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| In Omne Tempus - Somewhere In Her Smile by Holly (4 Reviews) | | abc + + + |  | | | Chapter Six
Somewhere In Her Smile
There was something about the ground of the Hellmouth that made his demon purr like a kitten. Truthfully, there were times when he felt uncomfortable with the demon’s need to be somewhere that he would just as soon leave were it not for Joyce’s strange determination to make life work in Sunnydale. The woman didn’t seem to understand that picking up the pieces didn’t mean the puzzle had to stay together on the first try. But then again, she didn’t have a hundred and seventeen years of undead living under her belt for the needed perspective.
What was worse, he felt himself growing comfortable in Sunnydale. The small town feel was a pleasant change from the fast-paced life he’d come to know in Los Angeles. More over, the graveyards were older, and the local mausoleums had a feel to them that was homier than most; like they needed to be domiciles as much as they were tombs. He’d found one perfect for his needs the first day in town, kicked its resident out—which didn’t matter much, as said resident was quite dead—and packed it in with all sorts of goodies that every vampire needs.
Eleven years in Los Angeles. He couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t stayed in one place that long since before he was turned. It made the move bittersweet, but he felt no pangs of loss. It didn’t fill his blood with reservation when Joyce announced to her daughter that they were leaving. No local school would take Buffy as it was, and LA had too many negative connotations for her anyway.
Some she knew about; some she didn’t.
Hank Summers had packed and left a week and a half after Buffy was expelled from Hemery High School. Spike had sat faithfully outside her bedroom window in the tree that now belonged to someone else, his heart breaking as she sobbed into her pillow. Hard sobs; sobs he knew even better than he wanted to admit.
He’d wanted nothing more that night than to open her window, take her in his arms, and promise her that he’d do everything in his power to keep her from that sort of hurt again.
She lost her school. She lost her friends. She lost her boyfriend—which was really better for the boyfriend, as Spike’s understanding of her girlish need to flirt had about run its course. She’d lost her father. She’d lost her Watcher. Then, to top all off, she lost her home.
But that had been three years earlier, and things were different now.
Buffy was rapidly approaching her eighteenth birthday. Yes, things were considerably different now.
She’d also blossomed into the fiercest slayer he’d ever known, and watching her was his favorite hobby. She moved as though she could twist the air around her into poetry. She was glorious when in the midst of a fight. When fangs were bared, it felt as though her prey had crossed the invisible line from their world and into hers; problem was, her world contained rules that she set out, whereas the vampire game never changed.
Spike kept a careful distance. Merrick, it turned out, had been right. She was all too talented at feeling when vampires were near. She was the Slayer. No longer a little girl. No longer set by the laws of society. No, she was definitely the Slayer.
His outrage at the Powers had long since quelled. He would never pretend to understand it, and he was far from all right with the twist that fate had handed him. There simply was no point in arguing with it. Nothing could ever change what he knew to be true; Buffy belonged to him. He hadn’t chosen it, but it was the way things were. The way things were supposed to be. And as much as his reputation might suggest otherwise, he wasn’t much for picking fights where he knew the outcome was already set.
There had to be a reason. A reason, or a cosmic mix-up. Either way, that didn’t set him apart from anything. Buffy was his.
And his demon was tired of waiting.
The hardest year was her seventeenth. Knowing it was the last. Knowing all he wanted was a short three hundred and sixty-five days away. Knowing that she was so close to him, he could practically feel her skin beneath his, and that the distance between them was no longer mapped by time.
That she was close to him.
On the nights that he was brave enough, he would climb up the tree outside her bedroom window and watch her sleep. Watch her burrow her face in her pillow and clutch the pig that he had given her forever ago close to her heart. Her love-worn Mr. Gordo that practically traveled everywhere that she did.
Seventeen years old, and she didn’t let anyone quite as close to her as she did that pig. Not her sodding ex of a pulser boyfriend, not her mates, not even her Watcher—the permanent one. The one that hadn’t gone dead in two weeks.
Buffy’s life since she arrived in Sunnydale had been the expected teenage melodrama of ups and downs, only with the added dose of a hellmouth’s touch. She had stopped the gates of Hell from opening twice now. Hell, she’d even done in the Master. The Master. He’d all but forgotten about the Master. Darla’s prince of a sire that had gotten himself under the ruins of a church.
Spike had nearly come out of the shadows then. Buffy slipped away to kill the Master when no one was watching.
He would never forget that feeling. He’d been asleep, kept with the lonely company of Mr. Jenkins, only to feel the deep, agonizing feel of his unclaimed mate in danger—a sensation he hadn’t even known existed until that moment. He’d practically shot out of his crypt. Had shut down all emotions except the one innate honing device that knew where she was at all times. That knew how to get to her. That felt her when she was out of reach.
It was on the night of some ridiculous dance. He knew that because she’d come home, bitching about the fact that she couldn’t wear her dress anymore due to the nasty cut on her arm.
The whiff of her blood was potent. So warm and welcoming. So his.
He was surprised to this day that he hadn’t tackled her to the ground then.
He’d watched her for so long. Watched her grow from a little girl to a slayer, then from a slayer to a young woman. He thought he might have reservations about this, regardless of his demon’s need. Thought it might be strange for him. Thought it might be anything but what it was.
He never fooled himself. Never tried to be a part of her life more than his nature needed. He’d interfered twice, and then she was a slayer.
He didn’t know how to feel about the rest. He reckoned he wouldn’t until he felt her flesh against his. Until dreams crossed that unspoken line into reality, and her eyes met his for the first time as woman.
Right now, she was patrolling in his cemetery. Christ, she was just ten feet from his front door. And she wasn’t alone.
“I can’t believe I got a B on that test.”
“Well, that just goes to show that the myth about studying helps preparing for quizzes is something that old wives didn’t just make up.”
That was Willow, Buffy’s little redheaded friend who thought the world would end if she got anything below an A+ on everything she did. He remembered one night where, during patrol, his Slayer had spent a half hour consoling the girl for the 92% she’d received on an English paper.
“Well, I must admit that it was nice to read a question and not feel like it’s phrased in Aramaic.”
They were chattering on the way young girls do. Her scent haunted him, even at a distance. Spike watched the door steadily, almost daring her to sense him. Daring her to come into his home and meet his eyes. It wasn’t as though she respected the privacy of vamps; he’d been following her too long, watched her stake too many, to think it otherwise.
And if she came in now, it’d be over. He’d scare the little redhead away, then take what was his.
“Though, totally, Civil War? Got it covered. At least it’s interesting history.”
“You’re just saying that ‘cause you discovered that Patrick Swayze looks good in Confederate gray.”
“Hence my appreciation of all things historic.” She giggled. “I have no reason to deny this.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, I have a B on a history test. You know how I know it’s mine? My name’s on the top. Buffy Summers, it says. Even in my penmanship.”
“If that’s what you wanna call that illegible scribbling of yours, sure.”
“Funny girl.”
“I have my moments.”
Spike drew in a sharp breath and hazarded a step toward the door. It sounded as though they had stopped just outside; likely reclining against the headstone that was planted literally feet from his door.
“So are you going to the thing on Friday?”
“The ‘oh, as if there aren’t enough reminders that we’re seniors’ thing?”
“I think they’re calling it a mixer.”
“Yeah, well, my title’s more accurate.”
The vampire chortled lightly and took another step toward his door. He heard them as though there wasn’t a wall between them. As though he was beside his mate, and the barriers between them now no longer existed.
“You know,” Willow said, “Owen’s been giving you the eye all week.”
“Owen’s also obsessed with death. Me? He associates with death.”
“I’m just saying, it might be nice to have, you know, a date to the mixer.”
Buffy sighed. “I dunno, Will, I just don’t think I wanna go. It’s gonna be a big thing and I have more tests to attempt to get Bs on.”
“Okay…did the world just flip upside down on its axis, or are you seriously using homework as an excuse for missing a night of partying at the Bronze?”
Spike could practically see his Slayer shrug. “No…it’s just…you don’t need to feel obligated for the lack of action in the department of Buffy’s love-life.”
“I just really don’t want you to be all—”
“Third-wheely?”
“Yes. No!” Willow scowled. “Don’t do that.”
“Freudian-slip you into truth telling?”
“I’m not telling the truth…or…gah. You’re just a big bucket of sneak today, aren’t you?”
“I do what I can.”
“I’m just…I want you to have fun, too. And Xan’s gonna be there—”
“With Cordy. And you’ll be there with Oz, and third-wheel Buffy’ll be there, doing her third-wheel thing and making all her non-third wheel friends feel bad with the guiltage…and that’s never good.”
He could see every move she made. Every flicker of emotion that washed over her face. He knew her so well. Knew the crinkle in her nose when she found something distasteful. Knew the ire that tickled her eyes when a vamp or a demon refused to die quietly. Knew her harmonious laugh, and the way she could light up a room simply by looking into it. He knew her better than anyone, he wagered. Even her mum. He knew what went on after she closed the bedroom door. She was so close that he could practically taste her, and his demon was screaming at him to throw caution to the wind and be done with it.
He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. Seventeen years old; she was so close to eighteen. So bleeding close.
You’ve never been this patient in your life.
Oh, he’d been more than patient. He’d been a bloody saint. Somehow, he’d equated waiting for her in the same category as earning what was his. He didn’t know how that had happened—it simply had, and some blasted internal mechanism wouldn’t allow him to consider anything else.
“You understand, though, that now I’m gonna have guiltage over you being at home.”
“Make you think twice about going out to have fun without me, right?”
“You’re a cruel wench.”
“I’m the Slayer—I’m allowed.”
Spike grinned; he couldn’t help it.
That’s it, baby.
“What if Mr. Right’s at the Bronze and you’re not ‘cause you’re at home, harboring all these delusions of being third-wheelish?”
“Because the chance of that…”
“You’ll never know. All I’m saying is it could happen.”
Buffy snorted and shook her head. “I don’t have that kind of luck.”
Jus’ you wait, sweetheart. Just you wait.
“You’ll never know until you get out there and try to have that kind of luck.”
“Easy peasy says the girl with the boyfriend.” Buffy laughed and held up a hand. “I’m fine, Will. Seriously. Go. Party. Make with the fun. Really, who wants to be out on the town when I can be up to my ass in demon guts? It’s a total no-brainer.”
“I thought you were gonna study.”
“Yeah, because that’s, you know, happening.” She shook her head. “It was a total fluke, that B.”
“You said you studied.”
“Oh, I did. That was the fluke.” There was a sigh. “Well, I think Mr. Harrison isn’t going to appease us tonight.”
“I thought there were severe wounds to the neck…as in, vampire: mark of?”
Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. “Maybe he fell on a rake?”
“That went right through his neck?”
“Well, that’d cause him severe deadness, right?”
Spike smiled and leaned against the wall beside his door. He willed his eyes closed, envisioning her gorgeous face scrunching up in confusion as her quirky mind entertained a variety of assuredly creative possibilities.
“I don’t think we have that kind of luck,” Willow remarked unhappily.
“Let me live in my delusion, okay?”
No such luck. Predictably, the low growl of a vampire tore through the air just seconds later, effectively killing his mate’s adorable theory and rendering the fledgling’s unlife to a handful of regretful seconds.
“Wow, you’d think that vamps would just stop siring lackeys, for all the good it does them,” the redhead observed.
“Yeah, my job would just be so much easier if vamps just stopped making other vamps.” There was a droll note in her voice that forced Spike to stifle a chuckle. “Okay, well, that seems to be the big excitement for the night.”
“Man, and I was all riled up.”
A palpable note of loss struck the vampire’s heart when he felt his mate turn away and start back in the direction of her home. A feeling he was so wretchedly familiar with; that starving ache that whimpered at the loss of her. The wails of his demon had kept him company for a decade and a half, and with the exclusion of Mr. Jenkins in the corner, had served as the only constant he knew he could depend on.
Buffy was too unpredictable to call a constant. He felt her, and that had helped keep him calm; at least until she became the Slayer, and everything went up for grabs.
It wasn’t long, though.
His patience deserved some sort of prize after all this was over. Admittedly, it didn’t take much for Spike to impress himself, but having been a eunuch for fourteen years, especially with as much as demons needed the physical. Somehow, his left hand didn’t make a satisfying bedmate.
That much hadn’t been his choice. He figured the Powers might’ve granted him some leeway in that department, seeing as he got the fuzzy end of the lollipop where mates were concerned. However, his demon reacted just as violently when he even considered satisfying his needs elsewhere as it would under a full claim.
Moreover, despite fourteen sexless years, he found he didn’t want the solace of another woman’s body. That bothered him. His feelings for Buffy, while protective, had not touched what he thought to be traditional love. They were confused, stormy, and passionate, but didn’t touch love. At least, didn’t touch the sort of love he knew. There was no way to love her from afar like this. To love at her; he only hoped that the infatuation buried within the demon’s draw turned into something as powerful as what he’d had in the past. What he’d felt.
Though the longer he mulled it over, the more he was drawn back to the source of his insecurities. The lack of what Dru had given him, and what Darla had always told him would never be his. Buffy was his mate, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Chances were, she wouldn’t. Chances were, she’d put up a fight.
He’d tie her to him, but she might never love him the way he wanted her to. The way he was afraid to love her, especially without knowing her up close.
The demon didn’t want to admit it, but there was no hiding from the man. Spike needed love. He wanted it. He wanted it from his mate. And if she didn’t love him, he would spend eternity in mourning.
Thus for now, he kept delusions of love aside. Love would be saved for later; after he knew her. After her eyes met his for the first time since she was a child. For the first time as a woman.
He just hoped the demon could keep in line. The closer the day came, the more he itched to have it done with now before he burst with longing. The thought of her close to him was almost too much to even imagine, let alone categorize as inevitable. He’d waited so long, it felt, even with its imminence, that the day would never arrive.
The demon’s control was holding onto its final strings, but not tightly.
He was so close. So damnably close.
The next few days, he feared, would feel longer than the years that preceded them.
But he would get through it; he’d come this far. He wasn’t about to fail now.
*~*~*
There was an unmistakable scent in the air; a scent that froze his blood. A scent that gripped him with alien fear, and sent his mind spiraling through a thousand terrible scenarios. A thousand grizzly images. A thousand ways to inspire his demon to a chaotic snap, take what was his, and make a dash for it.
Couldn’t be. They’d found him at last.
The minute Spike stepped outside his crypt, he knew, and it all but crippled him.
The Order of Aurelius had come to Sunnydale.
To be continued in Chapter Seven: The Gleam In Your Eyes Is So Familiar A Gleam…
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