. Spike was okay. Spike was alive. And she loved him. |
| Chapter #2 - Too Good to be a Dream |
“We’re looking for a girl. American. Blonde. Blue eyes.” “Her eyes are hazel, you bloody nit.” Buffy heard the voices from across the dance floor, and her eyes shot open. The Immortal was smiling, still dancing, oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend was moving steadily and purposefully away. “I clearly remember her eyes being blue,” Angel was retorting, finger in Spike’s face. Buffy froze, only ten feet away, as her eyes absorbed the pillar of black leather before her. “We had tons of deep, soulful, eye-gazing. I think I’d know better than you what color her eyes are.” “Maybe that’s because you’re thinking of that bloody wolf girl!” Spike replied hotly, and Buffy could tell he was seconds from a fight. “They’re green,” she interjected. “Hazel, yeah.” Both vampires were staring at her, but she was looking at only one. She crossed the last few feet and planted herself in front of Spike, looking up into his eyes at the very realness of him. He obviously wasn’t expecting it when her fist shot out, connecting with his nose and sending him staggering to one knee. She stood over him as a crowd gathered and the Immortal stepped up. “Mi amore,” he pleaded, trying to draw her away. “Not now,” she said, shoving him away impatiently, eyes still riveted to Spike as he picked himself up. “Yeah, you bloody ponce. You heard the Slayer. So get going,” he chided, giving the Immortal a dismissive wave of his hand before turning to Buffy. “Look pet, I would’ve called, ‘cept-” “Except you were incorporeal. And then?” “Bloody Andrew,” Spike swore under his breath before opening his hands to Buffy. “And then… I dunno. I was an arse. Didn’t think you’d want me back, anyway.” “Not want you back?!” she screeched. It was just the two of them right now. The people and the music and the Immortal and Angel had melted away so that all her senses were full of Spike. “I only just love you, you stupid head!” Aww, shit; she was crying now – big, fat tears that leaked down her cheek and splashed onto the ground. “You do?” He had softened, his eyes a startling color of blue as he took a step forward. She let him grab hold of her, let him tip her chin up so that she could see the soft grin. “Say it again.” Still crying, she raised her arms up, cupped his face. “I love you, I do. I love you, Spike – never anyone but you.” “Oh, you have got to be kidding!” Angel had stepped into their small circle, rudely bringing them back to the center of the club, and the attention of a growing crowd. “I thought I was the love of your life!” “Your time’s bloody past, Peaches,” Spike shot him a smug grin. “My girl, now.” “But, Buffy!” Angel was getting kind of desperate, Buffy decided. So she broke away from Spike, placed a hand on his cheek. “Of course I’ll always love you, Angel.” (He resisted the urge to stick out his tongue at Spike.) “But I love Spike. I love him so much it hurts to think about him not being here.” “Mi amore,” the Immortal had stepped forward, this time at Angel’s side, hands held out. “What about me? You tell me you love me, and yet-” “I don’t,” she said simply. “Geez, is Riley going to show up next, too? Maybe Pike? I love Spike, you guys. Get over it.” “Is this a dream, luv? Are you really here with me?” Buffy turned back to Spike, smiling and grasped his hands tightly in hers. “It’s too good to be a dream.” |
| Chapter #3 - These Crazy Things |
She’d been hearing the rumors for a while now. Things like that always seemed to circulate the busier demon bars, where the lies and boasts often outnumbered the truths. But when rumors that a feral, souled vampire who ranted and screamed throughout the night was holed up somewhere in Cleveland reached Buffy’s ears, there seemed nothing better to do than investigate. Which is how she wound up here, following some demon’s crude directions through the great labyrinth of sewers to where, he claimed, the vampire rested. It seemed so stupid, she thought. Spike had been gone three months now, and Buffy believed she would have felt something – anything - if he’d come back… but no. It was probably some weird, wacked-out vamp hiding out in the sewers. No soul, no anything but that. Just a vampire. Just business. That’s when she heard the screaming; a low, keening sound that was half-scream, half-sob rent the air around her. She followed it, ears stinging, until the narrow sewage tunnel widened out into a large cavern of sorts. And it was him. It was Spike. Stretched out on his back in the middle, barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of tattered jeans, his mouth opened impossibly wide to let out that raw, guttural sound that had led her here. When he heard her, he stilled. Didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge her presence; simply quieted and curled into himself. She approached softly, her boots making soft sucking sounds in the muck, and knelt down next to him. Her heart seemed to ice over, looking over his bruised body, the scrapes on his face and his protruding ribs. His hair had grown out all honey-colored and blonde, sticking up in wild curls like when she’d first seen him last year, huddled in the basement scratching his heart out. “Get up Spike,” she snapped, standing back up. “I’m taking you out of here.” He rolled over to look up at her. His eyes were wide and blue, mouth slightly agape as if experiencing consciousness for the first time. “Who’re you, then?” Spike – her Spike – had always told her how unforgettable she was. He used to remark on how he’d know her anywhere, from the scent she gave off, that he’d find her even if he was blind and deaf, just by smelling for her. He’d lick and kiss her body and tell her how gorgeous and unique and sweet-smelling she was down there until she quit squirming and kicked him in the face. Apparently he was wrong. He stayed huddled against the passenger side door all the way back to her hotel room, mumbling to himself and casting fearful glances her way. Upon arriving, she’d had to drag him out and up the back stairs, lest someone see them and ask questions. Once inside, she’d thought of calling for help. But one look at him had her setting the phone down to crouch before him. “Spike… it’s me, it’s Buffy. Don’t you know me?” He shook his head, eyes dark with confusion. “Well, I know you,” she said. “Will you let me clean you up? Feed you?” He didn’t answer then, just stared at space over her right shoulder. She took it as a yes, and dragged him into the bathroom. The filth and muck that covered him was appalling, and she had to use a pair of scissors to get the crusted-over jeans off of him. He didn’t seem exactly shy of his nudity – her Spike never had been, of course – but his skin jumped whenever she touched it, even just to help slide his jeans off. Once he was bare, and she realized how she’d never fully forgotten the shape of his body, the curves and angles and hardness, she turned the shower on hot and let the steam fill the small bathroom. “I’m going to get in with you,” she motioned towards the shower stall. “To help you clean up, okay?” He seemed to accept it, averting his gaze as she slipped out of her clothes and followed him into the shower of hot water that cascaded around them. He hissed as the water hit his wounds, and she used soft fingers to massage away the dirt and grime. So focused as she was, she didn’t notice he was touching her until he’d tipped her face back and pressed his lips to hers. Thoughts about the wrongness of the entire situation seemed to flow down the drain as her mouth opened beneath his. The way he kissed was so much like how he’d kissed her before that she was certain he really did remember her, that he was just fooling her all along. But no, because her Spike wouldn’t have done that. He’d have pulled her against them the first time he saw her, and taken her against that hard sewer wall while whispering the sweetest endearments into her ear. This Spike didn’t know her, was just attracted to her. She smiled. He’d also said that his demon would know her anywhere. When they finally got out of the shower, jelly-boned and lips swollen from kissing, she wrapped him up in a fluffy white robe and sat him up on the bed. Turning her back, she grabbed a letter opener from the little desk against the wall. Slicing into the palm of her hand, she watched the blood bubble up into her cupped hand. She moved slowly towards him, eyes not on him, but on her hand. She offered it to him shyly, not wanting to watch his face as he drank her blood. Funny, how Spike had never asked for, never taken, her blood. The Master, Angel, and Dracula had all tasted her, slipped their fangs into her neck and sucked the liquid red from her neck. He took a precursory sniff, something she inwardly laughed at, before his tongue slipped forward and touched her palm. She jerked a bit, before pressing it closer to his mouth, until her hand was star-fished over his lips, the cut running horizontally to his open mouth. She watched despite herself as he took long, deep draughts of her blood, his eyes closing in contentment. By the time she gently pulled away and pressed a washcloth to her hand to staunch the cut, his wounds had scabbed or else turned a bright pink. “Thank you,” he mumbled softly, and she could see the exhaustion that threatened to overcome him. Without words between them, she put him to sleep in the big, queen-sized bed. He curled up beneath the large comforter, looking so lost and pale beneath it. She watched him sleep, in that silent, motionless slumber reminiscent of a corpse’s, before turning away. Seated at the desk once more she pulled the contact list up on her cellphone. Who to call, that could offer any help? Not Giles – last time he’d been involved in Spike’s affairs it had been to kill him. Faith was in some distant Hellmouth with Wood, slaying and fucking on a nightly basis – she wouldn’t offer much help or support. Xander and Dawn were away, pretending everyone didn’t already know they were together. And Willow – Buffy’s best friend for so many years now – was in a different dimension with her girlfriend at the moment. Okay, so no friends to come to the rescue. And she was most definitely avoiding thinking about calling Angel. She had called him one night, sobbing, over Spike’s death. Per usual regarding his wayward grand-childe, Angel was stolid and uncomforting. If anything, he’d kill Spike, and make sure he didn’t come back. Exhaustion was overcoming her as well, she realized with a long yawn, and she stumbled from the desk to the bed sleepily. Shucking the fluffy robe she’d put on after their shower, she slipped into the bed and pressed herself against Spike’s cool back. He seemed to shudder and expel a soft sigh at her touch, and she heard the words tumbling out of his mouth in his stupor. “That’s it, luv,” he whispered. “Knew you’d come back to me.” She jerked away, shook his shoulder. “Spike, wake up.” He turned to look at her, eyes confused and clouded in sleep. “What did you say, just now? That you knew I’d come back?” He shook his head in obvious bewilderment, scooted a little further from her. She sighed, dropping her head onto the pillow. Twining her arms around him, she soothed him back into sleep and watched him slumber until she was satisfied he wasn’t going to do anymore sleep-talking. She’d been sure, for a moment, that it was her Spike mumbling in his sleep, that he knew she’d find him here in this crazy Ohio city. It seemed, at least, that he was in there somewhere, that in time she’d pull her real Spike out of this hollow look-alike. Pressing her cheek to his shoulder, she followed him into sleep. There was always tomorrow, to sort out these crazy things. |
| Chapter #4 - The Vampire Slayer and Her Fierce Demon Lover |
‘Of course it would be in a bloody church,’ Spike thought as he stepped through the tall, oak doors adorned with wreaths of white lilies. Soft, instrumental music drifted to his ears from inside, and he sucked in one last drag of his nearly-spent cigarette before flicking it away. He could smell her already; hear her strong, willful heartbeat. It had been ten years since he’d last seen her, right before the Hellmouth crumbled down around him, and he died for the second time. And now here he was, on her wedding day. What did he expect, he wondered to himself; that she would abandon her groom to be with him? Certainly not – he just wanted closure, to be released from her. There had been others for him, over the years - beautiful, strong women that brought the best of him forward. But they never lasted long, and he’d return to memories of her, to his burning love that hadn’t dampened over the last decade. He stood a moment longer, casting a glance at the stormy sky above him. The air smelt of rain and blew cold gusts of wind over him. Steadying himself, he heaved open the door. There she stood, before the altar, in that long, flowing white gown. She hadn’t aged a bit, it seemed, in the last ten years, and he wondered if it was just him imagining it or if there was some Slayer thing he hadn’t known. She was glowing, he saw, the veil flipped over the cascading locks of her golden-blonde hair, though her smile seemed a bit dim. The groom was some bloody pillock, he decided. All tall and dark and so damn feminine with his giddy happiness. Spike doubted he’d look any less a fool, though, if it was him up there. The preacher was talking; some nonsense about objections, and forever holding your peace. When Spike first thought of coming here, he’d imagined himself storming up the aisle to steal her away, pulling her to him and kissing her before taking her away and driving pedal-to-the-metal out of this little town. But instead he stood, unnoticed, at the foot of the long, petal-strewn aisle, watching her give herself away to some man who could never deserve her. And you do, mate? No one was offering objections, the gathered friends and family all smiles. Spike couldn’t see any of the other faces, but Willow and Dawn were gathered in the wedding party, Harris as well, with his eye patch. They were smiling and crying, watching the Slayer get married. But before the minister could commence with the ‘Do you so-and-so take Buffy Anne Summers…,’ her smile faltered, eyes clouded with confusion, and Spike’s heart seemed to swell as she slowly turned her head. The minister seemed to notice, raising his bespectacled eyes to the slim man with peroxide hair and infinite swagger and paused, eyes flickering to the bride. “Spike?” Her voice seemed so small that she hardly realized she’d spoken at all, until Greg squeezed her hand and gave her a questioning glance. She looked down at her hand in his, and the absurdity of the last few years hit her. Here she was, about to marry some regular Joe from Minnesota when she could crush his hand in a second. And there…there was Spike, not looking any different from the dreams she still had of him nightly. “I-I can’t,” she stammered, and - what was his name? Oh yeah, - Greg’s face fell as she pulled her hand from his. The bouquet fell from her hands, the delicate white roses falling apart as she trampled them on her way down the raised dais to Spike. Murmurs and cries followed her as she ran down the aisle. It seemed to take forever, running down that small expanse of white carpet, but finally she was there, being enveloped in his open arms, melting into the steady pillar of his body. “Let’s go, let’s just go,” she whispered into his neck as she held him closer. There was a sudden rush of gravity falling away from her as he scooped her up into his arms, rustling the heavy silk as he held her close, and they were leaving the church, all of the gathered family and friends filing after them in a crush to see this mysterious man carry off the bride. “It’s Spike! It’s Spike!” Buffy heard Dawn’s voice over the rest, her younger sister rushing out after them. She was smiling so hard, tears coming down her face, with Willow and Xander and Giles behind her. Some looked incredulous; Willow had a small smile curving her lips, and Xander seemed swollen with anger. Spike was tumbling her into the front seat of some long, black shiny car of his – not the limo they’d hired – and she was craning her head out the window to smile at Dawn, to reach out to grasp her hand. “I’ll call you,” she promised as Spike revved up the engine. And then they were shooting away, leaving the wedding guests bewildered and outraged. They disappeared out of that small town where she’d almost signed away her life in a matter of minutes, Spike’s foot pressed hard against the gas pedal. She sighed in contentment, closed her eyes and reached across to hold one of Spike’s hands. He pulled it up and kissed the palm of it before interlacing his fingers with hers. “Wasn’t plannin’ on something so dramatic,” he said after a while. Buffy smiled, a small giggle rising up in her throat. “Aren’t you always?” He gave a small half-smile, and then they were pulling up in front of a pretty little motel on the side of the road. He gestured for her to stay put while he got a room. The sudden realness of everything that was happening suddenly crashed down on Buffy. She’d abandoned her husband-to-be for Spike, who she’d believed dead, who she hadn’t seen in ten years. And it was okay, she realized; she was doing something for herself, instead of to please everyone else. He was back in minutes, lifting her out of the passenger’s side seat and into his arms. They were laughing and murmuring and kissing – God, how could she stand to kiss anyone else after him? He fumbled with the room key for a moment, distracted by her as she pressed kisses to every inch of his face that she could reach while her arms were looped around his neck. Finally, the door was open, and he slammed it behind him as he lay her down on the bed. Crawling up her body, he accepted her kisses, and she felt the lean hardness of his body through the thick folds of her wedding dress. “Bloody hell, pet,” he whispered, pulling away to look down into her face. “We really just do that?” “We did, we did,” she replied through her smile, reaching up to trace the contours of his face. Tears were welling up now, just sheer happiness that he was here. “You’re here.” “Had to be, didn’t I? Had to see you one last time.” “Not the last time,” she shook her head, “because there won’t be a last time ever again. You’re going to be here in the morning. And the morning after that, and the morning after that, and-” He silenced her with a kiss, and she held him closer, rocked her body up to feel him better. Suddenly it was her breaking away, her eyes narrowing. “You didn’t believe me,” she accused him, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. “You didn’t believe me when I told you.” “Didn’t think it mattered, then,” he admitted sadly, still hovering above her, eye-to-eye. “Of course it matters,” she chided him. “I love you, Spike.” He seemed to grow ten times bigger with that statement, and a low, possessive growl erupted from his throat. She screeched in wild delight as he began ripping the dress down off her shoulders, careful in his roughness to still preserve the dress. She helped him, shrugging it down off her body until she lay bare before him. He reared up above her, tossing the gown to the floor, and studied her in the dim overhead light. Dawn had selected the underwear for her sister’s wedding night- all silky, transparent white fabric, cut tight and baring as much skin as possible. She hadn’t thought it so sexy at first - more innocent with its girlish bows on the hips and the rosettes that adorned the bra straps. But when his eyes darkened with heady lust, she felt her body humming beneath his gaze. She wriggled her body beneath him, batting her eyelashes. He grinned in response, curling his tongue beneath his teeth. In a flash, he’d disappeared from her sight, slipping down her body to press faint kisses along her thigh. She giggled as she felt him close his teeth around the baby blue garter, slipping it down her leg and tossing it on top of her dress. Cupping her feet, he kissed the inner ankles and loosened the straps around them. He threw the heels off in his haste before he shimmied back up her body and kissed her mouth. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she muttered, tugging at the slim black suit he wore. It was a conjoined effort in undressing him, and she took the time to run her hands across the smooth expanse of skin as she did so, matching memory to flesh. Finally, he was bare between her legs, the light turning his pale skin colors of honey and gold, and he cupped her breasts beneath the silky bra. He hovered above her, still and unmoving, drinking the sight of her flushed body beneath him. Her eyes sparkled, the smile shining through them as she gulped deep breaths of steadying air into her lungs. Already he could smell her growing excitement, radiating from her and warming his skin where he touched her. “I’d think I was dreaming, if I wasn’t so sure you were here,” she whispered to him, raising a hand to his cheek. He smiled, dipped down to kiss her once more. She tugged him closer, wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him tight against her body. She could feel his swollen erection pressing into her, and she writhed beneath him, pulling and pressing him against her body. He moaned into her ear, bit down on his lip before he once again began to slide down her body. “No,” she told him, tugging him back up to her. “There’s time for that later. Right now I just want to see you. Want to watch you.” The words had a visible effect on him, and his hand wove between them to grasp her swollen sex through the thin material. He ripped them away with a loud snap, tossed them aside. Pressed the tip of his cock against her so that she gasped and bucked beneath him. He chuckled, pulling away from her. “Feisty little minx, you are. Same as always, ‘cept we’re taking this slow. Gonna make love to you, right now on your wedding night.” “Except it’s not, is it?” she whispered. “You took me from that, saved me from it.” “Would you have been happy, you think? With a normal husband with live little swimmers in him still? With a little house and a dog and a picket fence?” “I’d rather play footsie under the rubble,” she countered, taking them both back to the night when they’d first come together, Slayer and Vampire. He growled at her, that low possessive rumbling that sent shockwaves through her body. He kissed her, softly on the corner of her mouth, barely a whisper against her skin that was suddenly oh-so-sensitive. Gave a little push against her until he was sheathed up inside of her, drawing out breathy gasps as he slowly thrust in and out. Her eyes never left his as they moved slowly, rhythmically. They’d never had this before; this slow, mounting pleasure that came not from the frenzied thrusting, but the sensation of being so wholly absorbed in each other that everything seemed to melt away. Long gone, in some other universe, were her almost-husband, and their families and friends and the life she’d been so close to. None of it mattered, with her demon lover at her side. She watched the way his face changed, forcing her eyes to his through her own excitement. Watched his eyes flicker up and down, meeting hers and leaving them but always focused on her. They were dark, it seemed, one moment and then startlingly clear and blue the next. His mouth was parted slightly as he breathed in unison with her, growing heavier and faster as she squirmed beneath him. The slow pervading warmth had started up, bringing her up and up and up to the lip of oblivion before she crashed over it. The world seemed to spin away as she fell, every bone and muscle and fiber of her being clenching around him as she seized up beneath him. She could feel him, too, pumping faster as he emptied himself into her. It had been so, so long since she’d felt that, that overwhelming power coursing through her after such an intense orgasm. Making love. They’d never really had that, she knew. Never really took the time to take it slow, enjoy each other’s body besides the frenzied fucking they’d delved into headfirst. Never shared the quiet afterglow, either, wrapped in each other’s arms and sharing soft kisses and whispered endearments. She’d never let him, not that he hadn’t tried. “We’ll be okay, now, won’t we Spike?” she asked in a small voice, feeling the pleasure that suffused her body pulling her lids down to the edges of sleep. “You love me, I love you, and when we wake up in a little bit we’ll go kill something big and nasty and then come back here and make love for hours and hours and days and days.” “We’ll be okay, luv, yeah,” he answered, snuggled around her warm body. “The vampire slayer and her fierce demon lover.” “The vampire slayer, and her demon lover,” she echoed softly, her lips smiling around the words. “I like that.” And then, “I love you, you know that, right?” “I know, luv. I know.” |
| Chapter #5 - So Fragile |
She was so fragile, Spike thought, beneath all that strength and power. Even on her deathbed, she wasn’t weak. But she was still fragile. He hadn’t seen her in so long, staying away because he believed – truly believed – that there was nothing he could give her. And now his soul howled inside that he’d missed her life. Missed all their lives – in the in-between years, he’d heard of the deaths. First it had been Giles, then Xander. Willow followed shortly after, leaving only the two Summers girls. Only by then, they hadn’t been girls, but old women. Dawn’s death had been the only one he’d cried over. The little bit, whom he’d cared for that one summer, had always lived in his heart if only for the reason that she was part of Buffy. But even then he’d stayed away, heard of the funeral later from Angel who’d had the strength to be there and comfort Buffy. She doesn’t have long, he’d told Spike later. She was aging and growing weaker with every death. And Dawn’s had hit her the hardest, he said. Dawn had been her reason for living. Buffy had never married, despite what Spike wished for her. She’d had a fling with the Immortal years and years ago, and it had left her without the strength to love again. Spike would have liked to think he’d broken her for other men, that none could compare to the love he’d offered her. Only when it became true did he realize his error; in his selfish possession of her, he’d consigned her to a life of loneliness. He approached the bed quietly, watching her sleep. Her heart wasn’t as strong as it used to be, faltering every few beats before picking back up. Her breathing was shallow, hard to listen to when he knew how full of life she’d been before. As he sunk into the chair her eyes flickered open, settled on him. “Spike?” God, she was still gorgeous. He face wasn’t so smooth and full as it used to be, but it hadn’t lost its inherent prettiness, either. Her hair was a soft yellow, silkier in her old age. A lump had formed in his throat, and he could feel the tears welling as he reached for her hand. “You came.” “That I did, pet,” he whispered, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. “I’ve missed you.” Her voice was so weak, but when she grasped his hand he could still feel the Slayer power there. “Missed you more,” he whispered. She closed her eyes and smiled, and he froze, thinking that if she went now he’d break down into dust and tears. “Can’t believe you stayed away so long,” she whispered, opening her eyes again to fix him with a piercing stare. “You never were good for disappearing long.” “Couldn’t be such a bloody thorn in your side anymore.” Her face grew sorrowful, and she batted his hand weakly. “You can be so stupid, still,” she heaved a breath, continued. “But I’m glad you came.” “Couldn’t miss it.” “I suppose I’ll be with them again; with my mom and my friends.” “Yeah, pet, s’pose you will.” He struggled for unneeded breath now, hunched over her bedside with her frail little hand and clasped between his. “Will you stay with me, Spike? Until it’s time to go?” “However long you like, pet.” She passed sometime in the night, while he watched over her. He’d crawled into the bed at her insistence, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into her hair. She still smelt like Buffy, still infused him with her warmth. And when her heart finally stilled, he lay until she turned cold, his tears soaking her hair. The following day passed in a haze. A swarm of relatives had descended upon the house; children and grand-children and great-grand-children of the original Scoobies all crying and rending their garments over poor Aunt Buffy, who’d watched over the growing families and never had one of her own. She’d been a hundred years old when she finally passed, too tired of living, they said. Too full of sadness and longing for those who had passed before her. They held the funeral at night – it was Buffy’s favorite time, they said. She would sit out on the porch swing and rock herself with her toe and tell stories to the younger children about her days as a vampire slayer. He felt as if he should be connecting with these people, Dawn’s offspring and Buffy’s nieces and nephews. But instead he hung back, watched them cry and laugh and joke and share stories about Buffy Summers. He was the last to place his white rose on the coffin, offered to him by one of the younger children with Dawn’s eyes and Joyce’s smile. He was the last left at the gravesite, crouched before the marble headstone and tracing his finger over and over and over her name. He could hear her voice, when he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cold slab. Could see her eyes dancing with so much life, her laughter ringing high and clear in his ears. As the sky pinkened, he felt her softly brush his arm as her spirit rose up around him. “Will you stay with me, Spike? Until it’s time to go?” “However long you like, pet.” “Good. I can’t stand to be alone anymore.” “Me either, luv.” “Do you know I love you? I don’t want to go without knowing you know it.” “Always was an eloquent one, Slayer.” “Do you, though?” “I do. An’ I love you too, Buffy. Never have been able to stop.” “I’ll wait for you, y’know. I know you’ll be there with me one day.” “Will I?” “You will. And we’ll be together forever.” “Promise me.” “I promise.” When the sun came up, it didn’t hurt. He could feel her all around him, tugging him up into the abyss with him, whispering I love you’s in his ear. He felt warm and full and loved for what seemed like the first time in too, too long. And then he crumbled to ash and was no more – he never was anything but hers. |
| Chapter #6 - I Love You |
“I love you.” “No, you don’t. But thanks for saying it.” Stupid vampire, always thinking he knew everything; she said left, and he said right. But she did – she knew it, even if he didn’t believe her. So she gripped his hand tighter, watched the flames lick their skin without burning. Her eyes were wet, and she met his gaze evenly, the little half-smile on her lips growing. “I do, Spike,” she told him again. “I love you.” His gaze was soft, and he jerked his hand away, held it out to ward her off. “Go, Buffy.” She turned to look at the staircase of earth and stone, started for it. But before she could take a step the ground shuddered violently beneath her feet, and debris of plaster and wood and half the school filled the hole, blocking her exit. There was no way out. He was watching it, his face full of fear suddenly. Not for himself- he’d planned to stay for the finish. But now Buffy was stuck here, too. She turned back to him, and he didn’t object when her arms wrapped around him. She buried her face in his shoulder, felt the sharp edges of the amulet press into her chest, right above her heart. “I think I’ll stay here with you.” His arms wrapped around her, his face bent low over her head as the Hellmouth crumbled around them. He was warm, she realized, infused with the power of the necklace. Her arms tightened around him as she realized she was about to die. She looked up at him, tears coursing down her face, and smiled. “See you on the other side?” “Wouldn’t miss it.” The power of the amulet seemed to blow out like a candle, its warmth depleting. The last Buffy knew, her tears had dried and she clung to Spike, waiting for the end and the dark. Dawn stood at the lip of the crater that had once been her home. She smiled a bit, as the ‘Welcome to Sunnydale’ sign wavered and gave up, falling into the mass of rubble. Buffy hadn’t made it, she kept thinking. Buffy hadn’t made it, again. She felt Xander’s hand on her shoulder, and Willow’s fingers slipping into her warm palm. The tears refused to come - she’d grieved for her sister once already. Instead, a warm sense of peace pervaded her body, knowing her sister had died for her again. “We’ll go tonight,” Giles’ voice crept up behind them, weary with exhaustion. “Before the government and Lord knows who else has time to come. We’ll bring her back.” “No,” Dawn whispered. “I think she’d like to stay there, with Mom and Tara and Anya and…and everyone else.” Spike. She didn’t want to say the name, but she liked to think Buffy wanted to be buried there, with the people she’d fought so hard to protect. “Where to next, y’think?” “Well, I heard Cleveland has a Hellmouth…” |
| Chapter #7 - Epilogue: Dreams And Paper |
Buffy gasped and sat up from where she’d been lying, moments before, on the floor. With each steadying breath, the room came into focus, the blurry edges of her vision sharpening. She was in a large office, it seemed, with bright sunshine pouring into the floor-to-ceiling windows. I should be dead, she thought, closing her eyes and opening them. But when they reopened, she was still in the middle of the office, and voices were suddenly clamoring in her ears. “Buffy!” She looked up, squinting in the bright light to see Angel, shock etched across his face. It took a moment to register the fact that he was bathed in light, and the next moment she was on her feet, lunging towards him. But instead of knocking him into the shadows and out of the sun, she wound up passing through him. “What the-?” Before she could finish her sentence, there was a loud rushing sound in her ears, and she turned to see a form coalescing from a cloud of black ash. As it took shape, she recognized the figure in the black duster and combat boots. “Spike?” Buffy opened her eyes with a short intake of breath. She lay facedown on the soft mattress, her face pressed into the warm flesh of her arm. When she’d caught her breath, finally, she let the faint memory of her recent dream return. They were incredibly vivid, the dreams she’d had continuously over the last year since Sunnydale disappeared into the earth. Whenever she closed her eyes nowadays his face appeared, and she lived for the moments that had never happened between them, that she experienced only in dreams. As she thought of her latest dream – an alternative ending to the final battle with the First – she turned over to dig through the bedside table and extract the thick notebooks. Most of the pages were covered in unintelligible writing; rushed characters strewn together in the drowsy moments after waking, when the dreams were clearest in her mind. There were various second-rate sketches as well, of scenes such as her slung up in his arms wearing a poofy white wedding dress. She clicked the ballpoint pen repetitively as she formed the words in her head before laying them down to paper. Spike shuddered violently into waking and immediately felt the tears well in his eyes. The image of Buffy was still emblazoned in his mind, and he instinctively reached for the spiral notebook next to the bed. Without thinking of the lines and shadows he drew, the picture took form beneath the soft lead pencil. The sketched lines grew in form and figure until he was looking down at an exact reproduction of his latest dream – Buffy’s face pressed into his shoulder as they burned together, his face pressed to her flowing hair. Sighing, he threw the notebook down, and it closed on the floor. He looked around the grimy apartment and thought of her once again, and of the dreams that haunted him night after night – visions of what could have been, and what could still be. What could still be. Bloody hell, he thought to himself as he slipped into his duster. It could still be. Digging through his pocket he found the cheap Nextel phone Angel had begrudgingly given him when he moved out of the Wolfram and Hart offices. It was time to cash in on a favor. Scotland wasn’t California, and it took some time to get used to. Buffy pulled the wool jacket tighter against her small frame, as if the fuzzy material could protect her from the bitter breeze that rushed down and up the sloping hills surrounding their castle. Below her in the valley hundreds of Slayers were training, sparring and practicing with wooden swords. From above, they were hundred of tiny figures swaying back and forth in rhythm. The thwapthwapthwap of helicopter blades slicing the air stirred her from her contemplative reverie, and she tilted her face upwards, squinting against the pale sun and gusts of wind. A black helicopter hovered in the air above her, as if contemplating its landing. After another moment of indecision, it tilted away from her and made its way lazily towards the castle. Buffy watched it for a moment as it dipped down below the high courtyard walls of the castle before moving downhill towards it. He grumbled impatiently from beneath his protective blanket as the copter hovered in the air. The plane ride had been easy, since he’d been allowed to bask in the sunlit lounge without fear of frying. But the helicopter was a different story; while still belonging to Wolfram and Hart, the open cockpit made it impossible for the specially tinted windows to protect him. “Get a move on it!” he growled to the pilot. The young airman turned a grinning face to Spike, his chin nearly hooking over his shoulder as he waved at the vampire huddled in the back of the helicopter. “She’s beautiful, aye?” he asked, and Spike glowered. He couldn’t see much of the castle, only the pilot and the floor. “Land this damn thing!” he shouted irritably. He heard the pilot’s long laugh as it echoed in his ears above the chopper blades, before the entire flying machine tilted forwards and continued its sojourn into the Scottish countryside. “You wanna do what?” Angel growled, his fists clenching the office chair. Spike shrugged nonchalantly, flicking his lit cigarette onto the floor, even though there was an ashtray within arms reach. “Take a vacation. Get out of bloody America.” “So you can go back to her. Don’t think I haven’t figured you out, Spike. She doesn’t want you.” Spike exhaled deeply, blowing a stream of smoke directly into Angel’s face. “I know,” he answered sadly. “Which is why I need to leave.” Spike stood, ground the cigarette into the ashtray. “There’s too many bad memories around here, too many sad bloody dreams. Just gotta get out again. Get my rocks back.” “I swear to God, Spike, if I hear you’re killing again, I’ll -” but he was cut off when Spike snarled into his face. “Don’t lay that on me,” he ground out, barely restraining himself. Angel leaned away from him, intimidated by Spike’s confrontational glare. “I’ve got a soul, mate, same as you. And I wasn’t cursed, either. I won it. For her.” Without another word, Spike spun out of the office. He didn’t need to hear the answer from Angel – he would get to her, and Angel would give him the help he needed, even if he didn’t know Spike’s true intentions. Xander Harris was the first to arrive in the courtyard. He stood in his commanding stance; legs spread, hands locked behind his back, watching as the helicopter descended into the shadowed courtyard. The high walls blocked a good portion of the sunlight, and the sky offered only a darkening blue hue. He grimaced as he saw the ‘WR&H’ emblazoned on the tail of the aircraft. It could only mean one thing: Angel. But the figure that stepped out from beneath the coarse brown blanket wasn’t Angel. No, this vampire was slighter and with bleach-blonde hair. This vampire wore a floor length duster; a trophy from a dead Slayer. “Spike.” Despite Xander’s deep-seated hatred for the peroxide menace, he stepped forward and held out a hand – a gesture that was met with a raised eyebrow. Xander met the vampire eye-to-eyes and gripped his hand firmly. “We thought you were dead.” “Yeah,” the vampire answered, his eyes darting around at the unfamiliar faces that surrounded him. “Was that, for a bit.” “I’m not surprised. Nobody stays dead for long around here.” Spike squinted his eyes at Xander, looked him up and down and them shook his head. Fixing Xander with a penetrating gaze, he grunted. “When did you become so civil, Harris?” “Since I stepped up to lead five hundred teenage girls against the forces of evil. And since I had to make deals with people and demons I didn’t particularly like.” “You won’t stop me from seeing her Harris. You can’t.” “Never said I would.” It was creepy, the way in which Xander led Spike into the castle. They ventured far into the middle of the great house and into a cozy, windowless parlor. Spike slumped into a chair, and Xander grabbed two beers from a hidden wet bar. Popping the tops, he handed one to Spike. “How’d you find her?” Xander began, initiating the conversation. “Angel’s demon lawyers – they know everything.” Xander grimaced – there were obviously some kinks in the security that had to be fixed -especially if Angel’s evil law firm had tabs on them. “How long have you been back?” “Coupla months. Was incorporeal at first, couldn’t have reached her if I wanted.” Xander nodded, taking a swig of his drink. As he set it on the table he also rose and moved towards the door. “She’s here.” “Tell Xander I’m on my way in,” Buffy told the girl as she entered the castle. The girl immediately rushed off to give the message. Xander’s secretary would then discreetly tell him via the miniscule speaker in his ear that the head Slayer was on her way. Curiosity nagged at her as she wended her way through the ancient walls of the Edinburgh castle, the cold driving through to her bones. She shivered, pulling the jacket tighter. Who could it be, flying in on an expensive, private helicopter? The dread that had settled in her stomach told her it was Angel. But when she reached the heavy wooden door, and when it swung open on newly-oiled hinges, and when her eyes first rested on Xander’s current drinking partner, and when said drinking partner stood and offered a shy smile the dread dissipated, to be replaced by an impossibly giddy wonder and excitement. “Spike?” He had dreamt of this moment since being brought back a year ago in Angel’s Wolfram and Hart executive office. He’d dreamt of her arms around him, her mouth to his ear, whispering a thousand I love you’s. Images of him sweeping her against him, holding her close, stealing her away had haunted him. And now, now that they were finally face to face, his feet wouldn’t move and his arms didn’t stretch out by any volition to grab her close. It clicked into place as something she’d known all along. Night after night had been filled with this very thing – some seemingly improbable reunion, filled with protestations of love and her throwing herself into his arms. Of course he would return to her – nobody stayed dead for very long. But when she finally came face to face with him after a year, she couldn’t move a muscle. Xander was standing between them, having stepped back as Buffy entered the room, and his one good eye flickered between Slayer and Vampire, waiting for the kissfest to begin. The fact that it didn’t immediately happen disconcerted him a bit, and he waved a hand before Buffy’s glossy eyes. “Hey Buff?” he called, trying to shake her from her reverie. “Spike’s alive, if you didn’t notice. Well, not really alive, but -” “Spike,” Buffy repeated, cutting Xander off. It had been so long since she’d said Spike’s name to anyone that she simply wished she could say nothing but that ever again. SpikeSpikeSpikeSpikeSpikeSpikeSpike. “Buffy,” he replied with a burgeoning grin; one that started at the corner of his mouth and slowly grew until his smile nearly consumed his face. And then came the rushing, as everything crashed down upon her and rolled off her shoulders; the reality of him being alive, and coming for her, and still loving her and being in the exact same room as her… it was overwhelming. Her feet moved on their own toward him, her arms reaching out in a desperate embrace. With the sturdy tower of his body pressed against her, she finally allowed herself to breathe and inhale the familiar scent of his duster. His mouth was buried in the hot crook of her neck, arms running across her body as he rememorized every inch of her. Buffy’s head rose from Spike’s bare shoulder to smile sleepily at him. They were nestled in the warmth of her bed, a fire happily crackling in the grate and the windows drawn shut against the bitter winter cold. “I still can’t believe you’re really here with me,” she whispered softly, her eyes catching his. “It’s like I’m gonna wake up any moment, and the only things I’ll have to remember you by are dreams.” “Feels the same,” he admitted, pressing his lips to the palm of her hand. “Dreams and paper.” “I dreamt of you, every night.” His eyes widened slightly as the words passed her lips. “I’d wake up in my bed, alone, and try so hard to remember those dreams. I wrote some of them down.” She turned away to shuffle through the drawer next to her bed. When she returned to his embrace he noted the heavy notebook in her hand. She fingered through the pages, displaying a heavy handed script that was obviously written while ridding herself of the last vestiges of sleep. As she thumbed through them, the lined pages flashing by, a certain sketch caught his attention and his hand shot out to seize the page. She looked up inquisitively, wondering why he stopped at that page. It was of one of the last dreams, and depicted a shoddy recreation of Spike burning beneath the Hellmouth, his arms clasped tightly around her. “Sometimes I drew,” she explained. “Sometimes the dream would leave me with just that – a picture.” “I know,” he whispered. The sketch was an exact replica of the one he’d drawn halfway around the world, when he first decided to seek her out. “You stayed with me then. You stayed and you burned because I knew you loved me.” Her surprise was caught in her throat, and her mouth formed silent words. Feeling like a fool, she clamped her mouth shut and looked back down at the sketch. “That’s… impossible.” “Improbable, luv,” he corrected. “Never impossible.” Buffy grinned, looking back down at the sketch. It was a mess, the two figures hardly recognizable as Buffy and Spike, and she shut the notebook and flung it away. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore,” she told him seriously. “Because the real you’s here now, and that’s all that counts.” “Too right, luv,” he crooned into her ear as he crawled over her body to nestle between her bare thighs. “I love you.” Buffy reached up, retracing the familiar features she’d missed so much over the past year. “I love you, too.” He watched her for a moment, his crystal clear gaze piercing through and searching her soul. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You do.” |