SoulmatesBy Miranda
Part 6
Nothing will happen to her while I’m there. What a laugh.Spike took another drag of Scotch and raised the bottle toward the container of ashes that sat on the tomb.
“Don’t guess anything will happen to you now, will it, Poodle? You’re over and done with.”
In the day and a half since Drusilla’s final death, Spike hadn’t managed to drink himself into oblivion despite his best efforts. Even though he was dizzy and sick from the alcohol, his mind was still working all too clearly. Scenes from their past surrounded him. Her face in all of her moods passed before his inner eyes. Her voice whispered words of passion or prophecy or rage in his ears.
“I've seen you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength. His vision. His glory. That, and burning baby fish swimming all 'round your head.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Strength and vision. Got a lot of that, don’t I? As for Glory, she did for you, right enough. Her and the Slayer.”
He knew it wasn’t fair even as he said it. Buffy had intended to be the one to die. She had bared her neck for the bite, never even considering another possibility. If Dru hadn’t controlled her demon, the world would be down to one jailed Slayer.
But Spike wasn’t interested in being fair at the moment. Agony had him in its grasp and wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t even find the release of tears. A mixture of grief and guilt had condensed into a hard, burning lump in the center of his chest, where it apparently planned to stay.
“…what you want will help shape what will happen”
“I didn’t want this!” he shouted, flinging the bottle across the crypt. It shattered on the wall, spraying glass and whiskey across the floor. “I never wanted this!”
Or had he? He could have chosen differently - not gotten involved with the humans in the first place, gone to Dru as Buffy herself had said to do. Instead he had chosen to remain with the Slayer. Chosen her over Dru, as he had done years ago. She had named him Betrayer, and he was so in truth.
But, Pet, I didn’t mean for you to die. Even that night I offered to kill you to prove to Buffy how much I loved her. I wouldn’t have done it.
Not that the alternative was any more bearable. Buffy’s death would have had him seeking the sun, and knowing that he would have grieved more for her than for Dru only increased Spike’s guilt and misery. For if he had been forced to choose life or death for each, Buffy would have been the one to live.
At least if the Slayer had died, perhaps he wouldn’t have been alone, as he was now, while the rest of them curled up to family or friends or lovers. Dru gone just meant one less vampire in their world. There was no one to mark her passing other than him. And if he followed her, what the hell? That wouldn’t matter either.
The scrape of the crypt door interrupted his thoughts, and Spike turned, furious at the intrusion. His anger grew when he saw the Slayer standing in the doorway, a cloth-wrapped package in her arms.
“What do you want now?” he snarled, the rage in his voice enough to make her step back. “You saved the world for years without my help. Can’t you go one bleeding day without pestering me?”
He was spoiling for a fight, or anything that he could focus on other than the overwhelming pain, but Buffy didn’t get angry. She looked around the interior of the crypt, taking in the shattered bottle and the container of ashes, then back at him, face troubled, teeth gnawing at her lower lip. Without speaking, she bent and placed her bundle on the floor of the crypt, just inside the door, and quietly left, closing the door behind her.
Spike stood for a long time, watching the closed door and hoping that she would come back. At last, realizing that she was gone, he flung himself back into his armchair, refusing to look at what she had left. What did he care? It was something to salve her twitchy conscience no doubt, given that all this was her fault.
“Nothing to do with me,” he muttered. His eyes slid closed but he forced them open again. He couldn’t deal with dreams now. If he had another vision, he’d take out the First Slayer, AstralPlane Barbie, and all the rest of them.
More Scotch. That was what he needed.
Spike stood back up laboriously. He intended to head for his stash, but somehow, his feet carried him to the place where Buffy’s bundle lay. Might as well see what it was. Maybe she’d figured it out and bought more whiskey herself. He swept aside the wrapping and saw a wooden box, slightly larger than a shoebox. A small padlock dangled open from the catch, and his fingers detected a key taped to the underside.
Rage swept over him again. Buffy’s answer to his torment was a box to put his baby in. Dump her and forget about her, that was the ticket. He drew back, ready to smash it into the wall along with the Scotch bottle, but something about the heaviness of the box, the feel of it in his hand, stopped him.Spike lowered his arm and looked more carefully. The box was oak, plain and unadorned, but beautifully made, the sides dovetailing precisely, the grain flowing with almost no visible join. He ran a hand over the surface slowly, feeling the satin-smooth finish, and the knot in his chest tried to loosen a little.
A shifting came from inside the box, and when Spike opened it, he found two items:
One was a carefully-stitched pouch of white brocade, drawn closed by a white satin drawstring. When he picked it up, he felt a slight crunch from the seams and the scent of herbs and dried flowers rose to his nostrils.The other was Miss Edith. She still didn’t have a head, but her waterlogged and ruined dress had been replaced by one of pale blue silk and lace. Something about the feel of the material told of age.
He drew a deep shuddering breath and returned to his chair. Curling up in the seat, he closed his eyes, holding the items tightly in his arms. He sat that way for a long time, not thinking very much, maybe even dozing. At last, however, he rose and went to the tomb, walking more steadily than he had for 24 hours.
It was late, Spike noted absently as he left the crypt, midnight or slightly after. Something just outside the door caught his eye, and looking down, he saw the remnants of a chalk drawing. Frowning, he knelt to look more closely at the lines, but they meant nothing to him, although since he picked up the scents of the two witches, he was betting on something occult.
What the hell…?
He had no idea, and the curiosity helped occupy his mind as he made his way through Sunnydale to the street where the Slayer lived.
The knot in his chest relaxed even more when he saw that all the shades were up, and that despite the lateness of the hour, a light was on in the living room. He stepped quietly onto the porch and looked through the window. Buffy was curled into a corner of the couch with an afghan around her shoulders, fair hair catching the lamplight. Joyce dozed in an armchair, wrapped in a bathrobe, book open on her lap.
The Slayer’s senses must have twitched, for even as Spike watched, she opened her eyes. She started to tense, but realized who it was and relaxed slightly. Their gazes snared for a moment, then she nodded, and shrugged the afghan off her shoulders, revealing herself fully dressed in jeans and dark sweater, and headed for the door. At Buffy’s movement, Joyce stirred and followed her daughter to the doorway, her eyes gentle as she regarded the vampire standing on the porch.
“I’m so sorry, Spike,” she said softly. “Dawn said to tell you that she is too. She wanted to stay up, but she has school.”
He nodded awkwardly. “Thank you. And thank the Ni…Dawn for me.”
Joyce smiled, and with a touch to Buffy’s shoulder, stepped back into the house.
As the Slayer approached him, Spike saw that she had tucked a trowel into her belt along with the usual stake. “Where?” he said as they descended the steps. “The cemetery?”“I was thinking about the rose section of the botanical gardens. If that’s ok with you.”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
They moved quietly through the dark streets. Spike felt the Slayer’s gaze occasionally touch him and slide away but she didn’t speak.
“It’s…uh…kind of you to do this,” he said at last, gesturing slightly with the box. It came nowhere near describing what he was feeling, but he wasn’t sure there were really words for that. And if there were, fear might be one of them. All this caring wasn’t something he was used to or knew how to deal with.
“It wasn’t just me,” Buffy answered. “Xander made the box and Tara sewed the pouch. Will found the herbs. Mom, Dawn, and Anya split the cost of the doll dress. They were going to get a new head but weren’t sure what she should look like.”
“Oh,” he swallowed. This was worse. “Group effort then.”
She looked directly at him, then, the impact of her hazel eyes almost physical.
“We were all sorry about what happened.”
“Do you know anything about a spell the witches cast on my crypt?” he asked in a desperate attempt to change the conversation to something that wouldn’t make him want to run.
“Oh, that.” He felt the heat of the blood as it hit her face. “You were really upset, and we thought you might do something.”
“Like…?”
“Like go out in the sun. Willow and Tara put up a barrier spell on both exits of your crypt during daylight. If you tried to leave, it would have knocked you out and let them know.”
Buffy was blushing furiously, and Spike watched her in a sort of fascinated horror. It hadn’t been so long ago that if he’d wanted to go into the sunlight, she would have been more than happy to give him a push.
“And then what would have happened?”
“They would have told me, and I would have made sure you didn’t do it again,” she said in a rush. “Look, we’re here.”
Spike caught her arm, still trying to make sense of it all, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to know anymore. He’d felt so alone, and all this time….
“What if I’d tried something yesterday? On the way back from the Initiative?”
She sighed. “I was there, Spike, ok? I sent Dawny home with the guys, and I followed you back to the crypt. I wouldn’t have let you do anything.”
Buffy pulled away and hastily entered the arboretum. He followed, nonplussed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He didn’t have…friends. Hell, he hadn’t had friends as William.
The violent rain had knocked many of the flowers from the bushes, and the scent of the bruised petals was almost dizzying as they threaded their way between the bushes. Without comment, they passed by pink, yellow, and white roses and stopped by a bush that bore flowers of the deepest blood red with a tiny circle of white at the heart of each.
Buffy looked at Spike questioningly and, at his nod, began to dig.
“You should have brought two,” he said and reached to rake the dirt away with his hands, but she stopped him.
“I'll do it. I’m not much with the crafty stuff, but I can dig.”
He sat back on his heels and watched her as she worked, expression quietly focused. With her strength and speed, the hole grew rapidly.
“Why are you doing this?” Spike asked at last. “I understand about what happened between you and Dru. But nothing changed between us, and you hated me.”
“You hated me too,” she said dryly, without looking at him. “It didn’t stop you from sitting with me on the porch when Mom was sick or helping me the night I remembered Angelus’ attack.”
“I didn’t hate you then.”
“So, I guess I don’t hate you now. There, that’s deep enough.”
Buffy moved aside, and the reason they were there swept over him again. They were going to put his princess in the ground. She hadn’t been with him in a long time, of course, but he had always known she was out there somewhere. Hunting, playing, tormenting Angel. After this, she would be gone forever.
Spike held the box tightly against him for a moment. “Goodbye, Love,” he said hoarsely.
Her dust was in the pouch, and the padlock already locked. There was nothing more to do but to lay her to rest, and he did it with shaking hands and began to smooth the dirt back into the hole. As he did so, Buffy stood and dug a piece of folded paper from the pocket of her jeans.
“I asked Giles to help me find something, so this is from both of us,” she said and began to read.
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.After the first couple of lines, he joined in, the words familiar despite the decades that had passed since he last read them.
“I loved her you know,” he said at the end. His voice was angry and he glared at the Slayer as he spoke. “Not the reformed sort of human Dru you’re all so broken up about. I loved her the way she used to be, mad, bad and dangerous to know!”
“I know you did,” Buffy said gently. “And she loved you. She felt safe with you.”
________________________________________
She watched the hard features start to crumble, saw his eyes squeeze shut as he fought for control. Spike turned away from her and tried to roll to his feet, but slipped a little in the mud and put a hand down to support himself. As he crouched there, his shoulders started to shake.
Buffy couldn’t stand it anymore. She circled around to face him and went to her knees, taking him in her arms the way she’d wanted to ever since she saw him in the crypt earlier that evening, ever since Drusilla’s death.
She had been lightheaded from relief when he showed up on the porch that night, having feared that he would reject their offer and go through this alone. Not that she wouldn’t have been tempted to do the same thing, but she was slowly learning that sharing a burden didn’t necessarily mean you were slacking off.
Spike struggled against her hold, and she released him before he could become angry. The last thing either one of them needed was for the chip to fire. But she laid a hand along his cheek and tilted his head back so he could see her face.
“Drusilla did love you,” she repeated fiercely. “The best way she knew how.”
“You don’t know that,” he rasped.
Buffy had thought she would be embarrassed by what she was about to say, worry over him swamped other emotions. “I do know it. I have her memories.”
“Her human memories.”
“No. When we joined, I got the rest of them. I’ve got all of her memories, Spike. I know how she felt right up until I staked her. She loved you. She never stopped.”
His expression was still doubtful, mouth set and eyes bright with unshed tears, and an image came to her of a young man in old-fashioned clothes with curling brown hair and eyeglasses, weeping silently as he ripped a paper into shreds.“And now I wonder,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving his. “What possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?”
A sob tore out of his chest as his hand closed around her wrist. Buffy reached out and gathered him back against her. He came willingly this time, head buried in her shoulder as his body shook with the force of his grief, and he clutched at her with a desperate strength. She held him tightly, not speaking, wishing she could shelter both the man in her arms now and the one from so long ago.
Eventually, Spike quieted, although he leaned against her for a moment before sitting back up. She let him go, but stayed close, her hand somehow finding its way into his.
“Felt safe, did she?” he said bitterly, scrubbing at his face with his free hand. “Fine job I did protecting her.”
“Stop that,” Buffy said firmly. “You protected her for years, and you did the best you could at the end. That’s all anybody can do. If there was another way to defeat Glory, I don’t know what it was.”
“You subscribe to the ‘it all had to happen’ theory then?”
She thought about it, trying to articulate ideas that were only half-formed in her own mind. “I don’t know. I think maybe there’s a sort of pattern underneath, but it can be changed by what we do. I was Called to be the Slayer, but I could have refused to do it or been like Faith, and everything would have been different. I could have not worked with Drusilla, or she could have bitten me. Either way would have made a new pattern. But this is the one we have now.”
“And what happens with this pattern is up to us?”
It was just a question, with no ulterior motive behind it, but Buffy was suddenly, almost painfully, aware of the pressure Spike's hand around hers, and that his voice was deep and soft, his eyes almost glowing in the moonlight.
Stop it! We just buried his first love, and he’s emotional and vulnerable and…stuff. So quit the inappropriate reactions!
“Right,” she said in a voice that was almost a squeak. Then she frowned as something niggled at her awareness.
“What is it? Do you hear something?”
“Wait,” Buffy whispered, closing her eyes, as she racked her memory. Something about it all having to happen…
“Even the chip was a step in what you must become. You had to walk on knives for a time.”
“But not any more,” she said aloud and opened her eyes to find that her skin was glowing again with the blue light she had seen when she defeated Glory, and the knowledge of what she had to do clear in her mind.
Spike’s eyes widened, but he was still as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. Buffy felt him stiffen as power swept from her to him, but she knew he wasn’t in pain. She felt the energy find the chip and somehow understood how to shield the surrounding tissue as she poured the energy into it until it fizzled and died.
Buffy leaned back a little, not surprised to see that the light had vanished. Spike touched his forehead disbelievingly.“Did you…?”
She nodded. “The chip doesn’t work anymore. What you do now is up to you.”
________________________________________
Giles beamed as Buffy toweled off after her workout.
“Really, I’m very pleased. Your strength, speed, and agility have all increased, and your premonition about the Sa’teer demons moving into the old school was completely accurate.”
“Why do I have the feeling that all this gives you serious street cred with the Council?” she teased.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Giles said huffily as they left the training room for the main body of the shop. “They are, of course, interested in your progress both personally and as it relates to the ever raging battle against evil.”
“Uh-huh. So you never have ‘My Slayer’s better than your Slayer’ contests? Like, ‘My Slayer beat a hellgod and now she’s psychic. Not bad for somebody you didn’t think was a good Watcher.’”
“Naturally not.” A faint smile crossed his face. “At least not in so many words.”
Willow and Tara had watched the conversation with amusement from their perches at the research table, and the red-headed witch suddenly stuck her nose in the air. “Well, my Slayer beat an entire army of trolls,” she sniffed. “And reported in like she was supposed to instead of sneaking out to the Bronze. And got straight A’s.”
To everyone’s surprise, Tara joined in. “Watching’s not like in the old days. I remember having to walk uphill in the snow for ten miles, both ways, to get stakes for my Slayer.”
“Oddly enough,” Giles said with some asperity. “I win both sorts of conversations. Buffy’s accomplishments can be stood alongside those of any other Slayer, and as for Watcher hardship, I can relate stories of having to deal with assorted friends and relatives, all of whom consider themselves to be terribly witty."
Buffy shivered. “Eek. British sarcasm. At least you got irritated after training, so I don’t have to do all those extra chin-ups.”
Giles sighed theatrically to cover up his relief that the group mood was lightening. Ever since Glory’s defeat and Drusilla’s final death, they had all been subdued, particularly Buffy. She had been very quiet about the whole issue since the vampire had been laid to rest and especially quiet about Spike. He hadn’t attempted to pry, partly because it was none of his business, and mostly because he really didn’t want to know.
Speaking of things that would upset the Council…
“That reminds me,” he said, “Travers once again raised the question of you recalling Drusilla’s experiences as a vampire. He feels it might affect you as both person and Slayer.”
Buffy smiled maliciously. “If it’ll keep them in England, tell Travers I’m staying away from mirrors.” She relented at the sight of his consternated look and continued, “Like I said before, I don’t remember any of the eating people for fun and profit stuff. If it even got transferred, I think the Slayer part of me is keeping it under wraps. And I’ll tell you if it changes.”
With a final dark look and muttered comment about writing the book on Watcher hardship, Giles headed toward the relative peace of the storage room.
As soon as he was out of sight, Anya left the counter, hung the ‘Closed’ sign on the door, and settled herself at the table expectantly. Startled, Buffy looked from her to the witches, who were also looking at her with extreme interest.
“Wow,” Willow said conversationally. “That’s great that you don’t have any biting-type memories.”
“Thanks,” Buffy said slowly, having a sinking feeling that she knew where this was going.
“Are you remembering anything else?” Anya asked brightly.
“I can paint china,” Buffy offered. “And I think I could play something called a harpsichord if I knew what one was.”
“That’s interesting,” Tara said politely.
Buffy sighed. “And yes, Spike and Drusilla had sex a lot. All of which I remember.”
“Thought so,” Willow smiled. “I knew you were being extra jumpy. Pretty active, huh?”
“Oh, God,” Buffy closed her eyes. In a way, it was a relief to talk about it. “I don’t think they did anything else for the entire 120 years!”
“What did they do?” Anya asked.
“Everything!”
“But specifically?”
Buffy waited for the expected cries of “Anya!” but they didn’t come. Opening her eyes, she saw that Willow and Tara watching her with inquiring looks.
“Excuse me,” she said. “You two are gay, remember? As in not interested in this kind of thing?”
Willow shrugged. “I used to walk that side of the street. I can take an…academic interest.”
“Besides,” Tara said with an absolutely straight face. “We’re your friends. We care about what’s going on in your life.”
“Gee, thanks.” Buffy said sarcastically. “But even though this is all really touching, I am not going into details. Check the Internet. Whatever you find, I’m sure they did it. Probably multiple times.”
Anya looked thoughtful, but Willow took pity on the beleaguered Slayer.
“Have you seen Spike since you buried Drusilla?” she asked gently.
Buffy kept her eyes firmly fixed on the surface of the table. “Once on patrol. We didn’t say anything.” She didn’t add that the encounter had consisted of seeing each other, nodding briefly, and basically fleeing in opposite directions. “The victim count hasn't gone up, so I don’t think he’s on a feeding frenzy or anything.”
“What about the whole soulmate thing?” Anya asked. “You two are supposed to be together, you know. That’s the point. You’re each other’s destiny.”
“I know. It doesn’t help,” Buffy said shortly.
“What do you want to happen?” Tara asked, serious now that she saw the struggle her friend was going through.
Buffy shook her head. “No clue. I remember…I know…what it was to love Spike and have him love me, but that didn’t happen to us. We, Spike and I, spent years trying to kill each other. We’re not at that point anymore, but I don’t know where we are. I can’t even pick out what feelings belong to me and what belong to somebody else!”
“You aren’t going to be able to figure anything out unless you talk to him,” Anya pointed out.
“Yeah, but how does that work? Just show up at his crypt and say ‘We’re soulmates, now what’?And I’m finding out that being each other’s destiny cuts into the small talk.” She closed her eyes. “I am so bad at this. I’m much better with the fighting evil.”
“It’s only been a week,” Willow said, squeezing Buffy’s hand. “Give it time.”
________________________________________
“They’re going to screw this up,” Anya said critically after the Slayer left.
“Oh, no,” Tara protested. “Not if they’re soulmates.”
The ex-demon shook her head. “You heard her. Just being soulmates doesn’t solve anything. They’ll pick a fight, or Spike will just leave so they don’t have to deal with this.” She looked at the others. “Did Spike show up and thank you for helping with Drusilla’s funeral? Xander almost wouldn’t let him in the apartment, and then he sat up all night with a stake in case he came back. And Spike was weird. He was being nice, but not like before. This felt...real.”
“It was very not-usual Spike,” Willow agreed. “Especially since he doesn’t have the chip anymore, and the last time he was in my dorm room, he tried to kill me.”
Tara shrugged. “He really is changing. He's not doing this to get something, but because he wants to. That means he and Buffy can work something out.”
“If they can get it together,” Willow said. “They’re both going through big changes. Right now, Buffy is in a state of extreme freaked-outed-ness, and I think Spike is too.”
“I know that state,” Tara said, smiling fondly at her lover. “Scared of what you’re feeling and afraid of what the other person feels. You want to hide, or put your head on their shoulder, or both.”
“This is all very sweet,” Anya said as the witches stared at each other adoringly. “And I’m glad you two are doing so well. But Buffy and Spike are the issue. I know about this stuff, and right now, I'm telling you, it could go either way.”
“You’re right,” Willow gave the table a decisive pound. “We’ll just have to make sure it goes the right way.”
“We will?” Tara said in some alarm. “Isn’t destiny supposed to take care of this?”
Willow grinned. “Sometimes, destiny needs a little help from its friends. Isn't Joyce working late tonight?"
________________________________________
Buffy succeeded in getting home without thinking of anything much and headed for her room. Dawn was celebrating her now Glory-free existence by shopping with her pals at the mall for the evening with Mom picking her up on the way home from the gallery.
All of which adds up to some prime brood time.
She dropped across her bed in approved brooding fashion and stared at the ceiling.
The afternoon’s discussion had been a relief. She had desperately needed to talk about the memories, and the female portion of the gang was pretty much her only option. Hearing about remembered sex activities with Spike would have finally made Giles rebel. Xander would have freaked. Dawn was way too young. And Mom was, well, Mom.Of course, the logical person to talk to would be Spike, since the memories involved him in a very direct way, but the thought of having that conversation made Buffy turn hot and cold at once. Because, the girls hadn’t really understood. Remembering Spike and Drusilla together wasn’t like watching an X-rated movie. She could actually re-live the experiences. And she liked doing it. Liked the feel of the hard muscles of his body crushing into her, his lust-hoarsened voice in her ear, his mouth rough and demanding against her lips.
Her body wasn’t being satisfied with just the memories. It wanted to experience the whole thing, live and in person. Buffy was feeling frustrated to the point of contemplating shoving him up against the crypt wall and saying something like, “All right, blondie. Let’s see if you’re as good as I remember.” She was pretty sure the approach would be effective: from what she could tell, Spike was seriously turned on by her aggression. Then, she….
Buffy sat back up hastily, face flaming, already feeling her breasts tingle and a surge of heat to her center.
Ok. That’s enough. I’m supposed to be figuring stuff out, not turning myself on.
Maybe she wouldn’t be so fascinated by the memories if her own experiences were comparable, but they weren’t, and that included her time with Angel. They had loved each other so long and so despairingly that when they had finally come together, their lovemaking had been desperate: a frantic reach for something that on some level she had known was doomed. And the memory of that time was spoiled for her by the knowledge of what had resulted.With Parker, she’d needed to prove to herself that she could be with someone other than Angel. She had been so determined to please him, that she had ignored her own pleasure. That had suited Parker just fine. His pleasure had been all he worried about too.
Then there was Riley. He had done his best to please her, and he had pleased her. She had enjoyed making love with him, but relaxing had been an accurate description. It had been a darn good time compared to Parker’s selfishness or Angel turning into Angelus, but his efforts suffered when compared to the memories of Spike’s orchestrated seductions. The vampire’s goal had been to send Drusilla screaming over the edge into ecstasy, and join her there, and he had usually accomplished just that. Buffy could see why. Riley had been…straightforward…and not terribly inventive which had been ok with her, since she wasn’t terribly experienced herself. But Spike and Drusilla…
I didn’t even know about a lot of that stuff.
Still, distracting though it was, the sex wasn’t the only thing, or even the main thing, bothering her. Cold showers and intense training had gotten her through Angel-induced frustration and would have worked for this as well. What was really getting to Buffy were memories of Spike holding her close while they slept; comforting her after nightmares; his patience, even admiration for her madness; in short, the memories of his love.
We can love, well if not always wisely.
At last, she understood the truth of that statement. Spike could love, and he loved her. Drusilla had known it, and now, Buffy knew it too.
She felt something for him as well, and as much as she would like to, Buffy couldn’t put it down to inherited memories. The lust, yeah, sure, that was new. But before she and Drusilla had joined, Buffy had wanted Spike to hold her that night in the Magic Box, had enjoyed the feel of his hand as they searched for Dawn, and weeks ago had found his presence soothing as he sat with her that night on her porch.
The wave of fierce protectiveness she’d felt the night he wept for Drusilla had been entirely her own. They had parted almost immediately after she’d deactivated the chip, but she had spent the night dreaming of the feel of him in her arms, his head on her shoulder. She didn’t just want him to protect her: she wanted to do her share as well.
Or maybe hide under the bed for the next year or so.
The whole thing was scaring her out of her skin. She sucked at relationships, to put a bad vampire-type pun on the whole thing. And this wouldn’t be just any relationship. This was destiny. There had been visions about it. Spike was her soulmate, and she had a damn good idea that he wouldn’t be satisfied with any sort of half-measure. It would be the whole thing or nothing.
Maybe I could fight another hellgod. Or the Master, Mayor, and Adam all at once. With no weapons.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her mother and Dawn coming through the front door. Glad of the interruption, since brooding wasn't getting her anywhere, Buffy pasted a cheerful expression on her face and headed downstairs.
“Wow,” she said, eyeing Dawn’s packages. “You cleaned the place out.”
Dawn regarded her sister critically. “You could stand some shopping too. All that Slayer-wear’s getting old.”
“Hey. This outfit’s good for a few more bouts of world-saving.”
“Dawn’s right, honey,” Joyce said with a smile. “All your clothes are sort of serious these days. You need something fun. You saved your sister and kept the world from being destroyed. Treat yourself.”
“Sort of a back-to-school post-Apocalypse, sale?”
“Sort of,” she said casually. “Although I was thinking about getting out my sewing machine again. It’s been so long since I felt like making anything. I picked up this pattern. What do you think?”
Buffy looked at the drawing on the front of the pattern, showing a long, scoop-necked, sleeveless dress with a full skirt. “It’s pretty, but where would I wear it?”
Joyce waved a hand. “It’s casual. You could wear it to the Bronze.”“Ok,” she felt a stir of interest. The dress did look nice, cut snugly at the top and swirling into a full skirt. “Maybe we could go shopping for fabric this week.”
“We could. Wait!” her mother snapped her fingers. “I bet I could make over something you already have. That Halloween dress from a couple of years ago.”
“The noblewoman’s gown?” Buffy asked in surprise.
“Yes. It’s a good color and should still fit. You weren’t saving it for anything were you?”
“Well…no. I guess not.”
“Great. Put it in the guest room for me, would you honey?”
Buffy returned to her room to get the dress, wondering over this sudden, urgent desire to sew, and Dawn folded her arms and looked at her mother.
“What’s going on?”
“Going on?” Joyce said innocently. “What do you mean, sweetie? Nothing’s going on.”
“Right. You just suddenly decided to make Buffy a dress. And you have to do it right now.”
“You know, sometimes things don’t have hidden meanings. Now, why don’t you go put your stuff up before I start wondering about the agenda behind your serious need for leather pants?”
Dawn pounded up the stairs and Joyce watched her go with a sigh. “I really hope I don’t have to go through this when you start dating.”
________________________________________
//that Friday//
“Wow,” Buffy said, staring at her reflection. “You did a great job, Mom, but did the scissors slip or something?” She hitched the dress up at the shoulders.
Joyce firmly smoothed it back down. “Oh, Buffy, you used to wear lower-cut outfits than this all the time.”
“I was young and foolish. And you didn’t exactly approve.”
“And now you’re older and not nearly foolish enough.” She gave her daughter a slight shake. “I’m not sick. Dawn isn’t in danger. The world isn’t being threatened with an untimely end. Live. A. Little.”
Buffy saluted. “Living as ordered, ma’am.”
Orders or not, she felt highly self-conscious as she headed off to meet the gang at the Bronze. The high-heeled sandals felt strange after spending so long in boots designed to chase down and kick demon ass, and the skirt swirled and fluttered around her stockinged legs as she walked. The top of the dress hugged her too closely to do any swirling, the line of buttons down the front just barely avoiding straining over her breasts.
I can’t wear this if I gain a pound. Or even if I get a rash.
Her embarrassment increased when she felt the eyes hit her as she walked into the Bronze. Suppressing an urge to cross her arms over her chest, Buffy hurried to the table where the rest of the group waited, and sat down between Willow and Anya.
Xander was in the process of swallowing his drink and choked when he saw her.“Uh, Buffy,” he wheezed after being pounded on the back by a resigned Anya. “You look…different. With the…hair up…and all.”
“And the cleavage exposed,” the ex-demon added. Xander put an arm around his girlfriend and smiled.
“Mom got a bee in her fashion bonnet,” Buffy said dryly. “Behold the result.”
“I think you look great,” Willow said brightly.
Buffy relaxed as the evening progressed, although the others seemed a little off. Xander was normal enough until he and Anya got up to dance. They had a fairly intense-looking conversation, and Xander was pale when they returned to the table. The witches, on the other hand, remained seated, where Willow kept sneaking glances at her watch and Tara kept one eye on the front door of the Bronze.
“Why don’t you guys get out there?” Buffy asked as they watched Xander and Anya return to the dance floor. “I’m good. I’m enjoying the music and the relaxing.”
“I’m kind of tired,” Willow said. “Long week.”
At that moment, Tara sneezed violently.
“Although,” the red-head said without missing a beat. “Now that you mention it, dancing does sound like fun. Come on, sweetie.”
They sprang from the table and moved onto the floor at top speed.
Huh?
“What’s that all about?” a Cockney voice asked, and Buffy froze as Spike slid into Willow’s vacant chair.
“What do you mean?” she said, trying desperately to keep her voice somewhere near normal. Spike was in his usual attire, but now she knew what was going on under the black t-shirt and jeans, they were much more disturbing.
“Will said for me to meet you lot…,” he looked at her directly for the first time and stopped, his eyes sliding down her body in a way that felt like a touch. “Here,” he finished after a second’s pause that lasted approximately an eternity. “Said you wanted me to take a look at some bloke and see if I knew him. So, why are they all scarpering?”
“Scarper…?.” Buffy turned to look for her friends just in time to see the back door of the Bronze swing close behind Xander.
Then she understood, and a blush swept from her feet to her hair. It increased when she heard Spike laugh softly. She started to take a deep breath, but decided against it when the action pulled the dress snug across her chest. Instead, she propped her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands.
“Spike?” she asked grimly.
“Hmm?”
“Would you bite Willow for me? And maybe my Mom?”
________________________________________
“Your wish is my command, Slayer.”
In truth, he was more likely to buy them each a huge bouquet as a thank-you for breaking the stalemate.
A host of conflicting emotions, grief for Dru, embarrassment over breaking down in Buffy’s arms, amazement at getting the chip neutralized, and a total inability to decide what to do next had made him avoid the Slayer since the night of the burial.
Spike supposed he could go back to Big Bad, but although he was overjoyed to be able to fight if necessary, too much had happened for him to return entirely to what he had been. He lacked the desire to feed from humans for one thing, and not just because Buffy wouldn’t like it. Forced proximity had made him see them as more than Happy Meals with legs. He even liked some of them. What the group had done for him and for Dru had almost overwhelmed him.
He also kept thinking about that damn pattern, about Dru saying that he was the intended result, that it was all supposed to happen, including the sodding chip. He didn’t like feeling that he was being used by prophecy. That was for blokes like Angel. And meant to be with the Slayer…
Maybe being used by prophecy wasn’t that bad. Spike stole a sideways glance. He recognized the made-over Halloween dress, and definitely approved of the alterations, particularly the bared arms and lowered neckline. The dark crimson satin wrapped around her curves and turned her skin golden. Her upswept hair bared a neck that he wanted to sink his teeth into and not in a fangy way either.
The fact that she was sneaking a look back at him and the way she turned her eyes hastily away as soon as they met his was sweetest of all.
This was what he had wanted her to feel, this mixture of nerves and desire that he scented on her now. Fear, not of his harming her, but of what he could make her feel and do. She wanted him. The Slayer, despite her best judgment, wanted a vampire. Lust and a sense of power shot through Spike. He wanted to see her blush again because of him, wanted to hear her heart rate increase, wanted to swagger and strut and claim her for his own.
But he knew his Slayer and stamped down on the desires ruthlessly. She was balancing on the knife’s-edge of her emotions, and could go either way. Desire was winning at the moment, but if he played the alpha male too much or too obviously, fear would come to the fore, followed quickly by anger. Her chin would go up, her eyes would go cold, and that would be that.
Buffy’s encounter with Dracula had made its way through the vampire gossip-mill and been greeted with howls of laughter. Of course, they all hated her, but they hated Dracula and his ‘more Creature-of-the-Night-than-thou’ attitude too. His having a go at seducing her and being shot down filled them with an odd sense of hometown pride. Spike took his own lesson from the tale: Pushing the Slayer too far, no matter how enthralled she was, was a good way to end up with a stake in your chest. He didn’t intend to make the same mistake.
Still, some display of interest was called for as part of the dance they were starting that night. He shrugged out of his duster and hung it over the back of the chair with an extra flex of his shoulders, using the movement to hitch his chair a little closer to hers. Buffy stiffened, but didn’t pull away.
In contrast, he leaned back, very relaxed, arm resting on the table next to hers. “As long as they’ve gone to all this trouble, might as well enjoy the music, right Slayer?” he asked with a sideways grin.
“Right,” she said with a stiff smile.
He waited for a time, keeping his attention mostly on the stage and letting her relax. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tension slowly leave her shoulders, and felt his own emotions softening, protectiveness edging out the dominance. He would prefer her at ease with him, rather than afraid, at least mostly, and it was rather touching that she wasn’t. Show Buffy something 20 feet tall with claws and fangs, and she’d pick up a stake and go after it, but with affairs of the heart…
She’s not used to this sort of thing, and she’s been hurt. I’ll have to take care.
By the third song, Buffy seemed to have calmed down. Her fingers were gently tapping on the table in rhythm to the song, and Spike decided the next move could be made. He shifted his hand and laid one finger against her wrist. She jumped and turned to look at him.“You want to dance, Slayer?”
________________________________________
His voice was light, uninflected, but Spike’s eyes plainly showed that he remembered their last discussion involving dancing. Buffy remembered it too and swallowed.
She had almost gotten her equilibrium back after the disruption caused by Spike’s unexpected appearance, although she was still planning to kill Willow as soon as she could. He hadn’t tried to bully or push her as she’d expected and hoped she’d be able to stand up against given the way her hormones were screaming just when he looked at her. They were screaming now under his gaze and the touch of his fingertip on her wrist.What do you want to happen?
Part of her wanted to refuse, and she was fairly sure he’d respect it. But that part was based on fear of the unknown which she didn’t like giving into. And a bigger part…
“Yeah,” she said steadily, watching him. “I do want to dance.”
Something moved behind Spike’s eyes, but then it vanished, and he was standing, drawing her up with him. They moved onto the dance floor, and he set his hands on the sides of her waist, making her shiver despite the lightness of the touch. She rested her own hands on his forearms, and they began to move.
He was good, she recognized dimly. It was no effort to follow his lead if she just did it and didn’t think about what was going on, about how she was in Spike’s grasp, moving in tandem with his body. With an effort, Buffy forced herself to do just that, to relax and flow with the music, as she hadn’t done in what seemed like forever. As if he felt her decision, Spike’s hands tightened a little, pulling her closer.
The song ended and they stayed where they were, waiting for the next. Then, the lights dimmed down almost to darkness, and the music wailed out of the instruments soft and low and throbbing.
She’d been keeping her gaze firmly fixed on Spike’s shoulder, but as they started to sway to the new beat, Buffy looked into his face. Slayer vision had no problem compensating for the near darkness of the club, and the mixture of passion, ferocity, and tenderness radiating out of Spike’s eyes made her gasp. His hands slid around to her back and he pulled her all the way to him. She went with what felt like relief, moving her grasp to his shoulders, her head fitting under his chin as if it had been meant to be there. Perhaps it had.
Buffy felt him sigh against her, stroking her back gently as they moved, and wished that the song would never end. When it did, she made a decision and leaned back against his arm to look at him.
“You remember a couple of weeks ago, when you told me you’d leave under one condition?” she asked, wishing her voice didn’t shake. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but he had reached out to her, and she needed to return the gesture.
“Yeah,” he said, the slight challenge in his voice somehow giving her the courage to go on.
“I’ve decided I want to test it.”
His mouth twisted in a faint smile. “As I said, Slayer, your wish is my command.”
It was a warm night, but still a bit cooler than the Bronze with its crush of bodies. Buffy shivered as the night air hit her bare arms and felt the duster being settled around her shoulders.
“Thanks,” she said as they stepped into the alley.
“Don’t mention it. Shame to cover up that dress though.”
In one accord, they moved deep into the shadows behind the Bronze, and she turned to face him.
“What was it, ‘on the mouth and like I mean it’?”
“Those were the terms, yes. And that I wouldn’t touch you.” Spike folded his arms across his body, watching her with a raised eyebrow and a grin.
She was smiling too. Although part of her was screaming in panic, the rest was enjoying it, thrilling to the challenge, even to the edge of fear. Without giving herself time to think about it anymore, Buffy stepped up to Spike, rested her hands on his folded arms, and raised on her toes a little to reach his mouth with hers.
She felt a shudder run through him, but he didn’t move in any other way as her lips quested over his. His mouth opened in response to hers, and she explored the cool interior, his tongue twining against her own. She made a sound in the back of her throat and felt his arms uncross.
When Buffy came back to herself, Spike was holding her up against him with an arm around her waist, her head slightly higher than his, and her feet dangling off the ground.
“I thought we said you weren’t going to touch me,” she murmured, her fingers teasing through his hair.
“We did, but I’m evil, remember?” he said into her neck. “Can’t take your eyes off me for a minute.”
He slid her back down his body and set her feet on the ground, still holding onto her. “What’s the verdict then? Should I start packing?”
“You don’t have to go anywhere,” she said and watched the smirk form up in response to her slightly breathless tones. It was more than a little self-satisfied and cocky, but she couldn’t get terribly annoyed, given the way his fingers were moving over her back. And, in a way, it was reassuring. It was so…Spike. If he’d suddenly become romantic, she wouldn’t have known what to do with him.
“Got to go somewhere, Pet,” he said. His hips moved against hers and he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Unless you want to do this against the alley wall.”
That actually didn’t sound like a bad idea, but she got a slight grip on herself. There was no point in giving him all the power. “Going somewhere sounds good.”
He released her and bent to pick up his duster, which had slid from her shoulders to the ground during their activities. “Come on.”
They didn’t touch as they moved through the streets, unlike the couples they passed who walked hand in hand or with their arms around each other or even stopping to kiss. It was like a game, an extension of their usual banter as their desire and tension rose and they did nothing about it, both trying to seem calm.
He only spoke to her once: “You need the coat back?”
“No,” she said in the sultriest voice she could manage. “I’m feeling pretty warm.”
His low growl was music to her ears. “You’re playing with fire, Slayer.”
By the time they reached the cemetery, Buffy’s nerve-endings were screeching, and she was considering throwing Spike to the ground and climbing on top of him. He was on edge too, taking huge drags on a cigarette before casting it away and moving almost at a run.
Please don’t let us run into something I have to Slay. Although I could probably do it really fast, not to mention bare-handed.
They reached the crypt without incident. Buffy had barely followed Spike inside when he whirled, shoved the door closed, crushed her against it, and ravaged her mouth. She answered his need with her own, arching fiercely against him.
She reached under duster and shirt and caressed his back, his flesh cool under her hands. Spike released her long enough to shrug out of the coat and yank his shirt off over his head then returned to his onslaught, kissing down her neck and across the skin bared by the neckline of her dress.
He went lower, lips brushing over the satin-covered curves of her breasts, and Buffy couldn’t stand it anymore. Her shove sent him to the floor of the crypt and she followed him down, kissing and biting at his neck, chest and shoulders.
Spike submitted to her touch for a few moments before pulling her back up to his mouth. He pushed her up a little and holding her gaze with his began to undo the buttons of her dress. His cool fingers brushed already hyper-sensitized skin and she hissed. He smiled at her reaction and pushed the dress off her shoulders.
“You’re supposed to wear front-hooks for this sort of thing,” he said disapprovingly as he reached around behind her to unhook the catch.
“I didn’t know I was getting lucky tonight,” she managed through gritted teeth.
“Tsk. A good Slayer is always prepared.”
Whatever she was going to say in response flew out of her mind, and she cried out as Spike’s lips closed around her nipple. He stayed there, moving from one to the other, spurred on by her sounds and the way her fingers dug into his back.
Finally, he stood, bringing her up with him, and together they worked the dress the rest of the way off of her, along with her shoes. Spike slid an arm under her knees and lifted her up against his chest, kissing her as he carried her over to the bier and lay her down on the folded comforter.
Buffy tried to pull him down with her, but he shook his head and took hold of the waistband of her panty hose, watching her with a serious expression. She understood that he was giving her a last chance to back out and was so touched she almost cried. She didn’t have the words to say what the gesture meant and tried to show it in her face as she raised her hips. Spike closed his eyes a moment then pulled the hose down, along with her underwear.
He looked at her a moment, and drew one finger in a line from the base of her throat down to her pelvis. Before he could reach for his belt, Buffy sat up and stopped him.
“Let me.”
She pulled his mouth down to hers as her fingers nimbly undid belt, button, and zipper and pushed the fabric over his hips. Her hand closed around him, thumb moving across the silky head, and it was his turn to groan against her mouth.
He pushed her back gently, got rid of the rest of his clothes and moved to lie beside her. He started to caress her again, but she put her arms around his shoulders and pulled.“Come here.”
Spike obeyed, covering her body with his, his erection moving between her thighs. Buffy wrapped her legs around his hips, and her hands moved over him, stroking everything she could reach. Memories of other times swirled through her, but she pushed them away. This was hers, theirs, the culmination of all that had gone between them so long.
“Buffy,” he said hoarsely.
She kissed him, putting everything she felt into it, as he entered her. He was still for a moment, both of them getting used to the feel of each other. Spike moved slowly against her, and they began to rock together, finding the rhythm as easily as they had earlier in the evening when they danced.
Suddenly, his eyes shot through with gold. “You’re mine,” he growled.
Part of her tried to get angry at the claim, but she understood what he meant. Besides, it was true. “And you’re mine,” she answered with equal strength. “My soulmate.”
Spike went rigid, staring at her, his eyes going wide and defenseless. His mouth covered hers as their movements became wilder, pounding into each other, until contractions broke over Buffy and she screamed into his mouth, the hard grip of her muscles sending Spike after her.
Through the roaring in her ears she could hear him whispering endearments as he covered her skin with light kisses. She held him tightly, nuzzling against his neck. At last, he moved back from her to lie on his side, playing with her hair, which had been knocked from its hairpins.
“You all right?” he said softly.
“Oh, yeah,” she said with a sleepy smile. “I’m somewhere past all right.”
Spike’s eyes remained soft, but his mouth began to curl again. “Do I still get to bite your Mum and Willow?" he asked hopefully. "Hey!” he added from his new position on the floor next to the bier. “It isn’t nice to go all Slayer on someone immediately after sex and especially when they've got no clothes on.”
“Get used to it.”
“Guess I'll have to.”
~Fin~
Author's Notes: The poem Buffy reads is 'A Phantom Image' by Wordsworth. Many thanks to Sally Bradstreet who contributed several of the funnier lines.