Roses in December
God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.
J.M. Barrie
And I'd give up forever to touch you
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now
And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
'Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
The dreams were always a part of the gig that she could never pretend were normal. Looking back, she should have known that the nightmares she'd had as a little girl were more than just really bad dreams. Really, really bad dreams. Her nights had, for as long as she could remember, always been filled with horrifying images of grotesque creatures and heart-stopping fear. It was easy to hide from the nighttime fears during the day, but the minute she was sent to bed, they invaded her thoughts. Fortunately for her, the really strange and terrifying dreams didn't occur every night, but they came often enough to cause her problems.
As a little girl, she'd been able to tell which were "memories" and which weren't. What she hadn't guessed was the ones which weren't memories were actually visions of things to come. Looking back, Buffy was certain the dreams had been telling her what to expect. The dreams were the Powers’ way of preparing the young girl to face the life of a Slayer.
For the past few weeks, actually since she'd killed The Master, she'd been dreaming every night. Sometimes the dreams weren't actual Slayer dreams, filled with metaphors and images of what was heading her way. Those were easy to deal with; she'd come to grips with her Slayer dreams very early in her career. It was the other dreams, the ones she couldn't explain, which haunted her the most.
Those dreams were filled with images of opulence, bright vibrant colors, and luxurious living.
Buffy hated waking up from those dreams.
Her dream journal had a section she no longer shared with Giles. The dreams of lace sleeves and heavily brocaded dresses with stiff corsets and impossible hair and delicate, decorative fans she kept to herself. The lilting, lyrical voices of a language she knew she should understand also echoed in her ears, sometimes for minutes after she woke up, frustrating her enormously when she couldn't quite get it right during her waking hours.
It was getting harder and harder, though, to stop herself from sharing those images. Especially when he started appearing. The first dream glimpse she'd gotten of him hadn't impressed her, but then she had the vague feeling in the dream she was only about eight or nine years old. He wasn't much older, maybe all of thirteen but he'd annoyed her with his ability to ignore her. Why she wanted his attention she didn't quite understand, not until the dream surged forward, skipping ahead, in the surreal way that dreams often had.
The second image she remembered of him had her reeling. They were dancing, but not any kind of dancing she recognized. Slow measured steps, where their fingers barely brushed against each other, and shy, fleeting glances. He'd been more formally dressed, and it was obvious they were attending some incredibly important party, though again, she wouldn't have ever thought she'd attend that kind of formal function. Her dress was particularly lavish, and the swish of heavy silk fabric brushing over her ankles and the weight of the dress on her shoulders was a memory she couldn’t shake.
And him.
His fingers barely touched hers and she felt the contact roll through her.
His smile was more of a smirk, his bluer than blue eyes twinkling mischievously at her.
And the whole time, she'd known she was dreaming – or rather – remembering.
She knew herself. Knew who she was though she answered to another name in those dreams. What haunted her were her reactions to him and her inability to grasp who he was to her. She'd know his eyes anywhere.
The dreams followed her everywhere. By the time August rolled around she'd begun to look forward to them; having more of that life unfold behind her sleeping eyes.
Sometime in the middle of August though, the dreams changed.
Instead of seeing events unfold slowly, suddenly the dreams seemed to speed up, compressing time. One minute she was barely thirteen, dancing her first dance with him. . . and next she was standing beside him in a cathedral, exchanging vows. Everything moved faster then, whirling her from one image to the next, and every single one of them was filled with shared moments. And now, instead of just thinking of him as ‘blue eyes’ she had a name.
Louis Henri Robert, Comte de Bourbon, Duc de Chateauvillian.
How she knew this, Buffy wasn’t certain. And it almost didn’t matter anymore, because she gave up trying to figure out why she was having these dreams. What mattered were the dreams and their content. Knowing his name didn’t wig her out at all. It was the fact that she now knew her own name that had her wondering what purpose the dreams had.
She was Marie Charlotte, wife to Louis Henri-Robert, born of the House of Guise.
They were, she discovered not much after learning the names, distantly related to each other, but each more closely related to the king. The King of France.
That was really what had her wigged. She’d managed to glimpse a date, a feather quill forming the words in dark ink. . . And Buffy couldn’t say whether that had her more wigged than anything else, because the date? While she couldn’t figure out the month, she knew it was the sixteenth day of some month in 1785.
Only two more weeks were left of her summer vacation in Los Angeles with her father, and then it was back to her night job on the Hellmouth. Maybe then the dreams would slow down a bit.
Maybe then she could forget his haunting eyes.
The nightmares were back.
Dying at sixteen hadn’t been in her game plan. Nor had it been anything like fun. She’d ruined her dress, her shoes and her self-esteem. The first night she was back home on the hellmouth, the Master’s face and voice invaded what had lately been restful sleep. It so wasn’t fair.
Between wigging out over the good dreams, Buffy had to now worry about batface ripping into her sleep and making her tired and cranky. Nothing she did could get rid of them. Seemed the nightmares were the price she had to pay for the memories. For every good one, there were two that had her waking from a sound sleep, sometimes crying. Once, she’d woken up her mother because she’d been screaming so loudly.
Though smashing the Master’s bones had gone a long way toward easing some of the nightmares, Buffy hadn’t yet gotten over the fact he’d drunk from her and actually killed her. She wasn’t exactly sure how she was going to work through that, or if she ever would. Dying was not something she wanted to repeat.
Her first day back in school she’d asked to have her language requirement changed from Spanish, which she’d actually been taking for a couple of years, to French. She figured hearing it almost every night in her dreams would give her an advantage and that would’ve worked except for one tiny little detail. Her brain forgot all the French by the time third period rolled around and nothing she did to jar her memory helped.
Which explained why she was studying in the Bronze.
Well, sort of explained it.
The other explanation she didn’t even want to think about. She was so tired of duty and hearing what she should do and what she was required to do and what was demanded of her that. . . . enough was enough. Sixteen years old was too damn young for this kind of responsibility. What kind of universe did she live in that required girls, like her, to go out and face the stuff of nightmares every damn night? After so many thousands of years, wouldn’t they get the message that girls her age weren’t so good with the fighting stuff? That it might be better to say, wait a few years until the Chosen One hit eighteen before they – whoever ‘they’ were – decided to throw her against the forces of evil.
And in her case, they hadn’t even waited until she was sixteen. She’d been barely fourteen years old, just starting high school, when she got zapped with strange powers and approached by a creepy old man in a trench coat and fedora. Merrick had turned out to be a godsend, though, because he’d taught her everything she needed to survive until she arrived here in Sunnydale.
Buffy figured it was some big colossal joke that whoever founded the town decided on that name, because it couldn’t have been more impossibly optimistic. While it was pretty much always sunny. . . . the demons popping up behind every headstone and even in the school kind of made that name into a joke.
She stared at the pages of her French textbook, fighting the frustration of her entire life. Nightmares of the horrifying variety, demon-fighting of the scary, friends who didn’t really get it but tried, a Watcher who was rarely understanding but tried. . . and now this. Buffy knew she understood the language staring up at her. She got the reading thing. That was easy. It was the whole understanding what was being said that escaped her. And to top it off, there was now this creepy ooky feeling swirling in her belly that she couldn’t quite describe. It happened whenever Angel was around and she was beginning to think it might be something like like. . . . As she scanned around the Bronze, she didn’t see him at all. Not one glimpse of tall, dark and mysterious. . .
Instead of investigating further, or even trusting her own instincts at this point, Buffy let the heavy beat seduce her onto the dance floor. Giving in to it, she closed her eyes and let the music call to her. Tuning out everything but the music, everything around her faded away.
She loved to dance.
There was a time when his dreams weren’t filled with images of death, blood and destruction. Perhaps, so very long ago, when his heart still thumped and beat in his chest, when blood still flowed swiftly through his veins, his dreams had been of different things. It had been too long, ages and ages, for him to dredge up the memories. What used to please him no longer did, what used to thrill and set his nerves and body zinging with anticipation and fire ceased to hold his thoughts captive.
He still reveled in the blood and hunt, the out-right balls-to-the-wall fights; though he’d been more cautious of late, worry for his Sire, his dark princess, tempering his actions. That worry had pervaded his every action, rousing his protective instincts to heights previously unheard of; and yet a part of him had found this oddly familiar. At first, Spike convinced himself it was remnants of his human days, when fear and worry for his mother’s health had him constantly on edge, but this was deeper. This was something far deeper into his – dare he think it – soul than that.
Lately, his sleeping hours had been more restless, his inability to fall into a deep slumber putting him on edge, cutting his temper to the quick. That also felt more than familiar, and hovering at the far edges of his awareness was the knowledge that he’d done this – been this alert and worried and, yes, scared, before.
Drusilla’s near death had triggered something else for him. Nightmares of mobs, screaming for his blood, the terror of being helplessly caught, bound and ready for execution, haunted his sleep. The feel of ropes biting painfully into his wrists, the lurching of a poorly driven cart, the stink of bloodied straw and low, hissing murmurs of a crowd followed him from whatever rest he could get into his waking moments. He had no conscious memories from his human days of this, no reason to believe he was even experiencing real memories, except for the fact he could smell the ropes, smell the crowd. His senses didn’t lie.
He might try to lie to himself about a lot of things; like Drusilla being able to reciprocate the depth of his emotions, but he couldn’t fool his senses.
Spike had always hated the smell of straw. Even in his human days couldn’t get within feet of the stable without inwardly rebelling. Nor could he abide being penned, caged, unable to escape. He hated closed, confined spaces – something which had carried over from his human days – and now he was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, that hatred was even older than that.
For two years, he’d been haunted by the memories of something in his sleep. Since the Czech mob had attacked Drusilla, hazy images had assaulted him. Visions of wide, green eyes trusting him to keep them safe; of nights spent guarding others while they slept, huddled and scared inside a small, confined room. Endless hours spent pacing a small area, staring at dank, grey walls, frustration gnawing at his belly. Spike couldn’t shake the feelings those memories evoked.
Nor did he want to forget the absolute adoration in those green eyes. That haunted him nearly as much as the fear did. Followed him in his waking moments, a balm to his uneasy spirit.
Part of him knew he’d let them down, hadn’t protected either himself or the owner of those eyes. Circumstances beyond his control – beyond his strength to fight – had separated them. He’d watched them take her from him, his cries of outrage and fury hastening his own removal from their cell.
There had been no disappointment, no recrimination . . . Nothing but love shown brightly from those green eyes. Spike strove to put her from his mind during his waking hours, but it was nearly impossible. It was even worse when he slept. The feel of her tucked up beside him, her petite form sheltered in his arms, her face resting against his beating heart.
He couldn’t shake her. Not through the days and nights of nursing Drusilla, not through the long tedious journey away from Prague, nor any time since he first started dreaming.She followed him everywhere.
Chasing after cures for Drusilla brought no relief and only breaking into the Watchers’ headquarters had given him something else to focus on for a bit of time. He had gotten the information he needed to cure Drusilla, and at the same time noted the new Slayer’s identity. And her location.
The Council was so predictable. Settling the girl on the only active Hellmouth wasn’t the work of a genius. However, placing Rupert Giles on the Hellmouth smacked of arrogance beyond even his imagining. Allowing such an accomplished magick-user access to the energies resonating from the Hellmouth had him scratching his head. The demonic community had rippled with the aftermath of the summoning and banishment, albeit incomplete, of Eyghon. Rumors had abounded for months of how certain elders from the Council had swooped in to fix the damage and bind the powers of some of the participants. More rumors had floated about what a select few had been willing to do in order to keep said powers.
Perhaps getting to the Watcher might help him with Drusilla.
Besides, the pull of family was leading them there. More than likely Angelus was mooning after Darla. . .
Darla was dust.
Angelus was cursed with a soul.
And the Anointed One was ruling the roost with plans of making St. Vigeous’ feast day one to remember.
Every ally he needed was wrapped up in their own concerns. Spike could barely hide the irritation of having to kowtow to the Anointed One. For Drusilla’s sake and only for her sake he played nice. Didn’t like it, couldn’t stand the sight of the pompous, self-important little brat, but until Spike could come up with a better plan to help Drusilla his options were limited.
He also needed to sort out the situation with the Watcher, see if the man would be willing to barter something. That was his long shot plan, one he didn’t imagine had an actual chance of working.
But first they had to get through St. Vigeous. . . And he had to scope out the Slayer.
Thanks to some scouting from the Anointed One’s minions, Spike had a general description and a list of favorite haunts. Leaving Drusilla in the care of Colin and his minions, Spike took a couple of the fledglings and headed out to the Bronze.
The beat was pulsing, heavy thumping crawling up his legs and echoing in his empty belly. Spike closed his eyes, letting the bass line call to him, wash over his skin. He loved music in all forms, from ancient chants sung by priestly eunuchs to soaring operatic orchestras and nihilistic modern rhythms. The music tonight was exceptionally good, enough to set his nerves on end and make him long for the chance to get out on the dance floor. . .
Spike stopped walking, staring into the crowd writhing to the beat, his eyes catching sight of something that caught his undivided attention. Golden hair, glinting under flickering lights, awash with bright color one moment, hidden and dulled the next. He stared, every nerve strung on the sharp edge of a knife, willing the form to turn, knowing it wouldn’t be. . . couldn’t be.
Was.
Spike’s unneeded breath caught in his throat, watching her move to the beat. Something about her called to him and it wasn’t because she was the Slayer. This was something different, deeper. . . He still couldn’t see her face, the fall of golden hair obscuring her features from his probing eyes. C’mon, luv, give us a look. . . jus’ a little one. . . turn for me, baby, turn. . .
When she did, his knees nearly buckled and Spike inhaled sharply, his guts twisted and tied up. The curve of her cheek, the shape of her eyes. Spike couldn’t breathe, forgot that he didn’t need to.
He sent two minions out, watching her fight from the shadows covering the edges of the alleyway. She fought like she danced, all out and in tune with rhythms only she heard.
He couldn’t help his body’s reaction, couldn’t fight the pull he felt. Spike moved out of the shadows, standing close enough to see her clearly. His skin crawled, reacting to the pulse of her heart and thrum of power surging through her. The need to touch her was choking him, to hear her voice, to see . . . Christ, need to see her eyes. Show me. . . .
She must have sensed his unspoken thoughts because she turned, stepping directly into the light from the street lamps. It was still impossible to gauge the color of her eyes, but Spike no longer needed to. A heartbreakingly familiar scent filled his senses and he stumbled back, the heel of his boot dislodging a brick, the noise louder than a gunshot.
“Who’s there?” A step further into the light and Spike retreated again, once more tripping over the same brick. “Is someone there?”
Her footsteps echoed in his ears and try as he might, Spike was having difficulty remembering he wasn’t afraid of her; that he was the predator. Each step strengthened the pull within him, the heady mix of scents weaving a spell around him that he couldn’t fight. She was here. . . now.
She must have sensed him, because she froze, her muscles tensing in anticipation. Slowly her eyes swept the inky shadows, looking for some sign that she hadn’t imagined the noises. Less than a foot from him, she stopped, her eyes riveted on the spot he’d just abandoned. He was so close, he could reach out and touch her. His palms itched, skin crawling with need. Bleedin’. . . .
Spike straightened his spine - she’s a Slayer – and moved closer. He stepped into her line of sight, the street lamp illuminating his features. “Hello, cutie.”
Whipping her head up, she stared at him, a small gasp of surprised outrage emerging from her lips. And then she froze.
No way. . . it just isn’t possible.
In the realm of the strange that was her everyday life, this was possibly the strangest so far. Including the whole ‘vampires are real and you must slay them’ and ‘every Slayer dies young’ bit.
Standing in front of her. . . Buffy shook her head, trying to clear the sudden roaring in her ears. It didn’t work. The noise was deafening inside her head, thoughts drowned out by the pounding of her heart. He was real.
Every dream she’d had over the last few months flickered behind her closed eyes, every stolen moment daydreaming about the connection between the man in her dreams and herself bubbled to the surface. Buffy’s eyes opened, unerringly finding his. She was unable to determine their color, but it hardly mattered. The shape of his face, his voice. . . it all screamed at her. She hardly needed the confirmation of his eye color. . . besides, who says they would be the same anyway?
Her feet unconsciously moved her closer. The need to see if he was really, truly standing in front of her overshadowed her fears. Everything else slipped away, the alley, the dust of yet another vampire . . . it all disappeared. Buffy found herself inches away from him, her skin jumping with awareness.
“Kitten.”
One word. . . His voice shivered through her and Buffy couldn’t control the impulse to reach out.
He must have felt the same way, because their hands met somewhere between them, fingers meshing, palms meeting. The back of his free hand brushed over her cheek, the touch hesitant, and she realized belatedly that he was as shaken as she. Their hands trembled, muscles tightening and relaxing as neither one disappeared.
“You’re real.”
“I thought I was just dreaming.”
Tremulous, almost embarrassed smiles covered their faces and he motioned for her to continue speaking, only Buffy could no longer find her voice. Instead she just looked at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. He was here, now, with her and it was enough that she could focus on that without wondering about the hows and whys.
Before either of them could speak again, reality intruded.
“Buffy?” The unexpected and unwanted voice of reason, in the form of Xander Harris and Willow Rosenberg, echoed simultaneously against the alley walls. “What’s going on?”
She pulled away slightly, letting his fingers tangle through her hair. “Hey, guys.”
They were still holding hands. That fact warmed her insides and she inched closer, blocking him from the others. Some protective instinct rose up in her belly, though she wasn’t sure whether she was protecting him or what she’d just discovered. Buffy was angled toward them, Xander stepped closer, suspicion in his every movement. “You okay? Did you get the vamps?”
Buffy cringed, aware that the man behind her had no knowledge of who or what she was, only that they shared something so bizarre it defied explanation. At least in front of everyone else. “Xand. . . I’m fine. Go back inside, I’ll be right behind you.”
His fingers tightened around hers and she reciprocated, curling hers toward his palm, refusing to let go.
“Are you sure?” Willow’s anxious tone echoed Xander’s concern sans suspicion, yet Buffy still bristled.
Her snapped out, “I’m sure” had the other teens scurrying away, though not without grumbles and confusion.
Long before they’d gone, Buffy turned to face him. “Sorry ‘bout that. They kinda wig when I’m out by myself.” He didn’t respond, leaving her to wonder whether he had heard Xander’s slip. “Um. So.”
He didn’t respond, didn’t say anything and Buffy, in typical fashion, started babbling to cover her flash of nerves. “I’ve been dreaming, about you and me, at least I think it’s you. I know it’s me because. . . well, me. I’d know myself, even in a dream. Only it’s not really me, since I’m not sure I’ve ever worn dresses like that and well, I just . . . oh God. I’m babbling.”
She lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, dropping her eyes to stare down at their feet. The difference in their footwear completely absorbed her attention. Her boots were cute, stylish and appropriately girly. His, on the other hand, were battered, worn and old. Despite the differences, something about the scuffed black leather in front of her was comforting, endearing and, well, familiar. Even though she was damn certain she’d never seen this man in front of her . . . at least not in this lifetime. Or ever wearing scuffed boots.
His free hand tipped up her chin, making her face him. Though the alley was dark, the twinkle of amusement in his eyes was clearly visible. “No worries, sweetheart, ‘s right adorable.”
Taking a bit of courage from the fact he hadn’t laughed at her or brought up the weirdness, she blurted out, “How come I know you? How?”
“Not sure m’self.” His hand dropped away and he stepped closer, the hem of his long coat swishing around her ankles. “Only know I’ve always,” voice trailing off, he stared down into her upturned face, his eyes cataloguing her features. “Dreamed.”
The emphasis he placed on that one word sent shivers down her spine, igniting a fire low in her belly. Buffy couldn’t respond, wasn’t sure what to say without sounding like an utter airhead. A wistful, confused smile teased at her lips and she whispered, “Me, too.”
The babbling was cute and all too familiar, though he couldn’t remember how or even why. Somehow it called to mind a happier memory, not one of those he’d suffered from lately, but one that evoked visions of what might have once been, and for long moments, he was lost in the reverie. He knew her. Knew all about her. How the slightest touch at the nape of her neck or the small of her back caused a reaction, no matter where they were. Knew she slept curled up, preferably on her right side, arm thrown around a pillow. How he knew all this, Spike didn’t question. He knew her.
And somewhere, in all those lost memories, he realized she knew him just as well.
Spike gave up, for the moment, searching for the how and why, content to just be in her presence. When his brain finally registered the gist of her babbling, he answered the only way he could, with the truth.
Sooner or later, though, especially since they’d been discovered by her friends, they would need to talk, to suss out everything. For the moment though, he couldn’t see or think or feel anything beyond her. The soft scent of her perfume teased his senses and he reached out to touch her again.
“Thought you weren’t real. Thought – thought it was nothing more than just old dreams, memories from my childhood.” Just like her, he found himself suddenly unable to stem the flow of words from his lips. “Figured I’d conjured you up, holding you. Jus’ wishful thinkin’ an’ all. But ‘s not it. Wasn’t ever. Christ. . . “
His voice trailed off and Spike gave up the battle he was fighting. The need to touch her, to hold her in his arms was a pulsing, throbbing drum beat, and he succumbed. His hands circled around her upper arms, hauling her close, their chests separated by bare inches. He exhaled deeply, unable to stop the needless respiration, his eyes riveted on hers. This close, he could finally see the color, the gold lights picking up any stray beam of moonlight and throwing off green sparks. If he’d had any doubts, they were gone, blinked away in the flickering starlight.
“Holy fuck, it is you.”
Wonder filled his voice, deepening it. Buffy felt the thrum and in reaction, she threw her arms around his neck, burrowing into his embrace. “It’s me. And you’re you.”
Once again, reality intruded. This time, however, it was the surviving minion. “Spike? Where are you?”
He froze, as only a predator can, every muscle paused, waiting for the next movement. The minion spoke again, and he reacted, growling low in his chest, warning the other vampire away. Either the vampire was stupidly reckless or he had no idea what the escalating growls meant, because he persisted, urging, “C’mon, Spike, we need to get back. The Anointed One is going to want a report.”
Buffy had frozen also, the interruption setting off warning bells that only worsened when the words struck a chord. “Anointed One?”
Spike deflated, knowing as the Slayer she would have heard of the newest threat – the charming little beast he not-so-affectionately referred to as the Annoying One. He couldn’t look away from her, knowing if he did she’d recover herself and her wonder would turn directly to disgust and hatred. With his eyes boring into hers, Spike growled again, tersely ordering, “Sod off, you bastard. Don’t give a shite what Colin bloody wants.”
His fingers dug into her arms, bruising her tender skin. Her head fell back and she gasped, seeing the gold sparks in his eyes, the brow ridges and sharp fangs erupting with his anger and grief. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
She broke free, chest heaving with sudden fear. “Please, tell me. . . oh, God.” A sob wrenched from her and she ran, disappearing into the night, leaving Spike behind with the minion.
Buffy ran, tears threatening to fall with each pounding step, her heart racing unnaturally. He was here. . . And a vampire. It was just her perverse kind of luck, the kind reserved for her only that it would be this way. Once upon a time he’d been her everything, husband, lover, her best friend, and now. . . now he was her enemy, the one thing on earth she was destined to destroy. Her pace slowed as the tears she’d been fighting gained ground and she finally stopped, leaning against a tree while her sobs echoed softly in the night air.
Why me? Why now? First this Chosen thing. . . and now I can’t even fall in love with a guy without him being a member of the undead club. Buffy savagely wiped away the tears, smearing her mascara. This is so not fair.
Ignoring completely the fact she’d admitted to love at first sight, Buffy slumped down, leaning heavily against the tree trunk. The midnight dark sky was visible through the dying leaves, and Buffy idly shredded some of the orange and red leaves strewn over the ground. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes and she banged her head back, hoping the pain from that would counteract the pain constricting her heart.
She knew it was foolish, sitting outside in the dark in Sunnydale, but Buffy honestly no longer cared. Feeling more like the butt of some cosmic joke than the one girl in all the world Chosen to be a superhero, Buffy gave into the despair, closed her eyes and cried.
Not caring how long she stayed in that spot, she never noticed the presence of someone else until a cool hand reached out, caressing her tear-stained cheek. It was a measure of her sadness when her only reaction was to clasp the hand, squeezing the fingers tightly. Please, please. . . just make this all a nightmare. Let me wake up and have this all be some weird follow-up dream.
It took him only enough time to blink, when Spike was moving, twisting the head off the hapless idiot, grumbling and muttering all the while under his unnecessary breath. Spike stared down at the small pile of dust at his feet, searching for something, some way to reach the girl who’d just fled his arms. He needed . . . had to see her again.
Drusilla and the Anointed One be damned. Just once more he needed to see her, to hold her . . . to breath her in.
To prove to himself that she wasn’t just a dream he’d had.
Shaking off the sudden attack of melancholy and nerves, Spike kicked the dust, scattering it across the alley. He inhaled deeply, catching a flare of her scent and chased after her.
It took him less time than he expected to find her, huddled beneath the wide branches of an old oak. She was crying, the scent of her tears salty on the otherwise crisp fall air. Feeling a tug in the region of his non-beating heart, Spike hesitated, then paced softly toward her.
He never could resist tears. Somehow, he knew her tears held more sway over him than anyone else he’d ever met. Without realizing it, he crouched low, barely inches away from her, his hand outstretched to wipe away her tears. Again he hesitated, worried she’d reject him, or worse, strike out and slay him, but then her breathing hitched ever so slightly, and a soft sob tore through her and he was lost. His cool hand brushed across her tear-stained cheek.
“You all right?”
Though she shook her head yes, her luminous eyes told a different story, as did her quivering lower lip. “Oh, kitten. . . . “
Her lip wobbled, fresh tears springing to her eyes and he emitted a low, involuntary growl, giving in to his impulse to pull her into his arms. “Shhh, baby, ‘s all right. ‘Ve got you now.”
His eyes drifted closed the moment she settled into his arms, face tucked tight against his neck. She was trembling, the emotional reaction finally setting in. He half rolled onto his haunches, pulling her onto his lap, wrapping them both in the long leather coat he always wore. The sense of deja vu threatened to overwhelm him, though for once he didn’t fight the effects. Spike wanted to remember, wanted more than snippets of what had once been. . . He wanted to reach for it, to understand what was happening and why he felt the way he did – for a girl he’d only seen before in his dreams.
He’d done the last thing she expected of him. He’d followed her. Followed her, found her and hadn’t taunted or mocked her, hadn’t berated her for being recklessly foolish or any of the other hundred faults Giles or Angel would have focused on. Instead, he’d seen her tears and just held her. Let her cry. Done and said nothing more than someone who truly saw her would say. . .
Buffy inhaled deeply, letting the comforting smell of leather and whiskey wash through her, and only realized she’d been stroking a lazy line down the chest holding her. Her tears had stopped only moments before and she held her breath, afraid he’d sense her growing calm and push her away. She stilled, and a low noise rumbled in her ear. It was only when it happened a second time that she realized he was speaking to her.
Lifting her head slightly, she peered up at him, unable to truly gauge his expression, since she was facing his profile. “What?”
“Asked why you stopped.” His voice was a low hushed sound and she was tempted to play stupid just to get him to say something else.
“I . . . I didn’t think you’d let me. I. . . dunno.” Buffy looked down, fighting the urge to wring her hands together.
His hand reached up, cupping hers against his chest. “Don’t stop.”
Her fingers burned with the contact, heat traveling up her arm, racing through her muscles. Buffy dared a peek and caught the side of his smile, his eyes fixed on her mouth. She could feel the blush blooming over her cheeks and she ducked her head, settling once more against him. “Kay.”
It took her more than a few moments to fully relax though, her mind refusing to rest, jumping from one thought to the next without a care for her body’s exhaustion. Finally she eased, letting her eyes drift closed. His fingers smoothed over her thigh, brushing just beneath the hem of her skirt, while his other hand splayed across the small of her back, gently holding her in place. A sigh ripped from her and Buffy let the memories circle around in her head.
Without being really aware of it, she started speaking, very nearly picking up the thread of their conversation, as if they’d never been interrupted. “How did we . . . I had these dreams and I still don’t really understand them. Am I dreaming of what was?”
“Think so, kitten.” Though he wasn’t entirely certain, Spike knew he’d lived those moments. They couldn’t be so visceral, so gut-wrenchingly vivid, if he hadn’t live them. His sense of smell had always been acute, becoming only that much more heightened since his turning. He’d never scented anything like her before, but that didn’t matter. He knew her scent. “What did you dream?”
Hopefully, it wasn’t what had filled his nightmares. Hopefully, it had been something better, something free of the trauma his held. Spike waited, holding an indrawn breath, his entire body poised for her answer.
“I was so young. Just a kid really, and I was shy. Everything was so – rich.” She hesitated, trying to describe something she could barely understand. “Like those movies about the past, you know, where everyone’s all dressed in lots of silks and lace and bows and crazy hair.”
Spike waited her out, his own eyes closed, searching for an elusive memory, just beyond his mind’s ability to grasp. Her words and descriptions washed over him, gaining strength and conviction the longer she spoke. “The floors were always so shiny and I would slide across them when no one was around. That’s the first time I remember seeing you.”
When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “I fell. And you were there, laughing at me.”
She paused for so long Spike figured she was finished until a soft giggle broke the stillness surrounding them. “I was really mad at you, even after you helped me up and promised you wouldn’t tell.” Her fingers caressed his cheek, following the line of his jaw. “You never did tell.”
“What else do you remember?” He couldn’t help himself from asking, since her memories were so different from his. There was nothing of the pain and fear, just the good things.
“Your eyes. I couldn’t forget them. Ever.” Buffy opened hers, staring up at him.
He nodded once, a lump forming in his throat, thickening his tongue until whatever words he wanted to say caught there. Unable to speak, he hauled her around to face him, his hands cupping the bare skin of her thighs. His eyes roved her features, a soft, wistful look gracing his alabaster face. Pulling her close, Spike dropped his head, brushing his cheek against hers. His voice, when he was finally able to speak, was husky and deep, laced with urgency. “Tell me. Everything.”
Buffy did, her words painting him a clearer picture, making his memories all the more poignant, the worry and fear all the more immediate. Unable to listen any longer, Spike interrupted, hands holding her away from him, so that they could see each other.
“I remember, kitten. . . not what you do, but. . . “ His jaw clenched, the muscles tensing and jumping beneath the cover of his skin, and though it was an effort he forced himself to continue. “Couldn’t ever forget your eyes, luv, not ever. Haunted me, you did. Don’t care how. Doesn’t matter. Jus’ is. Or was.”
His eyes searched hers. “Couldn’t let me go. I’d failed you, didn’t save you when I should have. . . Could have been stronger. Done something differently.” Spike realized, as the words tumbled from his mouth, his memories were awakening, roaring to the surface, past the hold he’d kept on them for over a hundred years.
“Tried so hard to keep you safe.” The words choked out of him, heavy with unshed tears. His entire body shuddered and he collapsed inwardly, his arms wrapping around her. “Couldn’t protect you.”
She made some soft, shushing sound, her fingertips brushing over his eyelashes, her lips ghosting over his skin. “Not your fault,” she crooned, “you did the best you could.”
How she knew that, Buffy wasn’t certain, but she did. She trusted her own instincts, and they told her, no matter the circumstances, this man wouldn’t ever intentionally hurt her. Whatever had happened – and those same instincts were screaming that it hadn’t ended well for them – it hadn’t been his fault. “What else do you remember?”
Spike shook his head, unwilling to tell her the last memories he had. Crowds, baying for their blood, the metallic swish of the heavy blade rising and falling, the overpowering scent of blood . . . “Doesn’t matter, pet.”
She knew he was lying to protect her and Buffy pulled back, her eyes flinty and full of determination. “Spike.”
It was the first time she’d used his name and he met her gaze, more than aware this time around that she was very capable of protecting herself. This was not the same girl. Well she was, but with a very different perspective. “Spike, tell me.”
With a deep sigh and the fleeting thought that her helplessness in the last life had perhaps made her wish to be stronger, Spike dispassionately told her. Sparing none of the details, he described their captivity, who had held the keys to their freedom, who had betrayed them. . .
Not once did she flinch, not once did her eyes leave his. Not until the end, when he couldn’t continue, when he refused to tell her. Only then did she react, tears filling her eyes and sorrow lining her features. Buffy’s next words echoed his thoughts. “I guess maybe I wanted to be able to take care of myself. I don’t like being helpless.”
The innocent admission rocked him, making him concede the point. “Could be neither of us did.”
Her eyes bored into his. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Spike stared back at her, an indefinable – and wholly incongruous – feeling of guilt easing from him. The guilt he’d carried through two lifetimes leeched away, dissolving into the night sky and disappearing forever.
Buffy’s warm breath blew past him, her warm, pulsing body surrounding him. Spike closed his eyes, let the truth of her presence seep into his bones, one finger tracing the shape of her brow. “Bloody hell, kitten, I love you. ‘Ve always loved you.”
The insanity of his declaration hit her full force – though she knew she loved him right back – and the giggle wafted up involuntarily from her belly. She collapsed against his chest, her arms curling over his shoulders. Her lips touched the softness of his skin and she sighed deeply ending in a kiss.
“Oh, Spike.”
He hauled her closer, locking them together in a tight embrace. “Oh, Buffy,” he mimicked her with a relieved laugh, just as his lips claimed hers.
Angel and Drusilla were just fleeting thoughts, no more than memories passing briefly through their lives. Spike didn’t want to let her go, didn’t want to move from the spot they were in.
“Hard to wrap m’thoughts around all this, kitten.” Spike’s voice rumbled softly against her ear, and Buffy smiled, her eyes closed tight, fighting off her own sense of disbelief.
“I know. I never thought you might be really real. Like, totally not a dream.” His lips angled down to capture hers and she smiled into the kiss, unable to keep her happiness to herself. “This so makes up for all the icky nightmares.”
“What nightmares?” He hoped they were just regular nightmares, not the kind that haunted his rest, memories of before, when they were other than Buffy and Spike.
A shiver caught her back and Spike shrugged out of the duster, wrapping it around her and sealing her in what little warmth he could spare. “Icky dreams about the Master and dying and drowning. Not good stuff, really not good stuff.”
Spike’s fingers traced the curve of her cheek, not really listening to her babbling on about her nightmares. He heard her words, but was focused instead on her mouth, the pouty lower lip that she bit unknowingly, enticing and teasing him. His left hand slid up underneath her skirt, playing with the edges of her barely-there panties, sliding over and around her smooth thigh. Her voice faltered slightly, when his fingers strayed around to the curve of her ass and Spike did it again, just to hear that soft hitching breath.
Everywhere he touched her, she pulsed, from the rasp of his calloused thumb over her cheekbones to his fingertips on her ass. Buffy babbled on, nervously spitting out words, aching for the next caress. He touched a particularly sensitive spot, where her butt rested on his thighs and she shivered, wriggling involuntarily. Her voice trailed off and she couldn’t look at him, was afraid to look, because he had to be laughing at her.
He couldn’t stop touching her, slowly remapping her body under his fingers. Soft, sweeping arcs ran from hip to thigh, daring each time to move closer and closer, listening to her breathing labor, her pulse call to him. Arousal flared higher each time she writhed in his lap and Spike knew his willpower was shredding with each little gasp of air she fought for.
“Gonna kiss you now, sweets.”
Her gaze darted up to meet his, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight, then dropped to his lips. She panted softly, her breath covering his face before he ducked down and kissed her breathless.
His tongue traced the line of her lips, mimicking the whisper-soft touch of his fingertips on her butt and Buffy shivered, whimpering and wriggling for more. Using his free hand, Spike held her still, fingers digging into her waist, holding her just far enough to tease them both. He smiled when her lips parted, his name a soft incantation from her.
That was all the signal he needed. Softness and wooing were done. Spike’s control snapped on the last syllable of his name and his tongue invaded her mouth, swooping in and claiming it for all time as his own.
Both hands settled beneath her skirt, helping her ride his erection, guiding her movements faster and faster, until she caught his rhythm. Buffy’s fingers dug into his strong shoulders, feeling the flex of his muscles bunching and twisting. He broke their kiss, his voice dark and heady. “Need to feel you, baby. Need to touch you, to see you.”
Buffy mewled something in response, the wailing keen of a needy kitten, her body aching for his touch. “Spike, please. . . “
His hands stilled, holding her back on his thighs, his eyes sweeping over her. Her skirt was hiked up high, nearly to her waist, her legs parted over his. Spike eased her back. “Lie back for me, kitten, lemme see you.”
Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sweater, little flashes of bare skin catching his attention. “Tha’s it, baby, show me.”
A baby-girl giggle stole from her throat, and she boldly squeezed his erection through the denim. “Show me yours.”
The low growl of arousal sliced through her. Buffy eased the sweater up, baring more of her skin to his heated gaze. His eyes were dark, darker than midnight, focused intently on her.
“More,” he growled out. His hands slid up the inside of her legs, thumbs resting, pressing against her pulsing sex. “Want to see all of you.”
He stroked her there, feeling how soft, how wet she was through the thin material separating them. His fingers hooked into the sides of her panties, peeling them away from her damp skin, exposing her to his hooded gaze. She tried to close her legs, to hide her sex from him even as she bared her breasts, but Spike wouldn’t allow it. Once more his hands swept up her legs, holding her open.
“Such a pretty lil puss you are. All stretched out, an’ achin’.” His tongue curled over her nipple, teasing it to hardness. He drew back, watching her writhe for his touch, her hips arching up, away from the shelter of his duster, nipples peaked for his mouth. She looked like debauched innocence, spread out and waiting for him to take her any way he chose.
Spike slid his fingers over her folds, delighting in how soft, how dewy her skin felt. She was almost hairless, trimmed and stripped for sunbathing, no doubt, but Spike couldn’t help but appreciate the view. Pearled and pink, throbbing with arousal, her sex called to him.
Almost without conscious thought, his fingers traced the lines of her folds, his eyes watching her face. The play of emotions, the want . . . The need surpassed anything he’d ever seen. “Oh, kitten, what you do to me.”
Gulping, gasping for air, Buffy could only stare into his eyes, hoping he’d see the things she couldn’t say, because all she could do was breathe his name, over and over. Breathless, gasping she was nearly twisting herself to knots to get more of his touch. “Spike, Spike. . . Spike!”
“All right, baby, gonna make you feel. . . “ He slid his index finger into her snug channel, groaning as her muscles clenched around him, squeezing the digit. “Oh, baby. . . “
She arched her back, eyes focused on where his finger slid back and forth into her, her fingers scrabbling on his skin, trying to bring him closer, grasping at his arms. “Please, Spike.”
They reached for his belt, fingers entangling in their haste, ripping aside leather and buttons. Spike shoved the denim down to his knees, groaning as she slipped her hand around his engorged length. Strong, sure and tight, Buffy pumped him, bringing him closer to her core. His fingers spread her wide, holding her open as she guided him to her. He swore his heart was pounding, thumping wildly in his chest, his lungs constricting for unneeded air. He watched, awestruck, as his cock slid inside her.
Heat like he’d never known encased him, shivered up his cock through his loins, covering him, rippling through each nerve ending. She was tight, tighter than he could imagine, her grasping walls parting slowly for his invasion. Buffy writhed beneath him, his girth stretching and forcing her, a whispered shriek marking his invasion.
“Oh, oh, oh. . . “ she chanted, her cries countered by his inarticulate growls. His mind was gone, coherent thought fled in the face of sensation, he was . . . . inside. He was surrounded by her, her walls, her heat. . . the heat. . . Seared and scorched him, wringing every ounce of moisture from him.
Buffy clenched around his length, muscles spasming wildly as he thrust in then eased out, every ridge and flex of his cock scraping over singed nerves. There was nothing but where he filled her, where he moved inside her, where she held him captive. She was pulsing, heaving, hurtling toward something she’d never . . . couldn’t imagine, couldn’t describe. . . could only feel, reach for him. Call out for him.
His name, gasped out, reed-thin and desperate, brought him back. . . his head dropped, watching the sylph in his arms be consumed by pleasure. His thumb settled on the hard nubbin of her clit, pressing and kneading it, pushing her higher. His voice was fractured, grunts and growls deep in his chest, his mantra naught but a plea for more, to take all, to dare the stars with him.
They froze, bodies suspended in bliss, poised at worlds’ end, at the abyss, the whirlwind, the maelstrom of emotion, sensation . . . then blazed through them, exploding into her depths and reclaiming them.
Spike curved over her, his hips still wedged between her thighs, his cock still hard and heavy inside her. They’d coupled twice more, and it still wasn’t enough to sate him. He needed to mark her, to etch himself on her soul forever. Buffy wrapped her legs around his, anchoring him in place, lazily lifting her hips against his. The last bout had left them both shaking, shattered to the core. Shattered and yet replete, whole.
Buffy felt like pieces of her had been glued together, strong and secure. She’d never felt this way before, like she was all one. Slayer and girl, past and present. . . And future. She stared up into his moonlight-gilt eyes, knowing that something fundamental had changed. Some dire fate had been averted, warded off and stopped, because of this moment. And a past wrong had been righted.
“Spike? Do you believe in fate?” Her warm finger trailed over his cheek, smoothing the lines and tension still evident. She brushed it over his lips, once, twice, and then traced the lines there. “Do you?”
A smile crossed his features and he eased back, bringing her up off the ground, so that she was cradled in his arms, her weight resting on his legs and his cock still buried within her. His touch mimed hers, tracing the baby-soft skin of her cheek, the feathery wisps of her eyelashes, the lines of her lips. “Didn’t think ‘bout fate for a long time, sweetheart.”
“And now?” Her fingers trailed over his lips, down his neck and played with the thin cotton of his tee-shirt, bunching it over where his still heart rested in his chest.
“Now?” The smile deepened as he arched up into her depths. “Got more than a passin’ interest.”
Her voice dropped down to a bare whisper, just a hint of sound between them, from her mouth to his. “I think we just fixed fate.”
“Do you now?“
She clenched around him, her body reacting, reaching for another climax. “Ahuh. I do.”
They exploded again, heads dropping onto shoulders, both gasping for air. “I think, kitten,” he whispered back to her, “that fate’s finally been kind to us.”
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