"Secrets & Lies "
Author: Lynx
Email: lmentus@rochester.rr.com
Notes: For my fellow couch-sitters, especially Chelle, who never stopped
prodding. Bless your heart!
Spike paced restlessly outside the mansion, forcing himself to wait for the right moment, just before daylight. He wanted the minions trapped, unable to escape his vengeance. What was the saying? *It's always darkest before the dawn.* It was going to be dark, all right. Darker than the blackest night. Blacker than the thoughts churning inside his tormented mind. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands and tried to stem the tide of images that burned a path through his brain.
The Slayer...her face flushed with passion, her eyes hot with need..."Love me, Spike, please...You're all I see...all I feel...I need you...I love you, Spike..." Those same eyes turning cold... "Where were you?...Oz is dead..." The eyes of a stranger...not the lover whose bed he'd warmed for the last seven weeks.
Spike doubled over as the pain hit him full force. "Slayer..." he moaned, grabbing his head and falling to his knees. "You fucking bitch!" He rocked back and forth, his game face flickering as hurt and betrayal warred with the rage that threatened to consume him. "You made me love you...made me feel...made me weak..."
"I love you, Spike..."
With a snarl, he sprang up and grabbed a wrought-iron bench, throwing it across the lawn. *You don't know what love is, Slayer.* How could she, and still think that he was capable of murdering her friend? Love him, but not trust him? *Doesn't fucking work that way, pet.* Spike shoved his hands in his pockets as he began pacing again and his fingers brushed against the stakes that he'd stolen from her. *Don't think about her, think about the death and destruction to come. Think about Darius.*
Darius. Not dusting the little prick when he'd had the chance had been a major fuckup. Spike seethed, disgusted with himself over his failure to keep control of the minions. *Too busy thinking with my dick, and look where it got me.* Alone again, scrambling to find a way out of this mess.
His hand wrapped around one of the stakes, driving slivers into his palms. He relished the pain, letting it focus his attention to where it should have been all along. It was time to act like the Master vampire he was and rectify his mistake. Darius had crossed him for the last fucking time...and it had been too long since his demon had been let out to play.
Just before the sky began to gray, he stubbed out his last cigarette and made his way inside, his human face devoid of all expression. To the casual observer, he would appear calm, unconcerned...until you noticed the murderous glint in his icy blue eyes.
The sound of raucous voices and heavy metal floated out from the dining room as he entered the main hall. Spike looked over at his fledglings, who sat huddled together on the couch and surrounding chairs in front of the fireplace. They watched his approach fearfully, pressing closer together as their eyes darted to the archway that led into the other room.
His cold gaze swept across them and his tone was deadly as he inquired, "Where's Darius?"
The fledglings glanced at each other and lowered their eyes, each of them unwilling to risk giving the wrong answer. A minute passed, adding to the tension already filling the room.
Spike's jaw tightened and a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Don't make me repeat the question."
One of the girls- he still didn't know their fucking names
and it mattered even less now- raised her
eyes and bravely answered him. "H-He's in there," she said, indicating
the dining room with a tilt of her head. "Celebrating his kill. He said
it was a werewolf." Her expression became one of anger and she tugged
at her shirt, which was torn in several places. "It made them...hungry...for
other things."
She gave him a look that was part outrage, part humiliation, then lowered her eyes again in submission, a gesture which would have pleased him under normal circumstances. Spike barely noticed; he was too intent on crashing Darius' 'party'. Now he also had the violation of his fledglings to add to Darius' long list of transgressions.
"Did any of you hunt with him tonight?" he asked, the implied threat fully apparent in his voice.
They all shook their heads as one and he nodded, satisfied that at least his own blood hadn't betrayed him. Without saying another word, he turned and headed for the other room, already anticipating the carnage that was sure to follow.
Spike stood in the open doorway, staring at the scene before him. Darius sat at the head of the long table, leg slung over the arm of the chair, drinking from a bottle of tequila that Spike recognized as coming from his own personal stock. Chairs were flung in all directions and tapestries were ripped from the walls.
Mark and Jason were at the bar, chugging Jack Daniels and punching each other between slugs, while Kyle and Julian sat on either side of Darius, flicking beer caps across the table. They were all covered with dried blood. The wolf's blood. Metallica blared from the boombox resting on the sideboard next to the door.
Suppressing his demon as the scent of blood filled his nostrils, Spike reached over and silenced the music. Five pairs of eyes looked up at him defiantly, four of them containing a glimmer of fear. Darius smirked as Spike held their gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the knife that lay on the edge of the table. He took a step forward, running his finger along its blood crusted surface, before picking it up for a closer look. *Silver. Isn't he the clever one?* Darius had planned the whole thing in advance, probably tampering with the van in order to ambush the wolf. *No, not the wolf. Oz. At least refer to the boy by name, you fucking wanker.*
Spike lowered the knife until it rested point down on the table. He idly scratched a pattern in the wood, still not saying anything. The minions shifted restlessly in the silence, glancing at each other uneasily. Slowly, Spike began walking toward Darius, dragging the knife along the table's surface as he went. The only sound was the scraping of metal against wood, until Spike broke the silence.
"Organize a little raiding party tonight, Darius?" he asked softly, his voice deceptively mild. He raised eyes that burned with blue fire, until they were locked on Darius.
The younger vampire stared back insolently, the wolf's blood giving him a false sense of security. Darius' arrogance almost amused Spike as the minion replied, "I thought it was time to make our move against the Slayer. We were tired of waiting."
"YOU thought. You seem to be under the misconception that what you think actually matters to me. Haven't you learned yet, Darius, exactly who is the Master here?" Ice cold, dangerous, Spike's expression never wavered.
Darius continued on, completely unaware of how imminent his death was. "We took a vote, Spike, and you're out. 'I' killed the werewolf, while all you've done is talk for the past two months. I'm taking over as Master."
Spike rocked the knife on its point, digging a small hole in the table. "And how do you propose to do that? Did you think that killing that boy tonight made you my equal? You arrogant little fuck, you have no idea who you're dealing with."
Darius stood. "I know that you're through here in Sunnydale. You're a joke, Spike...a has been..."
Out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw Jason make a move toward him. He hefted the knife in his left hand and threw it, embedding it in Jason's throat, then whirled and slammed a stake into Julian with his right. As the vampire turned to dust, Spike vaulted over the table and rushed Jason, grabbing the knife out of his throat. He drew back with all of his strength and sliced the blade cleanly through Jason's neck, severing his head. *Two down.* His duster billowed out behind him as he turned to face the other three.
Mark flew at him and Spike spun, catching the other vampire in the face with a perfectly timed kick. Dropping to his knees, he swept Mark's legs out from under him as Kyle grabbed him from behind. Spike threw his head back, connecting with Kyle's nose. He slipped free of the hold and swung around, slamming both fists into Kyle's face. Spike grabbed the minion's arm and twisted, hearing the satisfying crack of bone as it broke. He wrenched it once again, smiling as the radius jutted out from torn skin. *God, I love the smell of bloodshed in the morning.*
Darius and Mark circled him, both still cocky from the blood high. *Let's see what's behind door number two...* Spike reached into his pocket and let fly with a bottle of holy water, smashing it in Mark's face. The vampire screamed as flesh sizzled and burned, his eyes melting from the acid-like effect. Spike dodged a kick from Darius and withdrew another stake, plunging it into Mark's chest.
Kyle came at him, broken arm dangling by his side. Spike evaded him easily, then reached out and grabbed him by the hair. With an almost casual motion, he grasped Kyle's chin and twisted it, snapping the minion's neck. Dropping the body to the ground, Spike turned to face Darius, an evil grin lighting his human face as he shrugged out of the duster and tossed it on the table.
"Still think you've got what it takes?" he asked, slowly stalking toward his prey.
Darius backed up, grabbing a chair and flinging it at Spike, who avoided it easily. His demon was thoroughly enjoying itself, and it wanted to savor this last bit of violence.
He taunted Darius, wanting to keep the younger vampire off balance. "C'mon, Darius. Make your move... Let's see how big those wrinklies are..." He caught the telltale flicker in his opponent's eyes, and set himself, just before Darius rushed at him in anger.
Spike caught the minion as he slammed into him, knocking them both to the floor. He rolled, jabbing an elbow into Darius' face and forcing a knee into his crotch. Darius roared in pain and threw Spike off, struggling to his feet. They faced off again and Spike smirked as Darius slipped into game face, snarling with fury. Angelus' younger childe was rapidly losing control, while Spike remained entirely composed.
Darius spun and threw a kick at Spike's head, catching him by surprise. He recovered quickly, wiping at the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth. Spike licked the crimson fluid from his fingers, never taking his eyes from his adversary. He smiled, then slammed his fist into Darius' face.
"Have you figured it out yet?" he growled. "Do you know who you're dealing with?" Spike began driving Darius back toward the wall, backhanding him repeatedly.
Darius stumbled, and grabbed onto Spike's arm, stilling it momentarily. The younger vampire looked into Spike's eyes with a burning hatred. "Yeah, I know who I'm dealing with," he hissed. "The Slayer's new bitch..."
Spike froze, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the sneering face in front of him. Darius laughed at his surprise. "Did you think it was a big secret, you fucking the Slayer? How does it feel to get Angel's sloppy seconds?"
Spike's left hand shot out, wrapping itself around Darius' throat. He slammed the minion up against the wall and held him there, suspended above the floor. Spike growled menacingly, moving in close until their faces were almost touching. "Quite the little spy, aren't you, Darius? Always sneaking around..." He tightened his grip, feeling the the neck bones shift under his hand. "Doesn't matter now, though, does it?"
Darius struggled, clawing at Spike's hand. "Fuck you, Spike," he croaked. "The Slayer will end up dusting you, just like she did Angelus."
Spike smiled evilly. "Who do you think helped her, you stupid git? Did you really think that she killed them both by herself?" Darius' eyes widened as his larynx was crushed under Spike's fingers. "You know what, Darius? You're beginning to bore me...and I hate being bored."
Spike shifted into game face and tore open Darius' throat, drinking greedily as the blood flowed from the wound. He could taste the power of Oz's blood, still lingering in the minion's veins. His demon revelled in the savagery of the act, the potency of the werewolf's essence. *It's been so long since I've had a decent spot of violence...*
He ripped his fangs from the tattered flesh and looked at Darius in disgust. The vampire was barely alive, his eyes wide and staring. Spike let his demon wallow in the pain and fear emanating from the beaten minion. As a final humiliation, he planted a bloody kiss on Darius' mouth, snaking his tongue past swollen lips.
Spike pulled back, licking his lips as he grinned into his helpless victim's face. "Goodbye, Darius. Wish I could say it's been fun..."
He lifted Darius and heaved his body through the blackened set of windows on the eastern wall, hitting the floor as they shattered. The young vampire exploded into flame as soon as the sun's rays touched him, his near fledgling status making him more easily combustible.
Spike moved away from the light, his eyes drifting restlessly over the room. Spotting Kyle's still twitching form, he crawled through the shadows until he reached him, looking down with disinterest at the twisted around head. Spike watched as the the body squirmed in agony, trying desperately to heal itself. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up a stake and calmly drove it into Kyle's heart.
He grabbed a bottle of Jack from where it had fallen during the skirmish and made his way to the door, taking care to stay out of the sunlight streaming through the broken window. His fledglings were still there, staring in awe at his bloodstained appearance as he strode into the main hall. Spike looked at them with dead eyes, taking in their slack jaws and the fawning worship in their eyes. All he wanted was to be left alone, left to find some sort of drunken oblivion and forget that he'd ever met the Slayer.
In a cold voice, he said, "I'm not in the mood for company. I suggest you all retire for the day." Spike lifted the bottle to his lips and drank, relishing the burn as it went down. "As soon as the sun sets, I want you gone. All of you." He turned his back to them and threw himself on the couch, staring at the fire roaring in the fireplace.
The fledglings looked at each other, relief flooding their trembling bodies. They were eager to be away from the mansion, away from their strange Sire and his ever-changing moods. Far away, in light of his recent rampage. There were safer, more exciting places to be, like L.A., or San Francisco, and without the added pressures of the Hellmouth. Yeah, it was time to head for the big city and leave Sunnydale far behind.
Spike watched the fire, warmed by the flames that reminded him of the Slayer's heat. He chugged from the bottle, lost in thoughts of the tiny blonde who tormented his every waking moment. He wondered if he would ever be able to drive her from his mind, wondered if it would take a stake through the heart to remove her presence. He cursed the day that he'd arrived in this godforsaken town, the biggest mistake he'd ever made in his long, undead life.
Sunlight was finally streaming through the open blinds, bringing the seemingly endless night to a close. *Morning, thank god,* Buffy thought with relief. She shifted in the chair by Willow's bed, trying to get comfortable, wondering how Giles was doing out in the hall. He'd been in the room with them for most of the night and Buffy had finally sent him out to get some rest, reminding him that he was too old to be pulling all nighters. Giles hadn't been amused, but she caught the relief on his face as he'd left the room.
She groaned softly at the cramps in her arms and legs. Every part of her body ached with exhaustion, but sleep had been impossible as she'd fidgeted and paced all night. All she could see was Spike's face, the hurt in his eyes. The disbelief at her accusation.
What had she done? How could she have treated him that way? *Because he's a vampire...and vampires kill.* And she'd looked the other way for weeks, pretending not to notice his feeding habits. The guilt over that had never really gone away and Oz's death had only reinforced it.
Deep down, she hadn't really believed that Spike had killed
Oz. No, she'd merely projected her own feelings of remorse and self-castigation
onto him, to relieve the shame that she'd felt. Disturbed by the direction
that her thoughts were taking, Buffy pushed them away and turned her attention
to Willow.
The redhead was sitting up in the bed, staring blankly out the window. Her
face was a porcelain mask, completely devoid of any emotion. Buffy wondered
if it had been a good idea to let her go the entire night without a sedative.
She wouldn't have minded having one herself, to feel the sweet oblivion so
readily available with chemical assistance. There was something to be said
for leaving reality behind, especially when your reality was worse than most
people's nightmares.
Each time Willow had drifted off to sleep, she'd awakened mere moments later, screaming for Oz. The nurse on duty had tried desperately to sedate her, but her efforts only increased Willow's panic. The girl had been terrified that if she fell into a deep sleep, she'd be trapped inside her dreams, unable to claw her way out. Buffy and Giles had convinced the nurse that they would watch over her, and that they'd awaken her quickly so that she wouldn't disturb the other patients. By sunrise, they had both felt as if they'd experienced first hand every moment of horror that Willow had lived through.
As if sensing the Slayer's thoughts, Willow turned her head and looked at her. Or rather, 'through' her, with the same unfocused gaze that she'd had since arriving at the hospital. Buffy tried to smile reassuringly.
"Hey."
"Hey," came Willow's soft reply. Her eyes pulled into focus for a brief moment, allowing her to see Buffy's bedraggled state, see the large purple shadows rimming her eyes. Guilt and anger flared again, as she considered how much of a burden she'd been last night. Somehow, her resolve face managed to surface. "Buffy, you're going home right now and getting some sleep. Take Giles with you."
Buffy looked at her in surprise. "We said we wouldn't leave, and we're not going to," she answered, shaking her head. The motion made her dizzy and she moaned, bringing her hand up to press against her temple.
Willow's voice hardened. "You're going and that's final. You and Giles need rest, you're going to get sick if you keep on like this." Her face crumpled, unable to sustain its determined expression, and fresh tears began welling up. "Please, Buffy, I need for you to go. I don't want you to have to watch over me anymore."
Buffy started to protest, but Willow cut her off. "Xander and my parents are coming. I'll be fine until they get here." Her eyes found the window again. "It 'is' daylight, after all."
Buffy watched as Willow held out her hands, catching the rays as they spilled through the blinds. Her eyes narrowed as the other girl studied her hands in the light and Buffy knew that she was looking for bloodstains. Her heart constricted, guilt encompassing her once again.
"The sun is so warm," Willow murmured. "I didn't think it would ever get here." She was absently rubbing her hands together, frowning as she stared at them.
"Willow, are you sure you want me to go?" Buffy asked worriedly.
Willow dropped her hands and met Buffy's eyes squarely. "I'm sure."
Buffy hesitated, not wanting to add to Willow's distress, but unsure if she should be left alone. She searched the redhead's eyes, seeing the sudden clarity in them, and relented. "Okay, then. I'll go."
She stood and stretched, every muscle in her body screaming for a hot shower to soothe them. And afterward, she would slide between cool, freshly laundered sheets. The thought was almost too pleasurable to bear. She walked over to the bed and took Willow's hand in hers. "If you change your mind, or need me for anything, call me and I'll come right back."
The redhead gave her a weak smile. "Thanks, Buffy."
Buffy squeezed her hand once and headed for the door to tell Giles that she was leaving. Her hand was on the knob when Willow's voice stopped her.
"Buffy?"
Buffy turned, expecting Willow to ask her to stay. What she heard instead caught her by surprise.
"I remembered something else. Th-the vampire who..." Willow's voice cracked and she looked down for a moment before continuing. "He said that Spike was finished as Master. That it was time to take control..."
The blood drained from the Slayer's face as she looked up at the window, and the sunlight shining through. *Daylight...did something happen last night, after Oz?* And suddenly, Spike's face was all she could see, and she nearly choked on her next words. "Did he say anything else?" she asked hoarsely.
Willow's eyes were haunted as the vampire's words rang in her ears, making her relive last night all over again. She shook her head. "Just that they were going to kill you...because of Angel."
Buffy didn't care about that, all she cared about was making sure that Spike was all right. If the minions had banded together against him...*How many? God, how many are there?* The mansion, she had to go, had to see...
"I have to go, Willow...please tell Giles that I went home..." She grabbed her duffle bag from the floor and fled, not stopping as she ran past a sleeping Giles, curled up on the bench in the hall.
Willow twisted the blanket covering her lap, staring at her hands again, knowing that home would be the last place that the Slayer went to. "Be careful, Buffy," she whispered.
Buffy ran, exhaustion forgotten as fear gripped her entire being. Fear that Spike would be dead when she got there. *No, he can't be. He's strong...* Strong enough to take them all on? How many were there? She pushed her body beyond human endurance, forcing herself to run faster.
The memory of how they'd parted was taunting her, repeating itself in her head. How she'd backed away from him, the look in his eyes, the hurt tone in his voice- "You don't think I had anything to do with...?" Her failure to reassure him, to believe in him. The realization of how much she must have hurt him struck her like a slap in the face. *God, Spike...I'm so sorry... Please be okay...*
She made it to the mansion in record time. Bursting through the door, she never stopped to consider the possible danger to herself, or the folly of charging into a nest of vampires, armed with only a single stake.
"SPIKE!" she called out frantically. Her heart pounded as she waited for an answer. Nothing. Dropping her duffle bag on the floor, she started for the stairs, only to be halted by the sound of his voice, echoing in the main hall.
"Go. Away."
Buffy whirled around, spotting him sitting on the couch by the fire. "Spike!" Relief flooded her as she ran to him. "Thank god, you're all right! Willow said that..." She gasped as his blood streaked face came into view. "You're hurt!" she said, dropping her stake and taking his chin in her hand.
Spike jerked his head away from her touch. "It's not mine." His eyes were cold, empty as they stared into hers. "What do you care, anyway? I'm just another fucking monster, right?"
"Don't say that," she whispered.
"Why not? It's the bloody truth, isn't it?" His face dared her to deny it. "Doesn't matter how many times we've fucked, soon as someone ends up dead, I'm the first one you think of."
Buffy flinched at the bitterness in his voice, knowing that she deserved his anger. Her eyes were bleak as she answered him. "I can't help what I am, what I'm trained to be... anymore than you can help being a vampire."
Spike snorted. "Well, isn't that a bloody convenient excuse?"
Buffy noticed the nearly empty liquor bottle on the couch next to him. "You're drunk," she said flatly.
"Not as drunk as I'd like to be." He tilted the bottle and drained it. "Fuck, it's empty." He tossed it aside. Looking up, he glared at her. "Don't suppose you'd like to get me another? It's a bit sunny in the other room, or I'd do it myself."
Her eyes wandered over his bloodstained clothes, the rip in his shirt. "What happened, Spike?" she asked, ignoring his request.
"I took care of business, like I should have from the start." He looked down at his hands. "Got rid of Angel's by-blows, every last one of them."
"By yourself? How many?" She held her breath, waiting for his answer.
He raised his eyes until his gaze bored into her. "Five. Used to be six... Your friend must have taken one with him last night."
*Five... He killed five minions on his own?* She stared at
him in wonder. *If he can take out that many at once...* Had he been holding
back with her? Could he really have killed her that easily? She had the horrible
feeling that she'd underestimated him, a mistake that could have been fatal,
had the
circumstances been different. *But the circumstances 'were' different, when
he first got here. So why didn't he kill me then?*
"Spike..." She reached for him, stopping when he pulled away. His eyes were full of hurt and anger, glittering like chips of blue ice. Their coldness stung her flesh, as surely as if they'd touched her, and for the first time in their relationship, she felt a prickling of fear. Her body tensed as she watched him warily, realizing that he was nearly vibrating with fury.
She tried to apologize for hurting him. "Spike, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
Spike cut her off, saying quite deliberately, "If you're not going to get me another bottle, and you're not here to stake my fledglings in their beds, then... PISS. OFF." His lip curled into a cruel smirk. "Unless you're interested in a quick fuck?"
His crudeness startled her, bringing tears to her eyes, and Buffy blinked them back, wondering why she was so surprised at his behavior. Hadn't she thought the worst of him last night? Hadn't she seen him like this before, back in their mortal enemy days? Yes, she had. Had heard him say worse things, many times. But not in the last seven weeks. Not since they'd become lovers.
She didn't want it to end like this. It couldn't. Just the thought of being without him made her chest tighten with pain. Buffy struggled to find the words that could make him forgive her. "Please don't do this, Spike," she pleaded. "I know that I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I was upset last night, I didn't know what I was saying or thinking...or feeling. I wish that I could take it all back..." The tears fell in earnest as she desperately tried to make him understand how sorry she was.
Her words fell on deaf ears as Spike fought for control, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He wanted her gone, out of his sight, out of his fucking mind.
He lowered his head, feeling the anger roiling inside him, fueling the demon's bloodlust. It made him hungry, as though killing the minions had only been an appetizer. The blood rushing in her veins, her tears, the scent of her fear, all screamed 'prey' to him, letting the demon edge ever closer to the surface. If she didn't leave now...she never would. Not alive, anyway.
"Please, Spike...I love you..."
His head shot up with a snarl and Buffy gasped at the bloodthirsty look in his yellow eyes.
Through gritted teeth, he said, "You're not welcome here, Slayer, so unless you fancy finding out once and for all which of us is stronger, I suggest you leave. Now."
Her Slayer survival instinct kicked in and she slowly got up and backed away, retrieving her stake as she went. She gripped it with numb fingers, knowing that she'd never have the strength to fight him if he attacked.
He was growling as she continued moving to the door, keeping her eyes trained on his, fighting the pain that clawed at her heart. It was like Angelus all over again, only worse. Much worse. It felt like she was being ripped apart, piece by piece.
Picking up her duffle bag, she stopped at the door, looking at him with tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Spike," she whispered.
"GET OUT!" Spike roared, picking up the discarded bottle.
Buffy ran out the door, pulling it closed, just as he reared back and threw the bottle with all of his strength. She jumped as it shattered against the other side. Her knees buckled and she crumpled to the ground helplessly as fresh sobs tore from her throat. She wrapped her arms around herself and let the torrent flow, releasing all of the grief and anguish that had built up over the last twelve hours. Giant shudders racked her body as she lay there in the sun, freezing cold, in spite of its warmth.
"Spike," she whimpered, curling into a ball, just a few feet from the door.
Inside the mansion, listening to the Slayer's distress, Spike paced and growled, wanting to tear the door off its hinges and go after her. He was uncertain as to what he would do if he actually got his hands on her. Comfort her? Fuck her? Kill her? It was just as well that daylight prevented him from doing any of them. He clapped his hands over his ears and howled, trying to drown out the pitiful sounds coming from the other side of the door.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT THE BLOODY FUCK UP!" he screamed, hammering at the heavy door with his fist. His agitation grew with every murmur of his name from her lips and he prowled the room, looking for things to destroy.
The end table flew into the fireplace, lamps shattered against stone walls, chairs were picked up and smashed on the floor, but none of it helped. For the first time in his unlife, massive breakage failed to soothe him. After upending the couch and shredding the cushions with his claws, he stopped, suddenly aware of the silence outside. His body sagged with relief, finally free of the incessant crying.
Taking a last look around the room at the destruction, he slowly made his way upstairs, wondering in the back of his mind if he was losing it, like Dru had. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if he was- hell, it made sense, in light of his recent actions with the Slayer. *Don't think about her, think about how good it felt to kill again. To feel bones breaking and flesh tearing...to feel like a demon again.*
He stumbled into his room and fell on the bed, looking for the oblivion that he knew was sure to elude him. *Sleep, just let me fucking sleep...* He closed his eyes, knowing that there would be no escape from her, not even in his dreams. Moaning her name, he rolled over and slipped into the void, where visions of the Slayer waited to torment him.
Buffy heard the crashing and screaming from inside the mansion as she lay there, powerless to stop the flood of gasping sobs that poured out of her. Each sound Spike made was like a knife in her heart, filling her with a stabbing pain that left her paralyzed. The agony went on and on, making her withdraw further into herself, trying to shut out the sounds of Spike's fury. With every hammer of his fist, her body jerked as if it had been touched by an electric current, wringing desolate moans from deep within her throat.
Gradually, as her mind shut down in self preservation, the tears slowed and the convulsive shudders stopped. She rolled to her knees and began crawling away from the door, away from the frenzied destruction on the other side. When she could no longer hear him, she stood up and started heading for home, her feet automatically going in the right direction.
Buffy walked through the streets of Sunnydale in a daze, arriving on her front porch with no memory of how she'd gotten there. She went inside and somehow made it upstairs, her arms and legs growing heavier with each step. In the distance, she heard her mother's voice, but couldn't seem to open her mouth to answer. Everything was cold, numb...entirely dead.
In the sanctuary of her room, she climbed into bed without getting undressed and lay there staring at the ceiling, until sleep finally claimed her. She tossed and turned fitfully for the rest of the day and into the night, sometimes calling for Spike, sometimes Guillaume, never fully waking from the nightmares that plagued her. Nightmares in which she ran, searching for both loves, but was never in time to save either one.
Buffy awoke near dawn and lay there in the semi-darkness, feeling disoriented, hot and uncomfortable. She was groggy from too many hours of restless sleep, unable to lift her head from the pillow. Kicking the covers off, she stared down at her clothes with a puzzled frown. Why was she still dressed?
She had no memory of falling into bed. The last thing she remembered was...
Willow, hospital, and then... Spike.
Pain stabbed through her as she remembered their meeting at the mansion. His face filled her vision- the muscle in his cheek twitching with anger, his eyes glowing yellow with bloodlust. There had been no trace left of the tenderness- the humanity- that he'd shown her time and again over the last few weeks. From the things he'd said, and the sounds of destruction coming from within the mansion, it was obvious that anything he'd felt for her was dead. The love they'd shared had been wiped out in a single moment of hurt and distrust.
"Noooo..." she moaned, as tears began to fall anew. Over. It was over, just like that.
She wept quietly into her pillow, struggling to breathe past the ache in her chest and the lump in her throat. She'd failed. Failed as a Slayer, failed as a friend... Failed as a lover.
She could only imagine what Giles' reaction would be when he found out about her deception of the last few weeks. Disappointment? Anger? Contempt? She didn't even want to think about what it would do to her to lose Giles on top of everything else. At this point, there wasn't much more she could take.
The Hellmouth had worked its mojo on her life yet again, ripping it apart at the seams. Oz dead, Willow forever changed from the innocent girl she once was, and Spike...
Spike was a Slayer-hating demon once more, thanks to her colossal fuck up. A demon who felt betrayed. If he- *oh god*- If he decided to come after her, to hurt her the way that she had hurt him... This time around, there would be no promise of "I'll make it quick, it won't hurt a bit." No, this time...
She couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Couldn't deal with the thought of going back to being enemies, of trying to kill each other again. She didn't have it in her to stake him- not anymore. Didn't have the strength, or the intent. It was killing her now to even think about it. To think of plunging a stake through his heart, seeing him turn to dust...
Her mind rebelled at the image, so she stopped. Stopped thinking, stopped feeling.
Forcing him from her mind, she let herself go numb, just as she had outside the mansion. *No wonder Willow tuned out, it's better than feeling...feeling like this...*
Lying there in the dim light, Buffy concentrated on calming down, pretending that she was in one of Giles' Zen training sessions. Slowing her breathing so that it didn't feel like she was suffocating. Letting all of her muscles go limp, forcing the tension from her body. Drawing on the same reserve of Slayer strength that allowed her to fight automatically without thinking. Everything around her reduced to white noise, until she finally got a grip on her emotions.
When her body had completely relaxed, Buffy turned and looked at the clock beside the bed. *Five o'clock- AM, or PM? How long was I sleeping?* An urgent need to urinate answered her question and she winced at the painful weight of her bladder pressing against her side.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, pausing as a wave of dizziness rolled over her. When the room stopped spinning, she shakily stumbled into the bathroom and relieved herself. She wanted a shower, but didn't think that she had the strength to stand for that long. *I can at least brush my teeth, wash my face. Getting rid of morning breath shouldn't take too much effort.*
Buffy stood and stared into the mirror, gripping the sink like a lifeline. The face that stared back at her was scarier than any monster the Hellmouth could spit out. She was as white as a sheet, her eyes sunken and rimmed with deep purple shadows. *That can't be me. God, Cordelia would have a field day if she saw me looking like this.*
She picked up her toothbrush and applied the paste with shaking hands, then raised it to her mouth. The clean, minty flavor of the toothpaste made her mouth tingle and she brushed harder, trying to remove the film that had built up over the last thirty-six hours.
Suddenly she was gagging, the toothbrush falling into the sink with a clatter as bile flooded her mouth. She turned, leaning over the toilet just in time for it to catch the meager contents of her stomach that spewed forth into the bowl.
Clinging to the rim helplessly, Buffy watched as remnants of the stale donut and diet coke she'd consumed at the hospital splashed into the water. Her stomach continued to heave long after it was empty, the painful spasms causing tears to leak from her eyes again.
She'd always hated throwing up, hated the way her entire body strained with the effort, as if all of her internal organs were being forced out as well. It felt like that now, felt like her body was trying to purge itself of everything inside it.
After what seemed like an eternity, the retching ceased and she collapsed on the floor, trembling violently. Sweat dotted her forehead and beaded on her upper lip as she rested her head against the cool rim of the bowl, waiting for the shaking to subside.
"Buffy?" came her mother's worried voice from the other side of the door. "Honey, are you all right?"
"No," Buffy croaked out weakly. *I'm not all right, I want to die.*
Joyce opened the door and rushed to her daughter's side. "Oh sweetie, look at you." She brushed Buffy's hair off of her face and felt her forehead. "You don't have a fever," she said, letting the back of her hand caress her daughter's cheek.
Grabbing a washcloth from the vanity, she soaked it with cool water, then filled a glass from the sink. Turning back to Buffy, Joyce dabbed at her face with the cold compress.
"Better?" She gave her a sip of water, smoothing her hair back in a comforting gesture. "Let's get you back into bed, okay? I'll bring you some ginger ale."
Buffy nodded listlessly and leaned on her mother as she struggled to stand. She felt weak and exhausted, both physically and mentally. Letting Joyce lead her out of the bathroom, she wondered if things could possibly get worse, then berated herself for even daring to think it. Things could always get worse on the Hellmouth, it was practically a given.
Joyce was talking as she helped Buffy to her room, more to herself than to her daughter. "I knew this was bound to happen- running around with your friends almost every night, not eating properly- I'm sure your father had you galavanting all over L.A. doing god knows what... And now poor Oz and Willow, attacked by that gang..."
Once in the room, Joyce efficiently got Buffy undressed and into a clean nightshirt, settling her back into bed. She sat on the edge for a moment, holding her daughter's hand. "Poor baby. I know how much you hate being sick," she said, stroking Buffy's hair.
"Mommy, it hurts," Buffy whimpered, curling into a fetal position. At that moment, she wasn't sure whether she was talking about her stomach, or her heart. Both ached more than she thought humanly possible.
Joyce murmured a few more words of comfort, then left to get the promised ginger ale and a bowl, in case Buffy got sick again. As the door slid shut behind her, Buffy closed her eyes and prayed for the nausea to pass, tears slipping down her cheeks. She wanted Spike, wanted everything back the way it was- Oz alive, Willow happy- just wanted to rewind the past forty-eight hours. *If only the Hellmouth had a time machine...*
Her mind was filled with 'if onlys'. If only she'd gone to the Bronze with Oz and Willow. If only she hadn't blamed Spike for Oz's death. If only Spike had killed Angel's fledglings two months ago. If only... If only she didn't feel like she wanted to die...
The next few days passed by for Buffy in a blur of sleep and nausea. Joyce hovered and fussed over her, trying in vain to get her to see a doctor, but Buffy flatly refused, insisting that all she needed was rest. She had stressed her body past its breaking point and it would just take time for her to feel like her old self again.
At least, that was what she told herself. Deep down, she wondered if she'd ever feel right again. If she'd ever get over losing Spike. Ever get over missing him every minute of the day.
Every time she thought about it, the tears would start and she'd curse herself for being so weak. Willow had it much worse than she did. At least Spike wasn't dead- 'really' dead- and gone forever. Buffy had to admit that she'd rather have him safe and hating her than to imagine never seeing him again. She didn't know how Willow managed to get through each day.
Willow. As soon as she'd heard that Buffy was sick, she'd rushed over to keep her company, bringing magazines, videos and boardgames. Buffy had been surprised and touched when she had first shown up, knowing that part of Willow still blamed her for Oz's death. She had assumed that Willow would want to shut herself off from the world for awhile, burrow down deep into someplace safe and familiar.
Truthfully, Willow was desperate to escape her house and Sheila's amateur psychoanalysis. If she heard the phrases "get in touch with your grief" or "embrace the pain" one more time...
It made Willow burn with anger that her mother, who hadn't even bothered to get to know Oz when he was alive, now presumed to understand the depth of her agony. She knew that if she didn't make herself scarse, she'd say something that she'd only end up regretting. And anyway, Buffy's room 'was' someplace familiar...someplace safe and warm. A shelter from the evil that permeated the streets of Sunnydale, just as Buffy herself represented protection from that very same evil.
The two girls cocooned themselves in Buffy's bedroom, creating a safe haven from the outside world. Xander had wanted to join them, but after hearing detailed descriptions of Buffy's yakking, he'd quickly come up with several excuses as to why he couldn't. Which was exactly the way Buffy and Willow wanted it. Xander would never understand how they felt, would never understand their need for isolation.
By silent agreement they avoided talking about Spike and Oz, not wanting to start another flood of tears and anguish. Instead, they busied themselves between Buffy's bouts of nausea with the videos and games, talking about meaningless television shows and the latest fashions at the mall, or playing "Guess what Snyder does when no one's looking?".
Trying not to think, trying not to feel. Trying to hide in broad daylight from the sorrow that refused to ease its vice-like grip.
They were successful at hiding during the day, when they had each other to lean on. At night...
At night they were alone with their memories, always too vivid, allowing no escape. Willow's parents had insisted that she be home before dark each evening and they hadn't budged an inch when she'd begged to be allowed to stay at Buffy's house. Buffy was too ill to go to the Rosenberg's and so both girls were left to deal with their respective nightmares on their own.
Their silent refusal to speak about Spike and Oz meant that neither girl confided in the other, keeping the terror bottled up inside them, instead of letting it out.
Willow was haunted by visions of that horrible night. Tormented by dreams in which Oz screamed for her to help him, his eyes accusing her of letting him die. Powerless to do anything but look on helplessly as he called her name again and again. Staring at the knife in her hand, covered in blood- his blood- that poured over her fingers, her hand, her arm. His blood flowing out of the wounds into the street while she stood there and watched, until it become a crimson tide, sweeping her farther and farther away from his body.
She always woke up scrubbing at her arms to try to remove the blood that she was certain she would find drying on her skin. The shower worked overtime and her flesh was nearly raw from the scouring she subjected it to several times a night, like Lady Macbeth trying to remove her stain of guilt. Her stain of cowardice.
Soap, hot water, scrubbing brush, loofah- all were unsuccessful and she was left with a feeling of failure on top of everything else.
Buffy's nights held a different sort of torture. Her dreams were filled with images of Spike holding her, kissing her, making love to her. His husky voice telling her how good she felt- how tight, how wet- as he gently slid inside her. The feeling of complete and utter contentment as he filled her.
She could feel his cock thicken as he began thrusting with steady, even strokes. Gloriously hard, rubbing against her walls, swelling, stretching her... Until he became too large...
The friction growing painful as he started pounding deeper, harder... Hurting her...
"Spike!"
Looking up into yellow eyes burning with hatred, hearing him snarl, "You promised you'd never leave..."
Punishing her- tearing her- relentless in his thrusting.
Buffy sobbing wildly as the pain grew unbearable, feeling the blood running down her thighs, the awful pain... Her cries going unheeded as she pleaded with him to stop.
"Please...Spike! No, don't, please...!"
"You should have trusted me, Slayer..." His fangs descending toward her throat, not as an act of pleasure, but as the ultimate destruction of their love.
The destruction of her.
She awoke before dawn each morning, hands around her throat, her heart thudding against her ribcage, just managing to choke back the scream that threatened to wake her mother. Her face was always wet with tears and her hands would hurry to her thighs, expecting to find them coated with blood. Pain radiated from her groin, making her afraid to touch any higher for fear of finding the torn flesh between her legs.
Buffy didn't know what was happening to her. She thought that her nightmares about Angelus had felt real, but they were nothing compared to these. Something was different- 'she' was different. Whether it was Spike's feeding from her, or the strange connection to Anne and Guillaume, she didn't know. But she felt it, a real physical change from deep within.
And it scared her like nothing else ever had.
Oz's funeral was held a week after his death, delayed by the start of a half-assed investigation by the Sunnydale police department. The sun shone brightly in the California sky, like any other typical day, denying the presence of evil the way the citizens of the town did on a regular basis.
Buffy managed to get control of her stomach long enough to attend the funeral. She stood by Willow's side, gripping her left hand while Xander had hold of her right. All three held each other tightly through the graveside service, surrounded by a large number of students from the high school. Despite his quiet nature, Oz had been well-liked by members of all of Sunnydale High's cliques, and they had turned out in droves to say goodbye to the werewolf.
Giles stayed in the background in deference to Joyce, but Buffy felt his presence like a strong arm across her back. She knew that he was worried about her health, but her mother's hovering had kept their contact to a minimum. Still, he was able to convey his concern with his eyes, and just knowing that he was there with them gave both girls the strength they needed to get through the day.
As Oz's casket was lowered into the waiting earth, Willow looked over at Devon. He had been silent the entire time, staring into space as if the entire thing was a drug-induced dream.
Willow wondered if her face mirrored his- that haunted, lost look. She knew that Oz had been the only person that Devon had cared about, the one constant in a town filled with strangeness. With Oz gone, Devon felt adrift, floundering without his touchstone. Xander had told her that rumors were already flying about Devon's constant need for narcotic oblivion. It made her feel fortunate that she had Buffy, Xander, Giles, and yes, even Cordelia, to keep her from coming completely apart.
The sound of Oz's mother weeping brought Willow's focus back to the coffin in front of her. Her body trembled uncontrollably as she watched his parents drop flowers into the grave, knowing that it was almost time to say goodbye... Time to let him go.
She let Buffy and Xander lead her toward the hole in the ground, barely feeling the funeral director press a rose into her hand. All the while thinking that it wasn't happening, it wasn't real.
This was the Hellmouth, couldn't he just come back? Wasn't there a spell, a curse, something- anything?
The rose fell from her fingers and she could feel the scream of denial building in the back of her throat, feel her control starting to slip...
Knowing instinctively what was happening, Xander let go of Cordelia's hand and pulled Willow's shaking body into his arms. She buried her face against his chest, muffling the tiny whimpers and sobs that spilled out of her. Xander carefully moved her away from Oz's grave as the rest of the mourners filed past to say their goodbyes.
Buffy gently rubbed Willow's back and Cordelia copied her movements on Xander's, careful to stay linked together as they stood there in the hot sun. Afraid that breaking contact meant breaking down.
Giles watched them from a distance, wishing that he could give and receive comfort from the group as well. He felt powerless against the evil that threatened to destroy them at every turn and looking at Willow, he wanted nothing more than to carry her away from all of the sorrow and madness of Sunnydale. And he hated himself for even thinking it- for wanting to be with her here and now- of all places.
He closed his eyes against the bright sun and prayed that this was the last nightmare that they would have to endure, knowing in his heart that it was a fool's prayer at best.
Spike stumbled down the stairs, a bottle of Cuervo clenched tightly in his fist. He nearly slipped off of the steps, then grabbed the railing and righted himself, both he and the bottle making it to the bottom unscathed. That hadn't been the case two days ago, when he'd tumbled headfirst down the garden stairway, almost cracking his skull in the process. Drunken oblivion sometimes came with a price- he was just grateful that he hadn't landed on a stray tree branch.
The sight that greeted him in the main hall made him tip the bottle and chug half of the contents without taking a breather. The mansion was still a bloody mess, broken furniture and glass shards scattered everywhere. Not that he gave a fuck one way or the other. If he ever sobered up, maybe he'd clean it; until then, it was just as easy to kick the stuff out of his way.
He'd gone through the mansion's liquor supply that first night, and actually slept for most of the following day. It had been tortured sleep, filled with too many memories and nightmares, but sleep just the same. And he'd felt calmer when he awoke, despite his pounding head. The blind, murderous rage had been gone, replaced with far too many irritating emotions, all of them revolving around the Slayer and the aching hole in the middle of his chest.
Waking up sober had been enough to drive him out of the house in search of more booze. He needed something- anything- to dull the bloody, buggery pain in both his head and his heart, and he'd figured that several hundred bottles of tequila just might do the trick.
Sunnydale Wines and Spirits was close by and had just what he needed. The place had been empty of customers, so Spike walked right in and placed his order. A glimpse of his true face had the liquor store owner scrambling to comply with his demands and he'd even been generous enough to donate several pints of O neg, in addition to the cases of Cuervo that Spike took off his hands.
Nothing like a good old fashioned kill to ease his pain and make him feel all manly again, right? Wrong.
He'd been incapable of draining the man. As he'd fed, the Slayer's face kept flashing behind his closed eyelids and he'd dropped his victim to the floor unconscious, but alive. With a roar of anger, he'd grabbed an extra case of J.D. and left, shattering the door with his fist on the way out.
So now he had an adequate supply of liquor, but no pride to speak of. He was less than a vampire- neither demon nor man- just another Buffy-whipped sap, like Angelus. He might as well have a soul for all of the drunken brooding he'd done in the last few days.
And the worst part was... He missed her. Missed her more than he'd ever thought possible, missed her more than Drusilla, even. How bloody fucked up was that? That the loss of a human- the Slayer, no less- affected him more than the loss of a woman he'd loved for over a hundred years.
Running his hand over his face, Spike made his way to the portable stereo he'd found in Mark's room. There was only one cd that he was capable of listening to at the moment- Nine Inch Nails' The Downward Spiral. The music of pain. He'd already played it numerous times in the last few days, but he needed to hear it again, like some perverse form of torture. He set the cd player so that it would loop one song continuously, and pressed play.
As the steady, pounding beat of Eraser filled the room, he grabbed another bottle and flopped down on the torn couch, propping his feet up on the arm. Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts drift as the music built to a crescendo, knowing it was useless to resist the direction in which they headed. No matter how piss drunk he managed to get, she still haunted him...
Need you
Dream you
Need. He'd sworn after Drusilla that he'd never need anyone again and now look at him. Dru's ashes had barely dissipated and there he was, firmly ensconced in another woman's bed. And now he needed the Slayer with an intensity that shocked him to the core. Needed her softness beneath him, her warmth around him. Needed her fighting him, needed her loving him. Needed her blood filling his mouth...
Find you
Taste you
He longed for the taste of her on his tongue. Her delicious mouth- like ripe berries, sweet enough to make him forget his own name. Her golden skin- salty with sweat after a fierce round of lovemaking. The nectar between her thighs- flowing like the purest honey, just for him. Her blood- intoxicating, addicting, making his undead heart sing with new life.
He wanted to drink from every part of her, drown in her... Just sink inside her until he disappeared...
Fuck you
Use you
In the beginning he'd thought that it was just sex, that it was the novelty of fucking someone warm and alive. They were only using each other to forget Angel and Dru. To keep from feeling alone.
He'd been certain that every time she closed her eyes she imagined that it was Angel touching her, until she'd looked him in the eye and assured him it wasn't so. He remembered how it felt to get lost in those eyes, the way his heart had seemed to soar when she'd told him she loved him.
How had just fucking turned to love so quickly? And it had been love, hadn't it? Even though he'd never said the words, he'd felt them. Still did, no matter what had passed between them.
But did she still love him? Could she, after she'd seen his rage, his bloodlust?
Scar you
Break you
He'd nearly killed her. Had almost been able to taste her blood in his mouth. He hadn't laid a hand on her, but he'd been seconds away from tearing out her throat. And it scared the shit out of him, the ease with which it could have happened. If he'd been able to follow her outside...
She wouldn't have fought him, he was certain of it. She'd been too frightened, too upset. And it would have been like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He honestly hadn't known if he would have been able to control the demon. Not then.
The violent encounter with Angel's fledglings had given his demon the death and destruction it hungered for, and after being denied for so long, it reveled in the surge of power. It had fed on his hurt and anger, magnifying the rage ignited by the Slayer's lack of faith in him until he was nearly consumed by it. It had been worse than anything he'd felt while in the wheelchair. Helplessly forced to watch as Angelus and Drusilla writhed all over each other time and time again.
Lose me
Hate me
Spike drained the bottle and let it drop, hearing it smash against the marble floor. Figuring that there was another one stashed under the couch, he reached down and began feeling around for it, barely noticing the tiny slivers of glass that pierced his skin. His fingertips brushed across a smooth surface and it rolled away, making him growl in frustration. He stretched his arm further, snagging the neck of the bottle and hurriedly brought it out of hiding.
Wrenching the cap off, he lifted the opening to his lips and swallowed convulsively, letting a few drops dribble down his chin. His nostrils flared at the odor of blood and he raised his hand, blearily staring at the crimson trails dripping down his wrist.
Spike licked at the blood, idly wondering why he didn't feel any pain from the cuts. The tequila was having a numbing effect on his extremities, like novocaine, but so far had done nothing to stop the agony in his heart or his head. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and lay his head back once again, one arm flung across his eyes as he rested the bottle on his stomach.
The massive amounts of alcohol had helped to subdue the demon, and now that Spike was calm again, he was filled with disgust at his lack of control. He'd driven away- perhaps for good- the one pure and decent thing in his unlife. He was a bloody fool, and worse than that, he was alone again. Completely and utterly alone.
She had to fear him now, or at least fear what he was capable of. Christ, even 'he' had been afraid of what he might do. An hour old fledgling had more restraint than he'd shown that day. All he had to do was look at the mess surrounding him to be reminded of his tantrum.
Master-fucking-vampire- yeah, right. He wasn't even master of his own fucking domain.
Smash me
Erase me
His behavior of the last few weeks galled him. Galled the demon, anyway. Becoming a slave to his lust, eschewing everything that made a vampire what he was. His involvement with the Slayer had nearly erased him, made William the Bloody almost unrecognizable.
No wonder the minions had rebelled. He hadn't been fit to lead them in that state. Hadn't been fit to do anything but moon over the Slayer, to chase after pussy like a sex-starved teenager. Christ.
And yet...
Trent Reznor's anguished screeching filled his head, echoing the torment roiling inside him. He wanted the Slayer, needed her to fill the emptiness in his heart. Wanted to bury himself inside her, to fuck her into the ground. Wanted to lose himself in her sweetness, forget for a moment every bit of pain in his tortured existence. He wanted...
The demon wanted control again. Wanted blood, wanted death, wanted to wallow in the Slayer's fear. Wanted to build an empire loyal only to him, to hold Sunnydale in a grip of terror. To know that he was the most frightening monster on the Hellmouth, that he made others tremble before him. The demon wanted what he'd had in those early days with Angelus and Drusilla, when all of Europe had cowered in dread.
He was being torn apart by his conflicting natures, and now he didn't even have the calming presence of the Slayer to pacify him. Was he a freak of the undead? An aberration, with all of these bloody feelings? He wanted... He wanted...
He wanted fucking oblivion. Was it so much to ask?
After the funeral, Willow had dutifully gone to the Bronze with the rest of the mourners, where everyone sat around and reminisced about Oz and the good times they'd all had together. Management had provided an open soft drink bar and a recording of one of the band's performances played in the background while Oz's guitar sat propped up on stage, surrounded by flowers and stuffed animals. Several sets of parents had even dropped by, curious about the place where their children spent so many nights. In spite of being a lovely tribute to the werewolf, it was awkward and painful, and Willow had wanted to be anywhere else but there.
Devon had shown up obviously wrecked on something, and the rest of the band snuck alcohol into their drinks in an attempt to catch up. They stayed huddled in a corner, accepting comforting pats on the back, but otherwise ignoring the chatter around them. Every so often, a giggle would escape from Devon's expressionless face, weirding out anyone within hearing distance.
Willow sat silently, lost in her own memories, as everyone talked around her. Memories of his sweet face smiling at her from the stage. That exasperated look that he'd get, rolling his eyes as Devon postured next to him. The way his green eyes would glow as they stared into hers, so serious, before he kissed her. That last dance, their bodies perfectly aligned, holding each other so tight... Holding each other...
She was gasping for air, the pain in her chest unbearable. A rushing sound filled her ears and everything receded, as if she were underwater. She could see Buffy and Xander's concerned faces, see their lips moving as they asked if she was all right.
Willow shook her head, stumbling to her feet. "I- I have to go... I can't..." She pushed past her friends, tears blinding her as she ran for the door.
Xander made a move to go after her but Buffy held him back, saying, "Let her go, Xander. I don't think she wants us right now."
He started to protest, but backed down, realizing that Buffy was right and Willow needed to be alone. It was daylight anyway, so at least she'd be safe from harm for the time being. They could always go look for her later, before dark.
Like a swimmer breaking the surface, Willow took huge gulps of air as she emerged from the dark club into the bright sunlight. She braced herself against the wall, letting the choking sobs escape, wondering if the pain would ever stop. It had to stop sometime, didn't it? *Please, God...let it stop...*
Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she started walking, not really caring where she went, just letting her feet guide her. All around her, people went about their business as if it was a normal day, as if they hadn't just buried her boyfriend, who'd been murdered by vampires.
She was sick of Sunnydale, sick of everyone pretending that it was a normal town like any other. But could she blame them? Was it so long ago that she was just as ignorant about the Hellmouth and everything that went with it? She longed for those happy, carefree days, when her biggest problem was getting snubbed by Cordelia. When vampires were fictional creatures in books and movies, not part of everyday life.
As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she immediately regretted it. She wouldn't trade her time with Oz for anything, nor would she wish away her friendship with Buffy. Without Buffy, she'd probably be dead or a vampire herself, and without Oz, she never would have known what it was like to be able to openly love someone and to feel loved in return. Before him, all she'd known were her unrequited feelings for Xander and the frustration that went with them.
Willow walked aimlessly through the familiar streets, not sure where her feet would take her. It didn't matter, really, she just hadn't been able to stand being in the Bronze for one moment longer. Everywhere she'd looked, she'd seen Oz's face, could even hear his voice in her ear- low, warm and familiar. Escape had been her only option, or before long she would have been giggling in the corner with Devon, seeing and hearing things that weren't there.
Coming out of her daze, Willow looked up at the street sign to get her bearings. Crawford Street, hadn't Buffy said something about the mansion being down here? There were only a few houses, sprawling estates on several hundred acres. Sunnydale's creme de la creme, except for the vampires. Suddenly, Willow knew what she had to do. She needed closure of some kind, needed to see Spike- for several reasons. The thought should have frightened her, going into a vampire's lair, alone and unarmed. It didn't though. She was beyond feeling much of anything at this point. Maybe after seeing Spike she'd be able to start healing. She wandered up the street, spotting the correct house with little trouble. It had an abandoned look, with overgrown shrubbery, and Willow remembered that it also had a history- some silent film star had supposedly died there under suspicious circumstances. The usual haunted mansion rumors circulated every few years, and whoever rented the place never stayed for very long. *It must have seemed like the perfect place after the factory burned down. It certainly looks the part.*
Willow made her way to the door, glancing up once at the late afternoon sun. She knew that Buffy and Xander would be looking for her soon, and she really didn't want them to worry. Hand on the doorknob, she determinedly twisted it and stepped inside, her eyes trying to adjust to the gloom that greeted her. She closed the door, wondering as she did if she'd really lost her mind this time.
Her footsteps echoed in the large room and the pounding of her heart let her know that at least a part of her was frightened. Unfortunately, that part of her wasn't in charge at the moment. She walked farther into the room, stepping carefully over the destroyed furniture, hearing the crunching of glass under her feet. Buffy hadn't said much about the last time she'd seen Spike, but it was obvious that he'd been in a rage. Again, Willow questioned her sanity for being there.
"Well, isn't this a surprise?"
Willow whirled around to find Spike standing in one of the doorways, a liquor bottle dangling from his hand. "Spike..."
He sauntered toward her, taking a drink as he advanced. Willow looked up at him defiantly, forcing herself not to show fear. She wondered if he could smell it, if just the aroma was enough to make him hungry.
"A visitor, how nice. I get so few of them these days...other than the occasional Jehovah's Witness." He shook his head. "Funny, you're the last person I ever expected to show up here. If you've come to deliver a message from the Slayer..."
"Buffy doesn't know I'm here. I doubt that she'd be happy about it, she's not..." Willow paused, unsure of what to tell him.
"Well, we wouldn't want to get you in trouble now, would we? Why don't you just run along, then," he said, shooing at her with his hand. He couldn't believe that the mousy little thing was standing in his house, showing no fear except for the slight trembling of her body.
"I'll go in a minute. I just...I wanted to see you. I have something to say to you."
Spike's eyebrow quirked. "Come to beard the lion in his den, pet?"
Willow's eyes got a faraway look as she murmured, "Something like that."
Turning her gaze back to him, she noticed that he was frowning. He looked almost...concerned. Telling herself that she was being silly, she tried to figure out what she was actually doing there. What had seemed like a good idea at the time, now seemed incredibly foolish with Spike standing right in front of her.
Spike studied the girl as she stood there, her hands twisting together nervously. She looked different from what he remembered. Her eyes were dull- lifeless- and her face had none of the innocent glow that had always been apparent. Losing the wolf must have been hard on her, he mused.
As if reading his mind, Willow spoke. "We buried Oz today." Her voice was husky, but matter-of-fact.
Automatically, he said, "I'm sorry, luv," and looked down at the floor. She made him uncomfortable- a reminder of both the Slayer and his failure to control the minions. A reminder of everything he'd been trying to avoid thinking about, all of the emotions that were almost constantly plaguing him.
"I was out walking and I just...found myself here. And I wanted... I wanted to thank you."
Spike's head jerked up at her words, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Christ, what are you bloody talking about? Thank me? Are you fucking mad?" he blurted.
Willow shook her head. "No. I know exactly what I'm saying. Buffy told me that you killed them. All of them. I wanted to thank you for that."
Spike barked out a laugh. "Listen, pet," he said, dragging a hand through his hair. "I didn't kill them for you, get it? I did it because they were insolent, because they were loyal to Angelus. Don't make me out to be some sort of bloody hero. I was cleaning up a mess that should have been taken care of months ago." He was beginning to wonder if this was all just another alcohol-ridden dream, like so many others he'd had over the past few days.
"I know that your reasons had nothing to do with me. I'm just glad that they're dead. Maybe...maybe Oz will rest easier knowing that they're gone for good." She looked up at him with hope in her eyes. "Did you make them hurt? Was it...was it painful?"
He gave her a humorless smile. "Yeah. I made it hurt." He shook his head and took another swig from the bottle.
"Good." Willow looked around at the destruction in the room, then took in his drunken, disheveled appearance. She wrestled with herself for a moment before making a decision. "Buffy's sick. Today was the first time she's left her house all week."
"Sick, is she-?" Spike stopped himself before he asked anything else. He tried to hide his concern, but it was there, in his eyes. *The Slayer... How ill? Is she all right?* Forcing himself to sound casual he said, "Yeah, well...it's nothing to do with me anymore. I'm sure she'll be fine. Slayer healing powers, and all that."
Willow nodded, satisfied that he still cared, despite his attempt to deny it. "I'm sure she will. Forget I said anything, I'll just be going now." She turned to go, only to be stopped by his voice just a few feet from the door.
"Hey, Red?" When Willow looked back over her shoulder, he continued. "I am sorry about Oz. Sorry I didn't kill them when I should have."
"Thanks," she whispered, meeting his eyes briefly in understanding before slipping out the door.
Spike stood there, his mind filled with worry for the Slayer, wondering if she was ill because of what had happened between them. His hands clenched into fists, game face flickering as he fought to regain control of his emotions.
It was over between them. She wasn't his concern any longer, no matter what the redhead had told him. He didn't need her, didn't need anyone but Jose to keep him company. They were better off alone- him, Jose and the demon. The Three Caballeros.
Spike snorted, taking another swig. *Too bloody right.*
Willow stepped out into the waning light and took a deep breath. She felt a little better for having seen Spike and it helped to know that Oz's murderers had suffered. It was a small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless.
She wondered if she should have told him about Buffy's illness. He obviously still cared, even though she was certain he wouldn't be rushing to the Slayer's side. They were both devastated by their breakup, though, which meant that there was always hope for a reconciliation.
Willow hoped that they'd get past the hurt. She couldn't help but think that it was stupid for two people in love to be apart. They were both alive- in a matter of speaking- and that was all that mattered. It was foolish to waste whatever time they had, and maybe they would come to realize it, if they stopped being so stubborn. She knew that she'd give anything to have Oz back with her... If he were alive she'd do anything, say anything...forgive anything, just to be able to hold him again.
Anything.
Casting a glance at the darkening sky, she quickened her step. The last thing she needed was to have worried friends and parents converging on her today of all days. With her mission accomplished, all she wanted to do was go home and pull the covers over her head- try to achieve complete solitude in which to mourn Oz and the love that she'd buried with him.
In the days that followed Oz's funeral, Buffy slowly regained some of her strength. She was still tired, and still plagued by bouts of nausea, but the latter were coming less frequently, making it easier to leave the house. She and Willow had started going on short trips to the mall and the library, returning home exhausted but exhilarated by their independence. Like newborn colts trying to stand on shaking legs, they stayed out longer each day, testing themselves, carefully avoiding any particular place that held too many memories. Gradually easing away from the tight circle they'd created, learning to stand on their own once again.
Buffy wanted desperately to stop feeling weak, to resume her slaying duties. Giles and Xander patrolled in her stead, reporting back that everything seemed calm for the time being. She knew that it was Spike's doing, with his dusting of the minions, but she also knew that it wouldn't last. There were other plenty of other demons besides vampires, and they all considered the Hellmouth to be the ideal vacation spot. She needed to get back to her regular routine soon, before word got out that the Slayer was incapacitated.
Spike still occupied her thoughts nearly every waking moment. Buffy toyed with the idea of going to the mansion again, but the memory of their last encounter always prevented her from following through. He'd made it abundantly clear that he couldn't stand the sight of her, and having to see that look in his eyes again would only tear her apart. It was bad enough to have to relive it in her dreams; she didn't need it invading her reality as well. Her heart ached right along with her body, but she was mending. Slowly, but surely, the old Buffy was coming back- needling Giles over the phone, trading quips with Xander- on the surface, anyway, some of her spark was still there. But at night, when she no longer needed to keep up the pretense, she cried herself to sleep, sobbing Spike's name into her pillow. Her longing for him was as sharp as a knife wound, stinging and insistent, cutting into every part of her being, never leaving her alone for a second.
She tossed and turned fitfully each night, plagued by the dreams that alternated between happy memories of Spike and images of death and violence. Now and then she'd see visions of Anne and Guillaume, but they were no longer clear, just brief flashes viewed as if through gauze, words and phrases without any meaning.
In that space between waking and dreaming, she was certain that she could hear Spike's voice in her ear- that rich, sexy timbre that always caused a tingling in her belly. Hear him whisper her name, hear him growl with lust. And she always reached out for him, feeling a brief surge of joy as the last two weeks faded away like a passing nightmare, only to collapse in despair when realization struck. His voice was an illusion, and that which she had hoped was a dream was in actuality the cold, hard truth...
Her bed was empty. And so was her heart.
Willow opened the balcony doors and stepped out into the cool, night air, casting a backward glance at her bed, and the body-shaped lump beneath the covers. Her parents had finally stopped checking on her during the night, but just in case, she figured it would fool them at a glance. It had to, because she couldn't resist the call of the moon even if she'd wanted to. It drifted between the clouds- barely visible- but there nonetheless.
Her nighttime restlessness had started on the evening of Oz's funeral, the night of the full moon. She'd stood on her balcony and stared up at the glowing orb, feeling its pull as surely as he would have, held in its thrall like one of the Hellmouth's night creatures. Under its power, she'd been overtaken by an inexplicable urge to strip naked and run off into the dark, to feel the grass and earth beneath her feet, the fragrant air moving over her skin. She had wanted desperately to be out there, consumed by the dark, swallowed by the cacophony of night sounds.
For three nights she gazed longingly into the inky blackness surrounding the house. For three nights she lay in bed pretending to be asleep each time one of her parents came in to check on her. For three nights she felt like a caged animal, trapped by invisible bars that were almost as tangible as the real ones that had contained Oz each month.
On the fourth night, her parents failed to come to her room. On the fifth, she waited until she was certain that they were sound asleep, then slipped out of the house...and was filled with wonder at the vibrant beauty of the night, beauty that she'd missed during the last couple of years. It made her yearn for Oz, filled her with an intense desire to have him by her side, seeing everything that she saw.
That first night, the pain had been its sharpest, cutting deeply, right through to her soul. She'd swallowed it, embraced it, and endured, returning to her bed at dawn feeling a certain kinship to Oz's wolf. Feeling as though she'd viewed the night through his eyes.
The following night was easier. The pain less intense. But her hunger for him still burned as brightly as it had during their last dance together.
Hunger that now would never be satisfied.
The soft breeze caressed her as she walked to the railing, raising tiny goosebumps on her arms. It felt good- clean- the damp mist covering her skin as if she'd just stepped from the shower. She took a deep breath, and for the first time in days didn't feel the aching hitch in her chest that occurred every time she tried to breathe.
Willow swung her leg over the railing and dropped to the ground, her hands clutching the wet grass for a moment, letting the soft blades slide through her fingers. All around her she could hear the night come alive- crickets, frogs, the occasional buzzing of a June bug, the distant whoosh of a car several streets away. After just listening and smelling the air, she started walking, her face raised up to catch the moisture that shimmered above her head.
It had been a long time since she'd been able to really 'listen' to the normal sounds of nature. Years, perhaps. Once she'd learned that vampires and other demons were real, the dark had only housed nightmares, and its sounds were those of terror. But now, tonight...
Tonight, she knew that the monsters were dead, but even if they hadn't been, she somehow thought that it wouldn't matter. The feeling of restlessness was too strong and the night was filled with a music she hadn't heard since childhood, when she, Jesse and Xander would lay in their backyards, staring up at the sky. Transported by their imaginations into the legends of Orion, Pegasus, and Andromeda, the boys listening raptly as Willow recounted every myth out of her copy of Bullfinch's.
*Such a long time ago.*
Willow sighed and continued walking, her footsteps echoing in the deserted street. She wished more than anything that Oz was there to share the night with her, to breathe in the smell of wet leaves and jasmine blooming in the flower gardens. She'd often thought it sad that he couldn't run free on nights of the full moon, to feel the wind in his fur and roll in the grass with utter abandon. He hadn't had a chance to explore the wolf inside, to taste and feel and hear with all of his senses, the way that he was meant to. Perhaps in time he would have learned control, and would have been able to run without being afraid that he'd kill a human being.
Perhaps. There would be no finding out now, though, would there? No way to know if he would have reconciled his two halves, found peace with the wolf. No way to know if he would have embraced the change and reveled in it, instead of facing it with dread each month. Now that he was gone...
He wouldn't be claiming her as his mate either. Not now, not ever.
Today would have been the day of their picnic at Breaker's Woods. They would have spread a blanket on the ground and let the sun warm their bodies as the tension built between them, perhaps feeding each other slices of fruit, sharing teasing smiles and brief kisses. Maybe Oz would have played his guitar, and she would have sprawled next to him, watching his eyes darken with love and lust. And when he finally touched her, it would have been perfect.
All of it.
Willow brushed the tears from her eyes and broke into a run, trying to escape from the turmoil raging inside. When she thought of Oz, she didn't know which feeling was worse- the pain in her heart, or the hunger that felt like a ravening beast inside her.
The hunger, perhaps? The pain she could deal with, it was expected when you were in mourning. But to ache with wanting for someone who would never be there? To know that her virgin body would never again feel his touch...his kiss? Pain would lessen with time, but hunger? Hunger needed to be fed.
At least Buffy had known physical pleasure with both of her loves. She was able to carry that memory with her, always and forever, no matter what happened. Buffy could be assured that she'd experienced all that love had to offer, not once, but twice. All Willow had was a lot of near misses, and the assurance that what she wanted most would never come to pass.
Her feet pounded on the pavement and before long she realized the direction they had taken her in. And she understood that her nighttime wanderings had been leading her here, to the one person who could understand how she felt. The one person...
She turned down the street that housed the Spanish styled condos, her heart pounding from the run and the knowledge of what she was about to do. As she approached his door, a strange calm settled over her, a feeling of complete certainty that what she was doing was not only right- it was necessary. A feeling very similar to the one she'd had when she'd gone to the mansion to see Spike.
Squinting into the glare of the light shining over the door, she knocked on the heavy wood with a trembling hand and waited. Several moments and a few more knocks later, she heard what sounded like a thud, and muffled cursing. A small panel in the door opened and surprised eyes stared out at her before Giles flung open the door.
"Willow!" He stepped out and looked around, then pulled her inside, closing and locking the door behind her. He turned to face her, running a hand through his hair in consternation. "What are you doing here? Why were you out by yourself at this hour?" It made him angry to know that she would deliberately put herself in danger. "What could you possibly have been thinking?"
Willow stared up at him with wide eyes, taking in his sleep rumpled form. He was wearing a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt, and without his glasses he looked ten years younger. His hair was mussed, his chin stubbled, and deep-set sea-green eyes looked back at her with a mixture of anger and concern. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that the streets were safe for the time being, but she caught herself before revealing anything about Spike. "I couldn't sleep," she said, simply.
Giles blinked at the absurdity of her statement, then exploded. "Bloody hell, Willow! Drink warm milk, watch television...count bloody sheep, if you have to...but don't try to cure insomnia by walking the streets of Sunnydale!" He couldn't believe that she'd done something so utterly stupid and only two weeks after her boyfriend had been murdered on one of those very same streets.
"It's quiet now, Giles. You said so yourself. And I couldn't stay inside anymore, I just...couldn't."
At the anguish in her voice, his expression softened. He remembered the restlessness he'd felt after Jenny died. But he was a full-grown man, able to defend himself, and Willow was... Willow was what? A child? He shook his head. Not bloody likely. Looking at her lithe figure standing there- her eyes large and dark, hair glimmering with droplets of mist, lips full and moist- he couldn't in all conscience call her a child. Unfortunately for him, at the moment she was everything female, and very, very desirable. He felt himself stir traitorously at the thought. Giles struggled to maintain his composure. "I suppose I can understand why you needed to get out, but that still doesn't explain why you're 'here'."
Willow looked down for a moment, taking one step forward, then another, raising luminous eyes to meet his. "I'm here because you're the only one who knows- the only one who understands- how I feel," she whispered as her hand touched his chest.
Giles started as her touch sent a shock through him. As he tried to move back, her hand clutched his shirt, holding him in place. "Willow-" He reached up to pry her fingers away, his strong hand covering her own delicate one. "I think that I should take you home."
"No." Her voice was soft, but firm. "Giles...I came here because I need you...I need 'this'." Her other hand came up, pressing flat against the muscles in his chest. "And something tells me that maybe...maybe you need it, too."
His body felt warm beneath her hands, warm and hard. Willow breathed deep, smelling soap and mint, and...something else. A light musky scent- almost reminiscent of Oz- so uniquely male that it made her head swim.
"Please, Giles..." came her soft whisper. "It hurts so much..." Her eyes pleaded with him, glistening with tears. "Make it stop...please..."
Her obvious pain struck a chord within him, dredging up memories of Jenny and everything he'd lost. It reminded him of the ache that he'd thought would never go away, the hunger that would never be satiated, now that she was gone. Reminded him too much of the loneliness of the past months, of nights spent with his head buried in books because there was nothing -no one- else for him.
His attraction to Willow had seemed like temporary insanity- a midlife crisis- brought on by the stress of dealing with the Hellmouth. Her resemblance to Meredith, the first woman he'd ever loved, had driven him to distraction, and her intelligence drew him like a moth to a flame. They had so much in common and were so similar in so many ways. It was a dangerous combination, considering the circumstances.
He wanted to be there for her, to help alleviate the pain. She was grieving and confused, and understandably in need of a shoulder to cry on. He told himself that he could do this, comfort her like a friend, just hold her, and nothing more. "I'm sorry, Willow," he said, softly, pulling her close. "I know that it hurts. I remember all too well." He held himself stiffly as one hand stroked her hair, concentrating on keeping his voice neutral and trying not to notice her softness pressed against him.
Willow felt the stiffness in his arms around her- felt his awkwardness- and thought she understood the reason for his resistance. She tried one last time to persuade him. "I know that I'm not Jenny, but maybe..." She swallowed, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. "Maybe you could pretend, just for tonight?"
Giles could feel Willow's slender body so close to his, the heat of her hand through his shirt. His hand tangled in her hair and he tugged her head back so that he could see her face. Her scent was intoxicating, tempting him beyond all reason, and her eyes... He was lost, drowning in their liquid depths. Her lips parted, and he sank even further, going down for the last time. The last fragile thread of control snapped, and with a low groan, he muttered, "Bloody hell," as he lowered his head down to hers. "I don't need to pretend, Willow," he ground out hoarsely. "The reality will do just fine."
He covered her mouth with his, kissing her with all of the pent-up desire that he'd felt over the past few weeks. His hand gripped the back of her head as her lips opened beneath his, allowing him to sweep his tongue inside, tasting her sweetness. The voice in his head shouted for him to stop, to think- TO USE HIS FUCKING HEAD- but he barely heard it above the rushing in his ears.
Willow clung to him, arms reaching up to wind around his neck as Giles continued his assault on her mouth. Her knees went weak with the force of his kiss and the feeling of his erection pressing against her stomach. She finally understood what the romance books meant when they said the heroine's mouth was "plundered". There was none of the sweetness that she'd associated with Oz's kisses, no gentle stroking of tongues. Just bruised lips and the wet, searing heat of Giles' mouth consuming her, engulfing all of her senses.
Giles broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he stared down at her. His finger brushed a strand of hair from her forehead then followed the curve of her face before coming to rest under her chin. "Are you sure about this?"
She nodded, arching into him so that there'd be no doubt about her decision. "I need you, Giles. I need you to make it go away." Praying that he understood her reasoning, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his. "Please...just for tonight."
Calling himself every kind of fool, Giles swept her up in his arms and headed toward the stairs, moving quickly before he could change his mind. Willow hadn't been wrong, he 'did' need this- needed the release, needed to feel her warmth wrapped around him. It had been so long- *far, far too long*- since he'd allowed himself to give in to any of these feelings.
At his bedroom door, he stopped, unable to cross the threshold. Willow followed his gaze to the large bed, and knew the reason for his hesitation. Her small hand came up to caress the side of his face. "Giles," she whispered, drawing his attention back to her. "It's all right." She kissed his chin, trailing her lips down over his neck until they lingered in the hollow of his throat. "There's only us, no one else," she murmured against his skin. "Just you..." Her hand tangled in his hair. "And me."