The Spell of Lethean 

Lisa Drexel

Buffy's twenty-three years old and has been partnered with Spike for five years...everything is fine until Druscilla returns. NC-17!

There are just some truths in life that cannot be denied.

I realize that now.

As I lay chained to this bed and wait for his return, I wonder how I could've been such a fool to believe that Fate would finally allow me some peace.

Ever since I found out that I was the Slayer, I knew that I was to die young.

That is the way of things.

Sometimes at night, when I was in a real morbid mood, I would lay in bed and wonder how it was going to happen.

Would it be by a nameless demon that managed to catch me off-guard? Or would the Hellmouth open again, destroying everything in its path including me?

Or would it be some fledgling that somehow managed to squirm underneath my defenses and suck me dry before I could push a stake through his heart?

And then there's Spike, Dru and Angel—my vampires.

Ample opportunities here, you know. Between Angel's unstable soul, Dru's insanity and Spike's undying devotion to her—I can think of hundreds of scenerios to end my existence—just at the hands of my vampires.

My vampires.

I wonder if other slayers had their own vampires?

Because that's what they are—mine. Angel was and still is the love of my life. That was true before we knew of the happiness clause, when the curse had lifted—after his soul was restored and even after he left. Then there's his childe, Spike, who at first glance reminded me of a punk-rocker refugee from the seventies and eighties. He, in just as many ways as Angel, has managed to insinuate himself into my thoughts and heart. As my mortal enemy and as my partner in slaying—a position he's held for five years. And then there's Druscilla. My rival. Yet, I can't help but feel for both her soul and demon—to have survived Angelus' attention and favors for so long and still manage to be a force to be reckoned with is a testament to how strong her soul/demon is.

A slayer admiring a demon.

Didn't think it would ever happen.

But at twenty-three, I've learned a lot. Not all demons are evil and not all humans are good. Most travel in the shaky shade of gray area of in between. If demons don't kill or cause mayhem, are they really evil—just because they're demons? If you say yes, then have a talk with Whistler and Doyle—they'll set you right.

It's all her fault, you know—Druscilla's. She couldn't leave well enough alone. For five years, Spike has been my partner, my friend and my confidant. I know, at first, it was reluctantly. I can thank Whistler for that. But he's saved my life more times than Angel. And the irony of all that is that we work together better than Angel and I ever did.

Although I was human and had a soul, the Powers made me their warrior. And that's what I am—first and foremost—a warrior. Faith—bless her, Faith, was so right. It's the only thing in my life that I've been sure of—fighting.

And Spike—he will always be a fighter first, vampire second and demon third.

To say that we work well together would be an understatement. Xander, in one of his more drunken states, said it the best: "You and Junior—when you fight, it's like watching one of those Russian ballets. It's beautiful, man."

Dru couldn't stand it. She said it hurt her eyes.

And set about doing everything she could to make things 'right.'

I wanted to release Spike from his obligation. I knew deep down inside, where everything's so much clearer, that she wouldn't leave him alone. He tried dissuading her—pointing out that she was the one that left him—that his fate was our partnership. He killed the wrong person and like his sire, had to pay the consequences.

She just couldn't understand why he had to be so fucking good at it.

But then Dru only sees what she wants to see. She didn't understand that Spike could only fight by my side if he put his whole undead heart into it. That his demon—or whatever was left of his long-dead human self--demanded it of him.

I knew it. That's why I told him to go to her and leave us—inside praying that she would just let it go and take Spike back—forgetting about his five years of fighting for wrong side.

But I was wrong.

Dru couldn't let it go.

I don't quite understand those lethean spells or how she managed to systematically wipe almost all of his memories from the past seven years, away.

But she did.

And suddenly, this vampire that fought by my side—held me when the pain of Angel missage was too deep—that drank hot cocoa with my mother thrice-weekly—was gone and in his place, was that cocky, sexy, arrogant vampire that I met outside the Bronze nearly seven years before.

Only this Spike had an open invitation into my home.

It was right after sundown that he showed up. I was surprised, to say the least. I had thought—no, let's be honest, I had wanted to believe that he left. Hell, the night before, we had said our good-byes. I couldn't believe how much it hurt to watch him walk away. We weren't lovers—just friends. We still fought like dogs and cats—but somehow, through the years, I had come to love Spike and I admit it, a small part of me had fallen in love with him as well.

But my aversion to love—after Riley Finn was killed three years before, had hardened me. I couldn't and wouldn't let Spike in any further—although I knew he wanted it—us.

I held him so tightly that if he'd been human, he would've broke. I didn't want to let him go—but we both knew it was for the best. An angry vengeful Dru was not something the Hellmouth needed or wanted. We'd both hoped that somehow Spike could get away from her—but I knew that she wouldn't let him go—not unless she found a way to de-soul Angel.

And neither of us wanted that.

So, after a long, passionate kiss, he left.

It was our first kiss, by the way.

After he left, I curled up on the sofa with a quart of Ben & Jerry's in my hand and cried—wondering what I ever did to Fate to have her fuck me over as bad as she had.

Not even twenty-four hours later, he was back.

I'd just stepped out of the shower—barely dry and naked—into my bedroom to see him standing there, a confused, yet gleeful look on his face.

It struck me so weird that for a moment, I just stood there, naked and watched him.

"Spike? I thought you left—are you okay?" I asked as I turned to grab my robe from the back of the door.

My fingers had just clasped the cloth when suddenly my whole body was pushed up against the wood—with Spike's body holding me in place.

"What the fu--?"

His cool fingers traveled up the sides of my body—barely a whisper against my flushed skin until he had my other hand and yanked it above me—holding me in place.

It's funny what trust does. I trusted him with my life. And wouldn't I? He'd saved it enough. In my mind, he had long ago surpassed whatever debt he owed me for those times when he'd tried killing me before.

So, I did nothing but laugh. "What are you up to, Fangbreath?"

Fangbreath. One of the millions of names I had for him to counteract all his endearments. I hated being called 'Pet.' He couldn't understand why it reminded me of a dog or cat and not a friend.

And finally things got funny.

At first it was his cool tongue as it traveled along my shoulders, up to the nape of my neck.

And then it was the realization that he was indeed, very happy to see me, as I felt his hard cock press against his leather pants—pushing into my buttocks.

And then it was his whispers.

"I never had a slayer this way before. They'd begged for their lives. Will you beg, pet?"

I could feel my heart racing—from both fear and excitement—as one of hands slipped underneath me and moved its way upwards to my breast.

Holding it in his hand, he yanked me backwards and worried my nipple.

It had been so long.

And I knew I couldn't fight him.

I loved him. I was twenty-three and the slayer and the only reason I was still alive was because of him.

So, if he wanted me to be his third—he could have it.

I don't think he understood why I acquiesced—in a way it only made him angrier.

I do remember asking him right before he threw me on my bed, why he was doing this right now? That he had six years of open invitations into my home...

That's when I got thrown on top of the bed and quickly afterwards, he smashed his mouth on to mine—shutting me up pretty effectively.

He quickly tied my hands together with his leather belt, and then fastened the length of it through the slats of my iron bed.

Even then, I could've gotten free, but didn't.

I just couldn't fight him.

I couldn't even hate him—not like I hate Angel's demon.

You see, I like Spike's demon. I admit it took me awhile—but once I got see all those little quirks he had, how could I not? Did you know that he cheats at cards? And not to win either. He does it just to see how long it takes for his opponent to figure it out and then takes devilish pleasure in your embarrassment and gives you back whatever you lost.

He names everything to fit his view of the world. For years, I was 'Slayer', because that's what I was—the slayer. It wasn't until the third time he plowed through the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign did I get other names—such as baby, darling, pet, love, ducks and the worst one of all—Lizzie. When he found out that Buffy was short for Elizabeth, it was like he struck gold, or in his case a fully-functioning IV drip with fresh blood available at his pleasure. He danced around my mother's kitchen, actually gave her a big, fat wet one on the cheek and then screamed for me at the top of his undead lungs. "Lizzie—get your arse down here right now!"

My mom was in stitches by the time I joined them for hot cocoa.

I don't think I talked to him for two days afterwards.

And then there were the big things. The things that friends do for one another that remind you that you're loved and cared for. When Riley was killed, I blamed myself for days. Although it appeared not to have anything to do with me, I couldn't help but wonder. My 'normal' life just went down the tubes and once again that place, where Angel resided in my heart was open and raw—leaving me angry and full of self-pity.

The night of his funeral, Spike picked a fight with me. He put his life in my hands just so I could beat him to pulp and he still had the strength afterwards to hold me as I my heart broke for the third time in my life.

And as he stood above me, stripping out of his clothes, I knew that my friend was still there—everything that I loved about Spike was still there. Okay, I do have to admit that I was grateful not to hear the rattling of railroad spikes as they hit the floor. Maybe I would've found the strength to fight him then. But he left his toys at home and whatever was going on with him—this fight or conquest of his was just between the two of us.

When he covered my hot, live body with his cool, undead one, a part of me nearly fainted.

It had been nearly seven years since I had made love to a vampire. And you know what they say—your first always leaves an imprint in your heart and body. It remembers even if you don't want to.

My body remembered all too well what it felt like to have a cool, wet tongue lick my skin and burrow itself into my sex.

It sang with joy at the thought of Spike's cold cock sliding into my hot, moist cunt.

It remembered what it felt like to have a set of fangs buried into my skin—my life's blood being sucked out, as I was being pounded into the matress underneath me.

He must've smelt my arousal and cocked his head at me. "Slayer, you're a strange one..." he whispered into my ear as his tongue slipped out and played with my ear.

I couldn't help but agree—I was a strange one to want to be fucked to death. I mean, what a way to go? And even as that thought flittered through my mind, I wondered where my self-preservation was.

Me, Buffy Summers, who continually pulled rabbits out of her hat to save herself from her destiny was just laying here—submitting. It wasn't right and yet, I couldn't seem to summon enough energy to fight him or myself.

I just didn't have the heart.

I was always told that friends and family would be my downfall. I laughed at that doomsayers—gave them the proverbial finger and still managed to pull off an occasional coup. And you know why?

Because I had those friends and family on the sidelines—sometimes the frontline as well. And now, here was one of those friends, ignorant of our past—believing I was his enemy and I couldn't fight back.

At twenty-three, I didn't have the strength that I did at seventeen when I faced Angelus.

At twenty-three, I've saved the world more times than any slayer on record.

At twenty-three, I've faced more demons and more evil than I care to remember and it was just didn't seem worth it to dust him so I could live another few months in abject misery.

Because there would be no Angel to the rescue—no Willow to somehow reanimate a pile of dust so I could have my friend back.

There were no other vampires I could trust—I had my quota.

Angel and Spike.

Angel in high school and Spike now.

So, I succumbed to his talented fingers as they skimmed my aching body.

And every time he kissed me, it was with reverence. It was almost as if his body knew whom he was making love to, even if his mind didn't.

Where he should've been brutal, he gave me gentleness.

Where it could've been bloody, it was erotic.

And when his cool tongue slipped into the hot folds of my sex, I came nearly instantly.

My responsiveness only fueled his desire and instead of me being fucked to death, I was made love to with infinite tenderness and passion. So enthralled with his touch, I didn't even tense when his fangs sunk into my breast. Well into my fourth climax, I rode the waves of my orgasm until the world slowly darkened around me.

I didn't even remember drinking his blood.

So, it's not even 24 hours later and here I am—chained to a strange bed—waiting for him to return.

I'm hungry and I can feel the demon screaming in its cage. But another quirk in the ironies of life—slayers keep their souls if turned.

I wonder if he knew that.

As I tug on the chains, I feel them give and stop. Even without feeding, I can tell I'm much stronger than I used to be.

Suddenly, my body tenses as I feel his approach—his blood calling mine. My sire—my friend—and now my lover—Spike.

I hear the lock turn and as I watch the door open, I see Spike—standing there, dressed as he had been all those years before—black leather pants, black tee shirt, red, silk shirt—Doc Martens on his feet and that gorgeous black leather duster draped over his body.

As he slips inside, I smell blood and feel my face changing in response. In his hand, he holds a paper bag and instinctively, I know its blood and from Willie's.

He finally looks down at me and I see that his dark blue eyes hold so much sorrow and regret that my heart goes out to him. After he sits next to me, he places the blood on the floor and unlocks the chains, chuckling softly when he notices the weaken links.

Once free, he helps me sit up and then reaches down and grabs the paper sack, pulling out a huge Styrofoam cup and tears off the lid.

I drink it.

And before all is said and done, I finish all the blood he has brought, and turn to face him as he begins to speak.

"The spell broke as I was draining you. It was too late to save you and then I remembered something I had read at least a year before and shelved it in my mind—thinking of bringing it up when and if you were ever ready—Slayer's keep their souls when brought across. So," he shrugs as he lights a cigarette. "I turned you. And once you were 'gone', I dressed you and brought you here. The chains were in case Dru figured out what I did—I hoped they would be enough to make her think I did it so I could use you as a weapon."

Even though I knew the answer, I have to ask. "And Dru?"

"Gone," he whispers. "I don't know if she's dead or not, love, but I think she may be. It was past sunrise before we went to sleep and when I woke, it was still light but she was no where to be found."

I reach out to touch his hand—no longer that unfamiliar coolness—now, it was normal—normal like me. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, a rueful grin forming on his lips. "Love, what the hell do you have to be sorry for? You were right—every step of the way. We hadn't even walked through the doors and she had knocked me out and performed that bloody lethe spell on me..." he drifts off, his eyes shut as he remembers.

"What broke it? The spell, I mean?"

His eyes opens and he chuckles softly. "Your blood, Lizzie. Every swallow I took gave me a piece of my memory. I remember thinking—right as I started feeding, that it would just be my luck to take down a suicidal twit who refused to fight me. And then the first wave of memories hit me. You dancing in the Bronze. Our meeting in the alley. That night at your school when your mother hit me over the head with that blasted ax." He grins as his fingers begin drawing light circles on my hand. "Halloween—the only time you were ever really helpless in my arms."

I chuckle softly, remembering that night.

"By the time I reached this year, I had nearly killed you. Satan help me, love, I'm so sorry."

And I knew he was. I could see it in his eyes.

Somehow, somewhere inside of me—I knew that this was going to be my fate. Not to be a vampire—but to have my mortal life end at the hands of one of my three vampires.

As far as being the creature I fought against for nearly ten years? I can't help but mentally shrug. Right now, I doesn't seem to bother me. I'm sure later on, Spike will have his hands full; keeping me from stepping out into the sun. But right now, all I can think of was how glad I am to have my partner back—by my side—where he should be.

The rest, I'm sure, will work out.

It always does.

Companion piece  Just a Sip