Facing The Mirrors

By Raeann

Part Four

Xander and Willow and Anya cheered as the news of Buffy’s victory came over the radio. The carpenter pointed excitedly to his little pile of Motherwort. He accepted the praise that was his due, and then joined in the rush to the cavern mouth to wait for the Slayer’s triumphant arrival.

The Scoobies fell back in confusion when Buffy finally appeared. She was alone and she pushed blindly past them, deaf to their congratulations. They called out to her but she didn’t stop walking. Buffy was barely aware of their existence. She was having trouble concentrating. There was a buzzing sound in her head and she couldn’t remember where it was that she wanted to go. Picking a direction, she headed toward the rising sun. Her three friends trailed behind her.

Somehow she made it home. The trip was a blur of bright colors and harsh sounds. People stared at her and shouted but they didn’t touch her. They didn’t dare. Buffy felt like she had died and been torn from the grave all over again. The world seemed alien and remote and horribly empty to her. Nothing made sense; nothing mattered. Her sister and Tara greeted her at the door. They were brimming over with questions.

Buffy mumbled out the news that Riley was dead. She turned away from any words of consolation. It all seemed meaningless to her. Xander, Willow and Anya arrived but had nothing more to add. Caught in a waking nightmare, the Slayer numbly climbed the stairs to her room, stripping off the remains of her street clothes as she went. She put on her pajamas. She crawled into bed. Three days later she was still there.

The gang tried together and separately to snap her out of it. She wasn’t catatonic. She was simply unresponsive, uncaring. Her wounds bled into the pajamas and sheets. The blood dried into a caked mess but Buffy didn’t care. She curled into a tight ball in the center of the bed and stared at the far wall.

Xander joked. Willow cajoled. Tara pampered. Anya demanded. Dawn pleaded with and threatened her by turns. Buffy remained impassive, giving one word, automatic answers. She would eat a few bites of whatever was placed before her. If they ignored her she went hungry. She only got up to go to the bathroom, shuffling lifelessly along the hallway. Her body healed itself, but her spirit didn’t. There was talk of doctors and potions and phone calls to England. Finally, late on the third day, Xander went to see Spike.

At first, Xander thought the crypt was empty. It was dark and still and smelled damp. He called out but received no answer. A flickering of light led him to the basement level opening. He peered down the steps, calling again before descending. There were three or four candles burning low, barely offsetting the gloom. Spike was sitting in his red chair, right leg thrown over the arm. He had a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He took turns dragging on each. He didn’t bother to acknowledge his visitor.

“You know as a vampire I wouldn’t think you would be quite so free with the flammables.” Xander opened the conversation. “I mean, one trip to dreamland and you’re toast.”

“Appreciate the public service announcement,” Spike mumbled. “Now push off.”

The vampire was battered and drunk and just as impassive as Buffy. He didn’t appear to be listening as Xander stutter through the explanation of why he’d come. Spike didn’t seem to care at all.

Xander started to get angry. “Look,” he snapped, “are you going to help us get Buffy back or not?”

Spike took a long pull on his bottle and then asked, “Is she eating?”

“Yeah, if we watch her.”

“So,” Spike shrugged, “go watch her.”

“Is that all you have to say?" Xander ranted. "I can't believe this. I thought you cared about her. Guess that undead devotion of yours was just talk? Jokes on me, right? Should've known….”

“She told me to stay away," Spike growled, sloshing his whiskey. "And I’m staying.”

He took another drink. Xander threw his hands into the air. Cursing, he headed for the vampire’s wooden stairs. With one foot on the bottom rung, he paused. Turning slowly, he looked around the room, really seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t a stereotypical vampire lair. It was civilized, almost a home. He transferred his appraising stare to Spike, noting the polished look of him, the jewelry, the cotton dress shirt and the naturally curled hair.

“This…all this,” Xander said, softly, his broad gesture taking in the many changes in Spike’s mode of existence. “It's for her, isn't it? For Buffy?”

Spike shrugged again but he met the man’s eye for a brief second and the look was all Xander needed to, finally, accept the truth. Random pieces clicked into place; whispered phrases, meaningful glances, exercising vampires. Buffy and Spike were lovers. She stayed here, in the night, in this crypt, and in that bed. The carpenter sighed. He wasn’t angry and that was probably the scariest thing of all.

“How long?” he asked.

“Couple months.”

“And you had a fight, I’m guessing?”

“Something like that.”

“Over Riley?”

The vampire sighed but nodded.

“What?" Xander frowned, working on the puzzle. "Was it you? You killed him…or?” A horrible thought hit Xander mid-chest and he choked out his next question. “He didn’t…didn’t hurt her…touch her?”

Spike started to nod again but seeing the man’s horrified face he snorted. He shook his head, sadly, “No…not the way you mean, Harris. Call yourself her friend and you don’t know a bloody thing about her. She’s not some delicate flower. Far from it. So, if you’re lookin’ to play the hero, find some other damsel. You got no idea what this is about.”

“Then tell me,” Xander shouted. “What is wrong with Buffy? With you? Why won’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Because it’s none of your damned business!” Spike yelled back, swinging his leg to the floor so he was sitting up straight. “What the Slayer and I do in private? That’s between us.” His voice dropped to a mutter and he looked at the floor as he amended, “Long as I don’t hurt her.” He glanced up, challengingly, “And I don’t!”

“She’s hurting now,” Xander returned.

Spike winced. He closed his eyes and let his head drop against the back of the chair, sighing again in exasperation. His jaw clenched tight for a minute as conflicting passions played over his face. Xander thought the vampire was considering violence. He was. With a strangled oath, Spike stood up and heaved his bottle across the room. It shattered against the far wall, spraying glass and alcohol. He spun around to glare at Buffy’s friend. Xander held his ground and after a tension filled minute or two, Spike backed down.

“Right,” the vampire nodded, his shoulders sagging in defeat as the fight left his body. “Helping, then. You go get Dawn and the rest of the soddin’ Suffragettes out of the house. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good man,” Xander grinned. “Give me an hour and I’ll give you some alone time with the Buffster. You’ll have all night to get through to her.”

“Not promising you anything,” Spike grumbled. “She can be an unreasonable little scuffler when she wants to be. Probably dust me for my trouble.”

“Hey! Talk about your win-win situation,” Xander teased, as he headed for the stairs.

Spike shot him a killing glance but the young man was already gone.

Buffy woke up sometime after nine. She stumbled to the bathroom, her sock-covered feet making no sound on the carpeting. Passing by the sink, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and paused. The woman looking back at her was a stranger, bleak-eyed and hollow-faced. Her hair was tangled, dull and lifeless. Her nose was red and felt stuffy. Buffy thought she looked exactly like what she was, a woman with a dead past and no future.

She ran a glass of water. After the first small sip, her stomach cramped up and she stumbled to the toilet. When the dry heaving stopped, she fumbled her way back to the washbasin. She wiped her mouth, put the washcloth back on the rod and then stood numbly facing the mirror.

She sensed him at the door but didn't turn as he crossed to stand behind her. He had no reflection. Buffy saw no reason to acknowledge him. After a long pause, Spike leaned against the edge of the vanity. The antique piece groaned, shifting under his weight. He studied Buffy as she studied herself. They stared. The vampire at the woman he loved and the Slayer at the stranger in her mirror. Finally, Spike spoke. Characteristically, he came straight to the point.

“So, what you’re saying,” he said, “is that I’m your boyfriend.”

“What I’m saying,” she corrected, still not turning to look at him, “is that I want you to leave me alone.”

“Now we both know that’s never going to happen,” he replied, reaching out his hand to touch her shoulder. “Buffy…” he began.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” she stated, without any inflection. Turning, she headed for the door.

“No, it isn’t,” Spike snapped, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face him. “I’ve listened to enough of your lectures to last me a lifetime and now it’s time for YOU to listen to one of mine.”

Buffy didn’t struggle or strike out at him, she just stood there impassively waiting for him to say his piece and go away. It made Spike angrier with her than he had ever been. It made him reckless.

“You think I don’t know this is wrong?” he asked, giving her a hard shake. “You think I don’t know what you are? You’re the SLAYER, Buffy. How could I ever forget? When you touch me my skin burns. I kiss you and I taste my own ashes in your mouth. I’m not the one who doesn’t understand. The one who won’t accept the truth. I know that you will be the death of me. I know it.”

He lifted a limp strand of hair from her face with his fingers as he continued, “But it doesn’t matter to me. It can't matter. All that matters is the time between now and then. This time we have together.”

Spike lowered his head to look into her downcast eyes as he whispered, “Don’t you understand, Luv? This is as close to Heaven as I will ever come. Isn’t death the price that I’m suppose to pay for that?”

The Slayer was crying, sobbing out her pain. She sank weak-kneed toward the floor and Spike caught her. He wrapped her in his arms. Kneeling close, he held her as she wept away all her sorrow. It took a long, long time but finally she rested quietly against his shoulder. Holding her upright, Spike leaned back to look at his love. Buffy was a wreck; every ounce of vitality had drained out of her with her tears. He searched her face for some sign that she was past the worst of it. There was nothing in her hollow eyes but an echo of the seemingly empty room. He helped her to stand and guided her over to the commode. Using his knee, Spike lowered the toilet lid and then turned Buffy around. He sat her down on the closed seat. Then he plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the back of the toilet and handed them to her.

“Blow your nose,” he said gently.

Buffy did as he asked. Spike went back to the sink. He dampened a washcloth and brought it to her.

“Wipe your face,” he said. Buffy looked at the cloth in his hands and then at the crumbled tissues she was holding.

After too long a pause, she let the soggy bundle drop out of her grasp into the wastebasket beside her. Spike put the washcloth into her open palms and closed her fingers around it. She moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, as if her mind wasn’t in sync with her body, but she moved.

Spike returned to the sink and ran water into a tall plastic tumbler. Leaning forward, he sniffed briefly over the four toothbrushes in the rack, and then unerringly plucked the Slayer’s pink one from the group. When Buffy was done scrubbing her face he exchanged the glass for her washrag and told her to drink. He put a dab of toothpaste on the brush and traded it for Buffy’s water glass. Then he led her to the washstand.

“Brush, Swish, Spit,” he ordered. Setting the tumbler where she could reach it, he left the room.

Spike walked down the hall to the Slayer’s bedroom. He entered and went to her closet. It only took a moment for him to locate Buffy’s terry cloth robe. He came back to the bathroom and draped the robe from a hook behind the door. He hesitated and then shrugged off his duster, tossing it onto the vanity table. Buffy spat into the sink and paused staring blankly for a long beat before turning on the water to rinse out the basin.

Spike went back down the hall to the Wiccan room. He rummaged about for a several minutes in Willow’s bureau and dresser, gathering up items. He waited until after he heard the toilet flush to return. Buffy was perched on the closed seat again. Spike thought she looked slightly more present in her body.

He dropped his load of Wiccan paraphernalia into the sink. Buffy stared sightlessly at the bundles of herbs and the three boxes of votive candles as Spike crossed to the linen closet. He took out towels and sheets, setting the stack by his duster before turning toward the tub. He hit the bath stopper toggle and twisted the taps until the hot water sprayed full blast. He paced to the sink, gathered his herbs and returned to the bath. Buffy looked on impassively as he began crushing sweet flowers under the running water.

The room filled with fragrance and the Slayer stirred, glancing down at her pajama top. With unsteady fingers, she began to undress. When Spike turned around again she was naked. Her flesh bore the faint scars of their recent battle. But the thin lined knife cuts and colorful bruises failed to mar her beauty. Spike stood looking at her for several ticks of the clock, his emotions unreadable. Then he gave a small start, like a man coming awake after briefly nodding off. He blinked at Buffy and jerked his head to indicate the steaming tub of herbal tea.

“Get in, then,” he said, gruffly, as he skirted around her. He hefted the stack of sheets and slipped out the door, once again.

The bath water smelled heavenly. Buffy stepped over the rim of the tub and sank down into the green/brown heat. She leaned back and let the fragrant water rise to her chin. Sighing, she closed her eyes. She listened to Spike go into her room. Heard him knocking about and then heard him sweep down the stairs, his step light and quick. Twenty minutes later, she heard him coming back, his tread slow and soft.

He turned off the light as he entered and moved about in the dark, making tiny mysterious noises but never approaching her or speaking. She felt a faint stir of curiosity and opened her eyes. The bathroom was lit by the flickering candlelight of two-dozen votives. Spike had stripped off his shirt. He was removing his boots when he noticed her watching. He finished the task and picked up a mug from the back of the toilet.

Wearing only his jeans, he padded over to her and handed her the cup. "Drink this," he said. It was full of warm, sweet chamomile tea. Buffy took a small, tentative sip and then a longer one.

Spike brought over a plate of cut fruit and strips of meat. He kneeled beside the tub and fed her tiny bites. Buffy let the simple tasks of chewing and swallowing take on ritual importance. She closed her eyes again, tilting her head back as she opened her mouth to Spike’s offering. He placed a slice of apple on her tongue like a priest presenting a communion wafer. Buffy took of the body and ate.

When she’d had her fill, Spike sat the plate aside. He rose and went to the sink to fetch the washcloth and plastic glass. Then he returned to his spot at the side of the tub. With slow, practiced strokes the vampire bathed the Slayer. It was a sensual experience rather than a sexual one. Buffy kept her eyes shut, tuning out the visual in favor of her other senses. She savored the feel of the hot water and knobby cloth on her skin, the gentle swish and splash of ablution, the smell of lavender and lemon balm and ylang-ylang. The sickness began to leech out of her spirit.

“Dunk,” Spike advised a bit later.

Taking a deep breath, Buffy slid beneath the surface of the water. Sightless, she floated in the womb-like warmth, nearly weightless, nearly soundless, until her lungs began to burn. Spike watched her, counting off the seconds in his head. His fingers curled into fists and his nails cut into his palms as he fought against the urge to save his beloved, to reach in and pull her up into the air. Panic hit him just as Buffy rose from the water, gasping. Spike was gasping too.

“Not so long next time, Pet,” the vampire admonished. “Nearly started my bloody heart beating again.”

“Nice,” Buffy said, favoring him with the briefest of smiles. Spike didn’t ask if she was referring to the bath, the air, himself and his nearly beating heart or, in fact, to something else entirely. It was enough that she was responsive again.

“Right then, on to phase three,” he said, standing up to peel off his jeans.

“What happened to phase two?” Buffy asked, taking in his naked form.

Spike motioned her to scoot forward and make room for him in tub.

“Phase two was the bath,” he replied, slipping into the water. The Slayer sucked in air to speak and Spike quickly added, “And phase one was everything before the bath.”

“Oh!”

Buffy leaned back into her lover’s cool body. Spike slid his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. He was hard against her hip but Buffy knew he didn’t mean anything by it. It wasn’t suggestive or lascivious. It was simply arithmetic. Buffy plus naked equals Spike hard. Doing the math gave her a tiny thrill.

The water had reached an uncomfortable coolness. Spike used his toes to flick the drain open for a few minutes and then leaned forward with Buffy in his arms and added more hot. The Slayer agitated her legs a bit to spread the warmth. She tried to lie back into Spike again but the vampire held her off. He was sitting up straight and rummaging over the side of the tub. He came up with the plastic water glass. Filling it, he dumped a flume over the Slayer’s head.

“Time for your shampoo, Poodle,” he said.

“More sexual than sensual,” Buffy thought as Spike’s fingertips worked the thick lather through her hair.

He massaged her scalp, swirling gently one moment and scrubbing vigorously the next. He pulled her wet tresses into fanciful soapy styles. He swept the hair up off of her neck for a time and then brought it back down, twirling it around her ears. Under Spike’s hands, the shampoo took on a life of its own. Tentacles of foam caressed Buffy’s skin as they slid down her neck and over her breasts.

Spike’s hands followed the shampoo’s lead. He trailed his fingers over the Slayer from her nape, to her collarbone to the raised peak of her nipples. He tugged at her gently. Then he leaned in snaking his left arm around Buffy’s belly as he circled his flattened right palm over the slick globe and hard knot of her left breast. He kissed the soft hollow of her throat.

She moaned and pressed back into him. Spike pushed her forward into her raised knees, his cock jumping against the soft curve of her hip. He reached down between the Slayer’s legs, and her heart skipped and fluttered. But all he did was fumble up his plastic tumbler from the bottom of the tub. He used it to pour water over the both of them. Again and again, he doused them. Until the Slayer’s hair was squeaky clean.

She tilted her head back to kiss him turning onto her side, and then coming up onto her knees. They stood up together, bodies intertwined. Hands running smooth over wet skin, mouths tasting and murmuring nonsense, pushing toward the inevitable, until Spike, quite suddenly, jerked away.

He wasn’t going to let this happen again. He swore he wouldn't. Not this time. He wasn’t going to let Buffy lose herself in him, taking easy comfort in sex. Reaching past the Slayer, he started the bath draining. Then with a brutal twist of his wrist, he turned on the shower, full on cold. The spray blasted them, washing away the last traces of soap and the lustiness of the mood.

Buffy squeaked and jumped. She stood shivering under the icy deluge, pushing her limits, testing how long she could tolerate the discomfort. Spike climbed out of the tub but she remained. Her skin prickled into goosebumps and her teeth began to chatter. Finally, when she started to turn blue around the lips, Spike turned off the taps. Shuddering, Buffy hugged herself for warmth as the last of the frigid water drained away.

“B-b-bracing,” she stammered. Snorting softly, the naked vampire lowered his head, shaking it from side to side before looking up at her.

“Yeah, you can take a lot of cold,” he commented, enigmatically, as he handed her a towel.

Stepping out of the tub, Buffy rubbed the feeling back into her skin. As she squeezed the moisture from her hair, Spike padded over to the door and fetched back her robe. He wrapped his beloved in the warm cloth and then he lifted her into his arms. She was incredibly light. It made his gut twist up and his manhood stir to life again. Buffy Summers, his heart’s own Slayer, was a mystery of bruising strength and delicate femininity. He loved confronting the combination.

Spike carried Buffy over the bathroom threshold and down the hall to her bedroom. The bed was newly made. He placed her on top of the covers. She curled up and he turned away from her, going to the window to shutter it. He returned to her, carrying a blanket. He joined her in the bed, spreading the warm cloth over them both. They lay side-by-side. The vampire spooned around the Slayer’s robed form, cradling her head on his arm. Buffy stared at the far wall. She drifted on a cloud of sublime peace and security. She was safe. She was loved. She was home.

Minutes passed silently into hours. The sun rose.

“Yes,” Buffy whispered as the first rays of light touched the windows.

“Yes, what, Luv?” Spike murmured into her hair. He was half-asleep.

She pushed her shoulder back, forcing him to shift his position as she rolled over to face him. Buffy’s robe fell open as she dropped one warm leg over Spike’s cold naked thigh. Blinking, the vampire came instantly and completely awake.

“Yes,” Buffy repeated, holding his gaze, “that IS what I’m saying…you are,” she continued, reaching out to touch his lower lip, “most definitely, my boyfriend.”

Spike smiled in bemused wonder. He let his hand drop to the small of Buffy’s back, pushing her hips forward. The Slayer flowed with the movement. Without breaking eye contact she opened herself to him as he thrust deep. She took him entire. Letting him go all the way to her womb, all the way to her emotional core, she surrounded him, snug and warm and alive. Spike rolled them over so that Buffy lay on top of him. She sank back, sliding her knees further open. She settled into his lap, pushing down to envelope him completely. Spike’s face reflected his sense of awe, as he was drenched in the hot, sweet flood of her arousal.

“Oh, Slayer,” he breathed out. “You’re destroying me.”

Finally, after weeks of exquisitely mind-blowing, acrobatic sex, Spike and Buffy made love. There was no violence. No brutal foreplay, no dominance or submission involved and no paying witnesses to the event. Bailey Conger, had he lived to see it, would have been sadly disappointed in the pair of them.

They took their time. Buffy played her fingers over Spike’s face and neck, kissing him, rolling the swell of her breasts into his chest as she rocked and rotated her hips. She swirled the silken strands of his hair, loosening the curls into disarray. He cried out softly, thrusting up to meet her downward strokes. He petted her, stroking over her shoulder blades and the curve of her back. She rose above him, bracing her palms into his and he arched beneath her. When she found her balance, he released her, setting his hands to other work. He circled his thumbs over her nipples, danced his nails in a light caress along the length of her arms and drew random patterns on her taut stomach. Buffy gripped him tight between her thighs and let herself go. Her hair bounced, brushing her shoulders, as she tossed her head in the throes of ecstasy.

Her entire body cracked like a sheet drying in a strong wind. Spike caught her, pulling her close, again. Buffy offered no resistance. She let him take her. His tongue was in her mouth, his teeth sharp against her throat, his lips soft on her most sensitive flesh, exploring and claiming. His hands were everywhere, touching her deep. He owned her, mastered her as she owned and mastered him. They were one. His cock felt like a part of her body. She longed for his release as if it were her own.

“Mine” he growled, shuddering with his need for her.

“Yes,” she agreed, “yours.”

“Always?”

“Always,” Buffy whispered and felt the bliss of his cool seed spilling into her.

He flipped her to her back and stretched out along her pleasure pliant body. She spread herself open under him, one foot dangling off the bed, toes brushing the floor. Moaning and trembling beneath him, she milked out every last ounce of his come. Spike took several steadying breaths before he moved again. He let the Slayer relax completely, and then slowly let the tempo build between them. Each shift of his hips was a long measured stoke into her center. He felt Buffy start to tighten around him in response.

“Oh, Spike…Spike?”

“Baby?”

“Don’t,” she panted and then emitted a breathless scream as a second orgasm hit her and she forgot how to form words.

“Don’t?” he prompted, after a time.

“Leave,” she said, when she could speak again. “Do-don’t leave.”

Spike gave a half-sobbing laugh into the curve of her throat nearly undone by the absurdity of her request. “‘Kay,” he gulped.

Unsatisfied, Buffy pushed him away, seeking his eyes.

“Please,” she insisted. “Promise me.”

Spike brought both of his palms up to the sides of her face. Holding her, he stilled them both in body and mind. He focused all of his attention on her beautiful eyes.

“I promise not to leave,” he said. “And when they take me forcibly away, I will storm through Hell and rage at the gates of Heaven until they let me be with you again.”

Buffy didn’t question him. She just took him back into her arms.

“Spike, sweet, wonderful, Spike,” she chanted, softly as she cast his demon out. “So strong, so perfect, so very, very good to me. My boyfriend, my sweet William, my own...”

“Love,” he murmured. It was the only word he could remember but it seemed like the right one, the one that completed them both.

Belly to belly, manhood to womanhood, the vampire and Slayer accommodated one another. Slowly, languidly Spike occupied his beloved, filling her body and soul. His member stroked every inch of her sensitive inner passage. He pulled back only slightly each time before letting Buffy take him completely again. He couldn’t bear to be separated from her, even for a moment. Instead he burrowed into her, rotating his hips to bring her more pleasure than she had ever known.

Buffy didn’t understand how something cold and dead could make her feel so alive. Spike didn’t understand how her gentlest caress could make him ache so deep inside. Neither of them understood how it was possible to love someone with such profound intensity.

It took hours, before they were satisfied. And in the end, they were both moved to tears. They cried out for one another and sank as one into the abyss. Shuddering and gasping, they melted in each other’s arms, giving up their separate selves to the union. Basking in the afterglow, Spike looked deep into Buffy’s eyes, to her very soul. He saw himself reflected in her love. Not the monster he was but the man.

It was, in so many ways, a truer reflection than any mirror would ever offer him.

~Fin~

Return to Round Winners

Return to Listing