Chapter Nine
The Wild And Windy Night
The last thing he wanted to do was leave her, but Buffy was adamant in her refusal to be anywhere near people. It wasn’t as though he didn’t understand; unlike the great souled wanker in Los Angeles, his Slayer didn’t have the luxury of a century or two of experience being around people. Hearing heartbeats from across the room. Craving the rush of blood that pumped through waiting veins. Schooling herself without a conscience; accepting falls and moving on after slipups. There weren’t such things as second tries with her. If she killed, she would be forever destroyed. And Spike couldn’t tolerate the thought.
“I won’t be long,” he said, finishing off a cigarette. “I need to pick up some blood, an’ I’ll get your mum to pack you some stuff.”
Buffy shook her head. “Don’t…just…just get in and out. Don’t let her…I don’t want her to know yet. I know I said it earlier, but I don’t want her to know. I changed my mind. I…don’t say anything to her.”
Spike cocked his head and considered her, stepping forward. “Your mates’ll come after me soon enough, pet,” he said. “As dense as the lot of them are, they’ll find Drac’s castle an’ likely be able to piece two an’ two together. Then they’ll come for me. ‘Specially ‘f I’m not out an’ about. ‘F I disappear to be with you, they’ll come here an’ you might find yourself around people a bloody lot sooner than you want.”
She went silent at that, her eyes fixed on something he could not see.
“I know you don’ wanna think about it,” he continued softly. “But you know your pals. You really think they’ll jus’ stop lookin’ for you if you never turn up?”
Buffy shook her head numbly. “They won’t…they’ll try to take me back. If they come here…if they know I’m with you, they’ll try to take me back. To them. They don’t trust you.”
“Neither did you a few days ago.”
“That’s changed.” A beat. “Everything has changed.”
“You trust me now?”
It was a foolish question with an obvious answer. If she didn’t trust him, there was no way she would be with him now. No way would she have ever let him touch her. She came to him because she felt he was the only one she could trust, and he wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardize her sanctuary. If she felt safe here, he would let her stay as long as she wanted. If she felt threatened, he would take her somewhere, and the Scoobies would never find them unless they wanted to be found.
“Yes,” Buffy said a minute later, drawing him back to her. Her eyes were on him now, and he was startled at how deeply such a small word could affect him. Especially given that it was the response to a question he already had the answer to. “I trust you, Spike. You’re the only one I trust.”
He exhaled a deep breath and just stared at her, taken thoroughly aback.
The only one she trusted. The only one.
How could it be that they had hated each other so richly only days before? That once it had been his life’s mission to destroy the glorious creature before him? He lived and died with her now. Her pains were his. When she wept, he wanted to scream his outrage at the bastard that had done this to her. Wanted to find a way to resurrect him just so he could kill him all over again. Slowly. Properly. Torture him so richly that Angelus’s nasty streak would become a children’s story. He wanted to write a new book on torment.
But when he looked at Buffy, everything left him but his desire to relieve her of her personal hell. Replace her pain with pleasure. Fill her sadness with joy. Any pretense that he wasn’t in love with her had fled him the instant he saw her standing in his crypt. Not even a day had passed, and he knew he was irrevocably lost. Lost more than he ever had been when it came to love. Lost in ways that made his relationship with Drusilla look and feel like children’s puppy love—so far placed from the real thing, he couldn’t begin to fathom how he had ever mistaken one for the other.
She broke from his gaze when his intensity became too much. When he couldn’t pull his own eyes away. “What will you say?” she asked softly. “If you talk to my mother, what will you say?”
“I won’ talk to her if you don’ want me to.”
“But if you did—”
“I’d let her know I was takin’ care of you. An’ that she shouldn’t worry. You’re still you.” Spike inhaled again and stepped forward until she was just a breath away. He studied her for a minute and raised a tentative hand to palm her cheek reverently. “No matter what happens to your body, sweetling,” he said heatedly, thumb caressing comforting circles into her skin, “you’re still you where it counts. Here…” He gently drummed his fingers against her temple, then slid his touch southward until it rested above her nonbeating heart. “An’ here.”
Buffy’s eyes were large with awe and some emotion he was too hesitant to name. She leaned forward until her brow was touching his, her mouth provocatively near his own. He wanted so desperately to say sod all to the rest and kiss her until she remembered she didn’t need to breathe. Take her in his arms and sample the richness of her mouth. Taste the sweetness of her skin. Memorize every inch of her with his tongue. Lose himself in her body. Bring her over the edge again and again, until he was drowning in her pleasure.
Bugger, he was hard just thinking about it. This wouldn’t do.
“Spike…” she murmured.
“Mmm?”
She pulled back just slightly at that, but didn’t respond. There was something else in her gaze. Knowledge that hadn’t been there a minute ago. She knew how much he wanted her without having to be told; she just didn’t know how desperately he loved her, and that was where she was confused.
He couldn’t tell her yet. He didn’t know if he ever could. If it would ever be something he could whisper in her ear. If the solace of her body would ever be his sanctuary. If there was a middleground to reach in the midst of all this pain. She felt his erection against her stomach, and consequentially, he bathed in the warm scent of her arousal. But he would not take advantage of her. He would never do to her what Dracula had done. Never make a decision for her that wasn’t his to make.
Resolve like that was becoming entirely too difficult to hold onto. He feared a snap of willpower with each second that ticked by. He couldn’t help her if he let her forget. He wouldn’t let her destroy herself, but he similarly couldn’t afford to allow her to become entirely dependent on him.
That sort of love had destroyed him before. That sort of dependency. Dru had only been with him because he’d loved her to the point of obsession; to the point that his care for her overshadowed all else. She’d never loved him in return. Never even said the words. He had simply mistaken affection and gratitude for love, and it had cost him everything.
He was so terrified of that. Of loving so deeply that it no longer mattered if he received the feeling in return. In becoming a sanctuary, and only a sanctuary. He would help her until she no longer needed help. And then he would pray for the strength to let her go.
If it happened, it would be because she loved him, too. Not because she needed to forget.
He feared it, though. Feared if she asked, he would tumble over himself and do anything just to touch her.
“I should go,” Spike said, releasing her with some difficulty. “Sooner I’m gone, sooner I can come back, yeh?”
“It’s daylight still.”
“’S never stopped me before. I don’ want you here by yourself after dark, sweetling.” He shook his head. “Don’ get huffy; I know you’re the Slayer an’ all…an’ you have all kinds of other strength goin’ for you now, but—”
“No. No, I understand. I don’t want to be here alone after dark, either.” She wrapped her arms around herself subconsciously. “I don’t want to be here alone.”
“You could come with me,” he offered softly. “I won’ let them take you.”
“I know. I just…I can’t…” Buffy shook her head. “I can’t, Spike. I know I should. I really know I should. I hate myself for being so—”
Spike stepped forward again. “No. You’re not. Whatever you think you are, you’re not. Bleeding hell, Slayer, do you have any idea how sodding remarkable it is that you din’t lose it right off? There’s a reason vamps lose their souls, luv, an’ it’s not jus’ because the demon likes to horde space. You’re a fighter. You’re the strongest person I know, an’ I’m not talkin’ about brawn. Any one who asks you to do anythin’ you’re not ready to when you’ve only been away from the wanker that did this to you for a day jus’ doesn’…they don’ understand. I will never ask anythin’ of you that I don’ think you’re ready for.”
“What if I don’t?” she asked. “What if I don’t think I’m ready for…whatever, and you do?”
He smiled gently. “Then I’ll help you until you are,” he replied, unable to resist the sinful temptation of her lips. It was a soft kiss; too short to be passionate, too passionate to be chaste. A sweep of her mouth, the slightest hint of her tongue; her hands curled around his arms, but released him the minute he stepped away.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promised, turning away from her before leaving was no longer an option.
“Please,” Buffy agreed, her voice hoarse. “I don’t want to be alone for long.”
“You won’t be.”
Spike forced his eyes to stay ahead of him as he made his way back to the lower level of the crypt; toward the sewers and the spider web of underground tunnels that spiraled under Sunnydale. He knew he could get to Buffy’s house in his sleep if he needed; and if she didn’t want him to talk with her mother, he wouldn’t—not unless it became necessary.
He didn’t think it would be.
A sigh rolled off his shoulders as his feet sloshed into the expectant shallow river that flowed against the cold concrete of the underground. He loathed leaving her, though he knew he wouldn’t be gone long. Joyce was avoidable, and she didn’t need to know anything her daughter wasn’t ready to share.
But she wasn’t his only stop. The Desoto was parked in an underground garage not too far from the crypt, though he felt it safer to go to the Summers residence first, rather than burst in through the front door. From there, he could retreat to his car, and drive to his final stop. The place where stealth wasn’t needed.
Spike intended to make sure that no one came after Buffy. No one.
Not until she was ready—however long it took.
*~*~*
There wasn’t a word strong enough to apply to the look on Giles’s face when he saw who his visitor was. Granted, it wasn’t as though Spike had taken the time to knock; rather, he’d come in as he always did: smoking, cursing, and hurrying to beat the sun under the questionable protection of a blanket. He figured the indignation he received was less for his haphazard entrance and more for the fact that nearly a day had passed since the Watcher came to the vampire for help, and he had still produced no Slayer.
“It’s about bloody time,” Giles all but growled. “What the hell have you been up to? Do you have any idea—”
“Sod off, Rupert.” Spike rolled his eyes, ignoring the look of furthered resentment his flippancy earned him. “’m here for one reason. You’re gonna shut your gob an’ listen well, you get me?”
“Why, you righteous little—”
“I have the Slayer.”
A combination of horror, outrage, and shock flooded the Watcher’s gaze—his face slack with numb astonishment. “She’s…she… my God, where is she? What have you done with her!”
Spike’s eyes darkened. “I’ve done nothin’ to her, you pompous, self-righteous sod. She came to me after she escaped. She had nowhere else.”
“What do you mean—”
“He turned her.” That shut the old man up. “Dracula…he turned her. He kept her there until last night…tryin’ some rot about makin’ her his queen. I found the castle right as the wanker was makin’ her feed.”
Giles was white. His eyes had gone blank—the rest of him contorted with anguish. He released a trembling breath and shook his head, stepping back until his legs met the cushion of the nearest chair. His body collapsed, trembling with something the vampire didn’t want to consider right now. Didn’t want to feel for the old sod, especially when his priorities were with the Slayer.
But God, the Watcher’s eyes had filled with tears. Beyond hurt. Beyond outrage. He’d just been told his daughter was dead. His Slayer made into the thing she was meant to kill. There was no emotion for that. It was a train wreck of sensory. Of things no man ever wanted to feel. Things no Watcher should ever go through.
“Dear lord.”
Spike nodded. “She sensed me there. The whole bloody house did. She says it’s the way she had the strength to escape. She killed everythin’ there, then came to me.” His eyes hardened. “An’ she’s not goin’ anywhere unless she wants to. You understand?”
“What? I don’t—”
“Buffy. She’s stayin’ with me.”
That was evidently all the Watcher needed to come out of his stupor. To push mourning aside and listen to what the vampire was saying rather than focus on his own loss. Outrage once again replaced grief, and he jumped to his feet in a fury. “Like hell she is!” he thundered. “You despicable little wanker—if you think I’m going to let you near her while she—”
“’S what she wants, Rupert,” Spike replied, doing his best to remain calm. “She came to me ‘cause she can’t be around people right now.”
“Why the hell not?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why do you bloody think?” he retorted. “She’s a vampire. Understand? She’s my kind now.”
“She will never be your—”
“Moreover, she has a soul. Sired Slayers don’ last, Rupert. You know it as well as I do. An’ they don’ last because they can’t bloody well cope with what they’ve become. There’s a reason vamps don’ come with consciences.” He released a steady breath, attempting to maintain his growing infuriation. “We need blood to survive. We’re drawn to blood. The hunger’s a bitch. It drives you to the edge of insanity an’ back again. She couldn’t resist a dead bloke after Dracula shoved him under her nose. How do you think she’d feel ‘f you made her be around people before she knows how to control the hunger? What happens if her demon bests her an’ she tries to kill one of you? What happens if she succeeds?”
“Buffy’s stronger than that.”
“Yeh, but not without bein’ taught how.”
“She doesn’t need you. The last thing she needs is a soulless, remorseless killer teaching her how to be a vampire. If what you’re saying is true, Angel is—”
His vision nearly went black with fury. “She doesn’t want Angel.”
“You bloody fool, do you really think I’ll believe—”
Spike held up a hand, commanding his more basic instincts inward. He was seconds from bursting into game face. Seconds from lunging for the old man’s throat. Seconds from finding a piece of wood plunged through his chest. “She doesn’t want Angel,” he growled lowly. “An’ if you try to come after her, I’ll know it. I’ll sense it well before you even get to the cemetery. If you try to go against her wishes, I’ll take her away. We’ll be long gone by the time you get to the crypt. You won’ find us, an’ I’ll take care of her until she’s ready to come back on her terms, not yours.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
The vampire’s brows perked. “’Kay. You can believe that, ‘f you like. Go ahead an’ try it. It’ll be the last you see of either of us for a long, long time.”
There was a pause. “Even if she’s ready to come back?”
“Something tells me that she won’ wanna be around blokes that don’ honor her wishes. Who knows? You might be in the ground before she feels up to lookin’ at you again.” Spike held his eyes for a long minute. Held them until he knew the Watcher understood he was serious. Then, slowly, he reached for the discarded blanket and moved back toward the door.
“She loves you,” he said, opening the door. “She loves all of you. ‘S why she came to me. She knows she won’ hurt me. She’s in no danger of losin’ control. If she hurt one of you, it’d kill her. I’ll take care of her Rupert.”
Giles didn’t say anything.
“Right, well, I’ll be in touch.”
It wasn’t until he turned to retreat into the sunlight that the Watcher broke his silence.
“Do take care of her, Spike.”
“Don’ worry.”
“I do.” He paused. “If you hurt her in any way, I will personally introduce you to a new definition of pain and suffering.”
The words were so overused in petty threats that Spike had to bite down the instinctual smile that tickled his lips. He knew the man was serious. He knew Giles would kill him over and over before he had his fill of justice if anything went wrong.
Giles didn’t know, though. Didn’t know that if anything went wrong, if he hurt Buffy, retaliation would be useless. Whatever happened to the Slayer happened to him, now. If he hurt her, he would stake himself. Walk into sunlight. Do anything to bring himself to justice. Spike simply didn’t hurt the ones he loved. And he loved Buffy more than any woman, any person, that time had given him.
Thus, he merely nodded his understanding, and let the Watcher have his play.
“Understood.”
Then he was gone. Back to the Desoto, where her clothing was stashed.
Back to the crypt, where his Slayer waited.
Back to his Buffy. His glorious, wounded girl, who trusted him.
*~*~*
Something was wrong.
He knew it the minute he stepped into the crypt. The minute his nose hit the air, and drew in the familiar, repugnant scent of burnt flesh. Something within him dropped, constricting his heart with the worst rush of fear he had ever known. Her clothes plunged to the ground and he bounded for the ladder that led upstairs.
Oh god. Oh god oh god.
If something had happened to her while he was gone…while he wasn’t here to stop it…
Oh God, what if Riley had been back? What if he had seen Buffy here and…
No.
Riley’s scent was vague. Distant. That hovering, offensive presence from the night before. It was too faint to be recent.
“Buffy!” He exploded into the upper level, panting heavily. The scent was stronger here. “Buffy! God, where…”
Then he saw her. And his heart broke.
“Oh God.”
She was sitting beside the front door, rocking back and forth, cradling her left hand. Her face was a mess of tears, her body wracked with sobs, and she cried out at every breath instinct told her she needed. If she heard him, it had not registered. She was somewhere else. She wasn’t with him.
“Buffy…” Spike blinked back tears as he tentatively approached. The last thing she needed was to see him cry for her. Not when he was supposed to be the strong one.
I never should’ve left her.
This is my fault.
Then she began to speak. Her voice cracked with torment, hoarse from the grief she couldn’t keep from spilling. He lost himself all over again at that. The despair, the want of what she couldn’t reach…it was nearly too much. He feared breaking for her. Every pained gasp she took reminded him what dying felt like.
“I…I wanted…I wanted to…” She shook her head. “I wanted you. I couldn’t…I needed to…I didn’t want to…and I tried to go…I went outside, but…but I forgot. I’ve never had to…and I forgot. And the sun was so bright. I couldn’t see. My hand hurt, and I couldn’t see. I tried to get back inside, and…”
That was it. Spike turned away, wiping erratically at his eyes as guilt consumed him.
“I should’ve known,” she continued, small and lost. “I should’ve remembered. I just…I…I just didn’t.”
He couldn’t take it anymore. Fuck the rest; he needed to feel her in his arms.
She reached for him as he stormed over. A little girl recognizing the safety of the one who loved her. He lifted her into his embrace, careful of her wounded hand, and carried her back to the sofa they had spent the morning on, curled in each other’s arms.
“’m so sorry,” he gasped. “’m so bloody sorry. If I hadn’t left—”
Buffy shook her head. “No. It was…I was stupid. I didn’t think. I’ve never had to…it was all me.”
“’F I hadn’t left…God, why the bloody hell did I…fuck, you could’ve jus’ worn my stuff. A man would die to see you dolled up in his clothin’—why the hell did I go off—”
She was still shaking his head. “No.”
“Buffy—”
“No.” The next thing he knew, her arms were around him, and her lips were touching his. And he melted. He drowned into her mouth, his tongue plundering her cavern, drawing from her desperate, tear-flavored kisses that drove him rightly out of his mind. She was everywhere. Her lips on him, her scent pooled around him. She suckled his tongue urgently, whimpering into him as his own sorrow poured into her. His own desperation. His own need.
“Buffy,” he gasped, mouth taking chart down her neck. “Oh God.”
She clung to him needily, burying her face in the crook of his throat. “I would be nowhere,” she choked. “If you weren’t here, I’d be nowhere.”
He hated the sound of her so thoroughly defeated.
“No,” he objected, kissing her cheek ardently. “You’re not jus’ any Slayer, Buffy. You’re the bloody best. You’re the best I’ve ever seen. The best I’ve ever fought. The best in the sodding line. You wouldn’t be nowhere.” His arms came around her and he inhaled the essence that was her. The heavenly aroma of Slayer musk, spiced with the equally excruciating flavor of her sorrow. “You wouldn’t be nowhere, baby. I know you. You’re the best. The bloody best. You wouldn’t be nowhere.”
She shuddered but didn’t respond, just hugged him tighter.
He wanted to tell her then. Wanted so badly to tell her how much he loved her. That he would never leave her. That if she wanted, she would never be alone.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t yet. He didn’t want to frighten her.
Didn’t want to risk hurting her any more than she was.
Didn’t want to risk his heart, even if it was already lost.
To be continued in Chapter Ten: Sure To Fall…
|
