Beyond the Darkness
By Nichole (Neko-chan) Johnson
Rating: PG or TV 14
Pairings: B/S
Disclaimer: All BtVS characters and such are owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (bless that little paper monster…). “You Don’t See Me” is by Josie and the Pussycats.
Spoilers: Takes place during Season 5, immediately after “The Body”.
Summary: After the unexpected tragedy of Joyce’s death, a broken Buffy has a somewhat revealing encounter with Spike, an encounter ending quite differently than their former (see “Crush”) which leads to a newer, heated tension between the two former enemies. Meanwhile the Scooby gang, still intent on uncovering Glory’s secrets and the relevance of the Key, seems to have unwittingly stumbled upon a strange and cryptic legend that may just answer Buffy’s misgivings about her feelings for a certain, British vampire…
* * * * * * * * * *
Prologue
Despite the late hour—or rather, early—the bleach-blonde vampire, former master, brutal undead killer and just plain all-around Big Bad made his way to the seedy tavern near the bad part of town (the only suitable part, he thought) to catch up on his wallow-in-my-misery-as-well-as-several-bottles-of-cheap-liquor routine. It seemed that he was doing that all too much lately, but it wasn’t at all hard to understand. Having been the biggest and baddest vamp around since Angel’s wondrous resurrection into the realm of the soul-ed, and then having it all taken away in an instant so that he was reduced to sucking pigs’ blood from a bag and playing toady for the Slayer and her Scooby Gang…well, it didn’t exactly bode well for any future position in the evil department, not to mention keep him on anything but nasty terms with his former “brethren of the night.”
This is the place where I sit
This is the part where I love you too much
Is this as hard as it gets?
‘Cuz I’m getting tired of pretending I’m tough
The worst part of all was that he wasn’t sure he even cared anymore. De-fanged and soulless, and working side-by-side with the Slayer—if not for Angel’s former soul-endowed exploits, he was certain a vampire couldn’t be any worse off.
But of course, here he was—even worse. Not only did he work with the Slayer, but he unwillingly and undeniably loved the Slayer. It was beyond belief, it was beyond reason, and it was his curse.
I’m here if you want me, I’m yours you can hold me
I’m empty and diggin’ and tumblin’ and breakin’…
At least the poof had a bloody soul to blame, thought Spike bitterly, hands suddenly itching for the familiar comfort of a cigarette. Fumbling irritably in the pocket of his duster, he had the small roll of tobacco out and lit—and the rest of the pack returned to his pocket—in astonishing speed and agility, resuming his fast, purposeful pace.
Despite his increasingly foul mood and self-loathing spirits, their was still a tiny voice in the back of the brassy vampire’s head hoping and wishing…that somehow, all would work out and the Slayer would realize what she felt for him. His humanity? Or was he just going soft? He inhaled viciously on the cigarette, finishing it, and flung the still glowing butt away in frustration. He had had enough of humanity. Humanity had brought pain, rejection. Worthlessness. Why else had he allowed himself to be seduced to the dark, in a most clear and literal sense? Only in the arms of a vampire had he found power. Power beyond imagining, not to mention love and unending passion…
And hurt and pain and blind, bitter rage. Bloody fool! his thoughts snarled at him. You’re no better off than you were as a bleedin’ mortal!
The voice in the back of his head sighed with forlorn despair, becoming increasingly louder. If he had had a soul, he was sure this would be it, but as it was he did not, and therefore the voice unnerved him endlessly. All emotion, all raw, like a wide-eyed child. But the thoughts that it breathed, the weak human dreams and heavy desires, would never be. Could never be.
To even wish, even think. Him…and the Slayer.
‘Cuz you don’t see me
And you don’t need me
And you don’t love me…
The way I wish you would…
The way I know you could
“To hell with you, Slayer!” he spat, this time out loud, but barely a vicious whisper, the breeze covering the sound even as it escaped his lips. Lighting up another cigarette, he growled angrily to himself, staring at the glowing embers that tumbled away on the wind as he took a heavy drag, but not even their fire could burn the young woman’s visage from his mind.
I dream a world where you understand
But I dream a million sleepless nights
Soon the small dive of a tavern came into his sights. Flicking away the remains of his cigarette, Spike stomped moodily into the dank abode, ignoring the suspicious and hostile glances that met him from the variety of demons and humans within. He strode boldly to the bar; ignoring the barkeep’s nervous, shifty glance around the room, then back to him, his irritation now evident.
Well I dream of fire when you’re touching my hand,
But it twists into smoke when I turn on the lights
“Oh, as if I hadn’t had enough problems tonight! Master Spike, you’ve gotta’ stop comin’ around here like—“
The demon quickly emerged in the moody vampire, fixing the lippy bartender with golden, predatory eyes. “Bourbon, Willy. Now!”
I’m speechless and faded, it’s too complicated
Is this how the book ends? Nuthin’ but…?
Giving a long-ending sigh, Willy hastily moved to obey, and with the movement, Spike was able to see the far counter of the bar previously blocked by his back. He wasn’t sure if it had been luck, or his unfortunate fate, but he was suddenly affronted by the object of all his misery and human desires.
“Buffy?”
This is the place in my heart
This is the place where I’m fallin’ apart
Isn’t this just where we met?
And is this the last chance that I’ll ever get?
The petite blond looked up from the bottle of whiskey she was currently nursing with shaking hands. Her features were pale beyond his own undead tone, gaunt and stricken with inexplicable pain, yet somehow retained that effortless beauty that had so caught him from the start. With bleary, booze-touched eyes, she blinked at him from across the bar, and finally finding recognition focused on him with some difficulty. There was none of the usual belligerence or disgust she had shown to him in the past. Only unending pain, green eyes brimming uncharacteristically with tears.
I wish I was lonely, instead of just only
Crystal and see-through, and not enough to you…
“Spike…” As if she could contain her pain no more, she broke down and wept, awkwardly pushing away the half-empty bottle in her hand which spun as drunkenly as she onto the floor, shattering into a dull splay of glass and booze.
The punk rock vampire was effectively speechless.
‘Cuz you don’t see me
And you don’t need me
And you don’t love me…
The way I wish you would…
The way I know you could.
After a moments frozen shock, Spike slowly climbed to his feet, hurrying around the bar in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Buffy!” he repeated, louder this time, grabbing her arm in time to stop her tumbling from her barstool. “Bloody hell, you’re off your face!”
She laughed crazily amidst her tears, leaning on his arm for support. “Never thought…ya’d sche da mighty Schlayer drunk in a tavern, ‘ey, Spike?” She sobbed heavily, suddenly and surprisingly throwing herself into his arms, her small hands grasping desperately at the front of his shirt.
“Oh, God, it’s all gone, Spike…!” she wailed pitifully, her sobs muffled against his chest. “Everything is…such a mess…I can’t…”
Under any other circumstances he might have enjoyed having her lithe form pressing against him, but in her drunken blubbering state, all he could think of was getting her out of there and safely home. He didn’t even want to think what kind of trouble the Slayer might have gotten into if he hadn’t stumbled upon her just now.
He patted her head clumsily, awkwardly attempting to pull her to her own feet. “Come on, pet, let’s get you home now…” he murmured soothingly, eyes darting uncomfortably to the many eyes now focused on them.
As if he had struck some sort of chord within her, Buffy’s wails became louder and more heart-wrenching, her body quivering with the exertion of so much pain and despair. “Home! Spike, she’s gone! She won’t be there and…oh, why did she do this?! Spike, why?!”
Still attempting to maneuver her towards the door and ignoring the insistent way she was pressing up against him, Spike glanced down at her inquiringly. "Do…what—Cor, what are you sobbin’ about, pet? Who did what?”
The blonde was strangely and suddenly silent, pressing her dark lashes tightly shut as if attempting to calm herself, and the vampire shivered involuntarily with the pain radiating from her, nearly tangible as her heat. Yet despite her despair and his own concern, he found himself drawn into the gentle tremble of her heavy, pouting lips. Her eyelashes fluttered, glittering wetly with her tears, and she gazed up at him through mournful olive-green eyes. He found himself melting under that gaze, and once again forced himself to tear himself away before the desire overcame him.
“Okay, Slayer, let’s get you home now…”
Her grip tightened again on his shirt and he found himself once again looking into her green, pleading gaze. “I can’t…” she moaned, long and drawn out as if the words had been painful to speak. She began to sink to her feet but his arms caught her, pulling her up again unsteadily and starting for the door once again with her in tow.
“Alright,” he drawled in confusion, dark eyebrows furrowing in a semblance of control and reason as they made it out to the street. Whatever dark thoughts he had been having before this were completely forgotten, as well as any normal urge to shake the effect she was having on his mind and body. Trying to keep calm and rational was hard with her warm, trembling figure pressed desperately against him.
He shook away the improper thoughts he was having with some difficulty, trying to ignore her warm, musky scent all around him. “We can’t leave you here though, now can we, luv?” Scanning the lightening horizon, he judged he had just about an hour until sunrise.
“It doesn’t matter…” She threw back her head suddenly, laughing insanely, and oddly reminding him of Dru. I’m naming the stars, my love…! He shook the thought away, disentangling himself from her slightly to try and clear the fog from his brain.
Once, he would have found this the perfect opportunity to kill her, simply snap her neck and feed like he had dreamed of for so many years. She had plagued his dreams—his nightmares—ever since he’d laid eyes on her, and only her death had seemed the answer to their end. He knew he could never do that now, whether there had been a chip in his head or not, despite her obvious revulsion and rejection of him.
Only having her would ease that pain. Once again he found her warmth and scent drawing him in, and he fought to keep control. It was obvious, that just as his sire, he was doomed to live with that passionate and insatiate desire for all eternity.
Or until she took pity on him and drove a stake through his heart.
She was still laughing, staring up at the stars in dizzy, drunken glee. Pushing off of his chest, she spun away from him, swinging her arms wide in a sort of spinning, pagan dance.
“IT DOESN’T MATTER!” she screamed, giggling insanely, but her giggles quickly dissolved into tears once again. Half falling, half sinking, she dropped to her knees on the cement and buried her face in her hands, sobbing silently as she rocked back and forth in silent anguish.
Momentarily torn, the vampire lowered himself on his haunches beside her. “Jesus…! Buffy, what’s the matter?” he crooned, genuinely concerned. He rubbed her back soothingly with one hand, feeling her body shudder beneath his touch. “Buffy?”
The Slayer looked up from her hands, staring blankly ahead. “She’s dead, Spike,” she spoke hollowly, her words clear and sober. “She’s dead. Dead. Dead…”
This time he looked at her firmly, gripping her shoulder insistently. “Who is, Buffy?”
Buffy swayed, mouth working wordlessly. “My mother…” she whispered finally. In a sudden fit of convulsions, she vomited violently, leaning on her palms on the cool cement until she was through. Then swaying once more, she tumbled against him, finally passing out against his shoulder.
Something flashed in the vampire’s being. A slicing, short-lived pang that rocked him inwardly. Remorse? He shook his head, trying to clear his tangled thoughts and easily scooped the Slayer up in his arms, rising to his feet. Right now, he needed to get the Slayer taken care of and himself somewhere safe before dawn.
Already, the faint light of dawn was beginning to peek over the horizon as the lone vampire and his unlikely charge moved briskly towards the safety of darkness, his soulless mind plagued with conflicting emotions belying explanation.
* * *
Willow waited tensely, listening as the line on the other end reached its twentieth ring and still no one picked up. Cupping a palm over the mouthpiece she turned to the other occupants of the room, eyebrows furrowed deeply. The faces of the four others gathered in the small magic shop mirrored her concern.
“She’s not answering. Do you think I should…?” She trailed off, eyes darting from one person to another for help.
Tara was fixing her with a familiar compassionate gaze. It pained her to see how badly she was taking the last day’s events. How everyone was taking them, for that matter.
“Maybe she’s just not ready, Willow. Let’s give her time.”
Across the room, Xander leaned back against the chair he was seated in, attempting to appear casual. His tenseness belied his discomfort, however. “I’d say she’s taking this thing pretty well, if you asked me. I mean, if my…well…if this happened to me, I’d probably be out having myself a nice killing spree about now.” Nobody laughed at his comment, but for once the humorous young man was looking for no applause. Seated next to him, Anya patted his knee reassuringly.
Willow suddenly looked worried, forgetting the phone. “Wh-what if that’s where she is? We should stop her! I mean, she could get herself killed in her condition and—“
Giles cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m sure Buffy is okay, Willow. This…this tragedy has doubtlessly shaken her immensely, but I am sure she will be rational enough not to…ah, get herself, ahem… greatly harmed…”
“Let her stake a few unlucky vamps and get this all out of her system, Will,” added Xander supportively, making stabbing motions reminiscent of Psycho with a fist. “Maybe there could be a bright side to this.”
Everyone was suddenly staring at him, particularly Willow, mouth agape in horror.
“Scratch that.”
Eager to divert their attention, Anya shifted uncomfortably, piercing the others with her wide-eyed, innocent face, devoid of expression. “What about Dawn?” she asked inquisitively, as always curious and somewhat oblivious as to what she was supposed to do. “Is Dawn…hurting?”
There was silence as the others shifted uncomfortably, thrown-off as usual by the former-demon’s blunt way of coming straight to the point. The last day had not been easy for all of them. After the sudden and unexpected tragedy of Mrs. Summers’ death, not to mention a short run-in with a newly-born vampire in the autopsy ward of the hospital, Buffy had made a hurried excuse and left, supposedly for home. Dawn, however, had stayed, still unable to grasp her mother’s death, and had eventually gone to stay with Giles, saying that she didn’t wish to bother Buffy just yet, which had been just fine with the middle-aged Englishman. The Watcher had been almost as upset as the two girls over Joyce’s untimely death, and had always felt himself as a sort of father figure to the two girls so easily took it upon himself to get them through the ordeal. He had worried somewhat over Buffy and had nearly gone after her, but had somehow reasoned that she would be alright and instead focused on consoling a broken-up Dawn.
Giles cleared his throat uncomfortably, sliding his glasses off his nose and cleaning them absentmindedly with the handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket for such an occasion, a clear sign that he was struggling for words.
“Dawn is…She appears to be faring well, at the moment, but I believe she is taking this the hardest, due to her…ah, unusual circumstances. But yes, Anya, I do believe she is…hurting.”
The demon-girl nodded sagely, her odd expression of a rough understanding on her calm features. Beside her, Xander cleared his throat uncomfortably, putting a meaningful hand on his girlfriend’s arm as he slowly climbed to his feet.
“Ah, I think it’s time Anya and I got some rest. What with all this excitement and all…” Giving her a meaningful glance, he gently steered the girl towards the door, giving his friends a short wave.
The others nodded, staring after them in silence until the door chime announced their absence. Tara shifted slightly, giving Willow another concerned glance, who was still standing at the counter, phone in hand, the dead dial tone blaring loudly in the silence.
“I think Willow and I should be going, too.”
The sweet-looking redhead pursed her lips nervously, eyes flitting between the two remaining people. “Giles, what if…”
The Watcher sighed lightly, replacing his glasses on his nose with characteristic dignity. “I’m sure Buffy will contact us when she is ready, Willow.” He pierced the girl with a compassionate, paternal glance. “Right now, I do believe all of us could use a bit of rest. This ordeal has been quite hard on all of our nerves, and if we wish to help Buffy and Dawn in any way, we will need to be strong and supportive.”
Willow smiled wanly, finally replacing the phone on its jack with a resigned sigh. “I suppose you’re right, Giles. I’m just being the overprotective best friend, I guess. Emotional trauma is the only area of protection I specialize in, after all.”
Giles returned her smile. “Well, I am sure Buffy will come to you for help as soon as she is ready. Otherwise, I do believe I will be forced to play the overprotective Watcher until she does so.”
There were short good-byes and soon Giles was left alone once again. He sighed, heavily, fiddling uncomfortably with the worn edges of an old, thin book that had been lying open on the round table. The door chimed once again, signaling that is was time for him to get back to work. Closing the book and straightening his glasses, he got up from his seat and went to attend to his customers.
* * *
Buffy awoke to disorientation and a screaming headache.
Everything was dark, incredibly dark, and cold beyond the nest of warmth her own body had created in the covers of the unfamiliar bed. She groaned, and immediately gasped at the gut-wrenching pain in her skull, putting a hand tenderly to her head. Because of the dark, she couldn’t be sure of whether it was night or day, but judging by how long she assumed she had been either asleep or unconscious, she guessed it was more likely the latter.
She remained lying for several minutes, waiting for the pain in her head to lessen as she tried to gather her bearings. Finally she struggled shakily to a sitting position, looking around at her surroundings as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Except for the bed, the room seemed fairly empty. Cold, empty, and vaguely familiar.
Like a crypt.
She blinked, cursing. “What the…” Flopping back into the covers momentarily, Buffy finally noticed the strange, yet familiar scent of the sheets, something only she could notice with her heightened Slayer senses. Very faint, human yet not, and hinting of cigarette smoke and all-too-familiar cologne.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
The young woman was startled slightly by the cheerful, British voice, wondering why her Slayer senses hadn’t warned her of the vampire’s presence earlier.
Spike grinned at her with characteristic brashness, crossing the room and lighting the few candles in it with the one he had been holding. Buffy followed his movements suspiciously, inwardly glad to realize she was fully clothed and that it was obvious he had come from the other room. Still, she glared at him, distrustful. And why should I? she thought harshly. He’s a vampire, he can’t be trusted. It’s just a chip in his head, and as soon as he figures out how to get rid of it, you know he’ll kill you.
But there was another voice in her head. At the moment it was silent. But its silence spoke volumes, especially on her heart rate.
“How’s the headache, Slayer?” spoke up the brassy vampire, lazily taking a seat across the room in a rather dusty and archaic looking chair. As if in answer, she rubbed her head tenderly, frowning viciously.
“What am I doing here?” she demanded in a deadly tone. Spike seemed unfazed, however; in fact, his grin widened further at her obvious annoyance.
“I think I might have asked you the same question last night, pet,” he replied cheekily, leaning back and getting more comfortable in his chair. He chuckled slightly, enjoying the flushed and furious expression on Buffy’s face.
“Don’t play games with me, Spike,” she demanded angrily, climbing to her feet. Immediately a wave of nausea assaulted her. Putting out a steadying hand against the bed, she breathed deeply, waiting for the ill feeling to subside.
She failed to notice the flash of concern on the bleach-blonde vampire’s face. “Lord, you did yourself a number with the liquor, Slayer. I thought you didn’t drink?”
Buffy grimaced, her nausea subsiding enough so that she could stand. “I don’t.”
“I can see that,” he replied sardonically, getting up and offering a hand. She pushed him away gruffly, glaring daggers at him.
“You still haven’t answered me, Spike. What am I doing with a hangover and what am I doing in your bed? You’ve got five seconds, and then I’m going to beat it out of you.”
The vampire ignored her, leaving the bedroom for the main chamber, obviously expecting her to follow. She did so, grudgingly, angrily demanding he answer her while wincing painfully against the headache and nausea. The main chamber was brighter, a fire glowing cheerily in the low fireplace and candles scattered around the dusty, cobweb infested room. Still ignoring the Slayer’s threats, Spike retrieved a covered Styrofoam cup from the top of a dusty sarcophagus currently serving as a coffee table.
“Later, Buffy. Here, drink this,” he insisted, kindly but forcefully, shoving the cup at her. She blinked, taking the cup warily.
She raised it to her nose, crinkling her nose in disgust. “What is it? Blood?”
He shook his head, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “No, it’s bourbon, you chit! It’s coffee, what else? Now drink it. It might help that nasty hangover of yours.”
Buffy raised it to her lips cautiously, taking a sip. Convinced it was just coffee, she took a larger sip, enjoying the warmth it brought her. Then she looked back up at the vampire watching her, his expressionless face unreadable, and glared sourly. The action was mostly out of habit though and hardly as intimidating as she had hoped it would be. And a part of her couldn’t help noticing the concern evident on his face, despite his obvious attempts to appear indifferent. It felt oddly…comforting.
She almost spit out the coffee.
“Spike, story. Now.”
Gesturing for her to take a seat, which she took gladly, still ill from the after-effects of the alcohol, he perched casually on the edge of the stone sarcophagus. His gaze was serious, dark eyebrows slightly furrowed, and she realized he was trying to gauge her temperament. Just to humor him, she made a point to glare harder, but finding it only increased her headache by tenfold, she relented to simply favoring him with a slightly annoyed look of impatience.
Spike took a breath, unneeded of course, being a vampire, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Do you remember anything of last night, luv?”
She smiled coldly, a warning. “No, so you better tell me exactly what happened or our little coffee break will be ending with your sorry ashes decorating this lovely new-age coffee table.”
Now the punk rock vampire was smiling at her brazenly once again, her familiar banter provoking him. “That’s not what you were screaming last night, baby…”
“What?! Spike, you—“
The vampire waved his hands in mock surrender, giving her his fangiest grin. “I’m pullin’ ya, pet. You were smashed, said you di’nt wanna’ go home, I brought you here. End ‘o story. All completely innocent.”
She glared at him searchingly for a moment, but he gazed back boldly, and eventually she nodded slightly, believing him.
“Of course, I did cop a feel or two, but that was all in fun…”
“Spike!”
He laughed, dodging her weak blow. “Kidding, luv, kidding! My, for someone with such a hangover, you’re mighty lively, Slayer!”
She growled in irritation, downing the last of the coffee. “Yeah, well, must be that Chosen One healing thing. Give me five minutes and I might just be ‘lively’ enough to kick your ass.”
It was Spike’s turn to look irritated. “Now wait a minute, I helped you! If I hadn’t shown up, there’s no tellin’ what sort of nasty trouble you’d ‘a been in by now!”
Her gaze was withering. “Despite what you try to convince yourself, I don’t need your help, Spike. And I especially don’t need you.” She climbed to her feet, already looking steadier, and placed the cup in front of him on the sarcophagus. “If it’s ‘thanks’ you’re looking for, then thank you. Otherwise, I am leaving, and I don’t want to see you again.”
Turning her back on him coldly, she started for the door. Immediately the vampire was on his feet, hackles raised at her lack of gratitude. She had treated him with cold disdain in the past, but after seeing her last night, all inhibitions gone and clinging to him in desperation, he knew that deep down there must be something that felt for him; that needed him. He had told her it before, had believed it so strongly, but there had been no way of showing her and now he saw his chance. Either that or he was just desperate not to let her walk out on him again with his undead heart in shambles.
“Bloody right I’m looking for ‘thanks’, Slayer!” he spat angrily, fighting back his demon’s attempts to surface. He needed his human face for this, needed her to see him that way. As a hurt person, not a hurt demon. “I want you to thank me for all the times I’ve saved your ass! I want you to show me some bloody respect for once! Bloody hell, I gave up power for you! I gave up my kind, I gave up killing, I gave up my very way of life! Hell, I even gave up Dru for you, and still you…you spit on me, Slayer! I was givin’ a million ‘n one chances to kill you, and instead I helped you, risked bein’ staked and tortured by my own kind, and now I’ve fallen in love with you and you not only turn your back on me, but you do it with hate and disgust! So yes, yes I want to be thanked. I want to see you look on me with something other than revulsion for once.”
Buffy was silent, her back still to him. A tiny voice in the back of her mind wept bitterly, something in her aching painfully, but she pushed it away angrily, pulling on every ounce of hate she had in her to quiet it. She didn’t know why she did it, but the memory of pain was so strong. Angel. The thought suddenly sprang to mind, unbidden, along with all the buried hopes and pain and suffering. Never again, a thought whispered bitterly, wiping away both vampires’ images angrily. The pain was too strong, too easily remembered after…
Her mother. The emotions she had pushed back, numbed by sleep and liquor, washed over her in a torrent and she began to tremble violently under the deluge.
Spike’s eyebrows knitted in concern, his earlier frustration momentarily forgotten. “Buffy?”
The trembling Slayer fought to regain control, taking several stiff steps forward. “I…I have to…” And suddenly she was tumbling slowly to the floor, knees buckling beneath her, eyes brimming with tears.
“Buffy!” cried Spike shortly in surprise, rushing to her side. Leaning on her forearms on the stone floor, the petite blonde stared blankly down at the puddle slowly forming in front of her as she wept.
“Mom…Mom!” she moaned, realization hitting her for the second time in the last day. Spike put a tentative, comforting hand on her shoulder, then slowly slid it to her back, rubbing gently. As if some wall had burst, she turned suddenly and threw herself at his chest, burying her face in his shirt and simply letting the pain overwhelm her.
And for the second time that day, the Slayer found herself weeping in the arms of the enemy.
* * *
After several minutes, which dragged by like hours, Buffy seemed to have found some control. Sniffling, she pulled away slowly, eyes still hollow, unseeing.
“Buffy, what happened?” urged Spike carefully in a low voice, although he was pretty sure without her telling him. He was surprised to find a sinking feeling in his own chest, a feeling he remembered as sadness. Not as if he had never felt sadness during his long existence in immortality, but never once for another human being. After all, he had been a killer and he had hardly been inclined to weep for the death of his victims, let alone care in the least. Caring and remorse were something only a soul could feel.
Or so he had thought. He could sense her pain now, feel it washing over him simply by touching her, and he was appalled at the raw intensity of it. Spike had felt nothing of it for centuries, save hollow shadows of the emotion that were mere fragments of the human part of his mind still left intact, and he felt a strange sort of longing to be able to feel so much. Other than the characteristic demon emotions of rage, hate, and jealousy, he had been empty for so long.
Until the Slayer began to invade his dreams. And then the new emotions had surfaced, foreign and dusty. At first they simply took the form of the only emotions he knew, but after time, they had become stronger and polished, and he had suddenly and inexplicably found himself looking at things in a new light. She had said he was evil. He was no longer sure.
“Buffy?”
He couldn’t remember when he had started calling her by name. A week ago? A month ago? It had just suddenly seemed right, like it would show he felt more for her than respect for one’s enemy. She didn’t seem to notice. Or rather, she didn’t care.
Buffy jolted, as if she had suddenly awoken from a trance, and automatically found herself looking up at his face. His human face; blue eyes, bleach-blonde hair, high, striking cheekbones, dark eyebrows knitted handsomely in concern. With his vampire senses, he felt her pulse quicken, pale skin flushing, and then she was pushing him away violently, tearing her eyes away from his face in a mixture of confusion and disgust.
“I…I have to go,” she muttered, hastily trying to climb to her feet. She was still dizzy though, and a bit weak, and quickly found herself once again leaning on him for support. Briefly, he noted how she had been too flustered to lash out at him and he softened his features further, hoping to take advantage of her weakened resistance.
“Perhaps you should lie down a bit first, pet,” he murmured pointedly, helping her to her feet. Her olive eyes met his blue ones again, searchingly, and he once again felt the spark between them, the link he had tried to convince her of before. Buffy seemed to have noticed it too, reeling—if not physically but mentally—in surprise. She fumbled to push him away once again, but this time he was ready and he held her arms firmly.
His earlier concerns were forgotten. “What are you afraid of?” he whispered, eyes narrowed, searching hers in return.
She faltered, breathing heavily as if she were still struggling, although she was frozen with indecision. Her eyes narrowed, glaring at him, but the expression was hollow, and beneath it her eyes glittered passionately. “I’m not afraid of anything.” Her voice was low; almost a breathy rasp, but he could hear the tremor in it.
“Then why are you shaking, Buffy?” he replied, his voice so low it was nearly a growl. His lips were now barely inches away from hers, the breath caused by his speech gently teasing her face, her heart pounding in his ears like a dull roar. He was sure that if he had a heartbeat, it would be beating similarly as fast and was eternally glad he had none to speak of. Already, each of them was gasping for breath as if they had run a race, despite the fact that Spike had no need for breathing and neither had moved so much as a foot in the last several minutes.
Despite the rapid beating of her heart and the roar of her pulse in her ears, Buffy clung to her stubborn resolve like a spoiled child. Everything in her mind screamed No!, begging to force herself to break away and run, but her traitorous body would not let her, aching towards the familiar vampire with painful longing. Heat…desire…hissed her feverish thoughts but she pushed them away weakly, clinging, clinging to everything she believed in. He was a vampire. And she was a vampire Slayer. Angel had been an accident, an accident that could never be repeated. Even after so much pain and death, the memory of that fated love still haunted her. She just couldn’t let that happen again.
Wouldn’t let that happen again.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she corrected harshly, voice still low. But she was. He had nearly caused her to admit it, to herself and out loud, that some part of her needed him. Wanted him. Was terrifyingly attracted to him. As long as she never admitted to it openly, she felt there was still a chance that she could get over him. Simply walk away and move on, never dwelling on what could have been. She was over with the what-could-have-been’s, had gone through them a million times with Angel, and knew they only brought more grief.
“I can feel it, Slayer,” Spike murmured softly, visibly steadying himself. It took every ounce of willpower in him not to simply lean forward and touch her lips with his. But he knew that he was just as close to breaking whatever resolve she had against him, and he chose his words carefully, biding his time. “You are afraid.”
She was wavering, and she knew it, but she faced him boldly, if not somewhat lustily. Buffy wasn’t sure anymore, wasn’t sure of anything anymore. All she could sense was him; his strong arms, his cool hands gripping her forearms firmly, and his smoky, cold smell, hinting slighting of cologne. And the striking features of his face, icy blue eyes gazing intently at her from beneath mysterious dark brows. There was depth in those eyes, and emotion, not at all like the soulless demon he was supposed to be, and she was hit with even more indecision. I love you, Buffy. It couldn’t be true, though. It was impossible. A demon couldn’t love.
“And what am I afraid of?” she demanded, taunting him, frustration lending to her boldness.
His grasp tightened on her arms, hard enough to hold her but still too gently to harm.
“You’re afraid you’ll like it,” he gasped in a rush, and before she could reply, he captured her mouth with his in a demanding kiss.
They melded perfectly, his cool against her warm, and immediately she felt the surge, like electricity whipping through her body. She tried to fight it for the briefest of moments, and then she gasped, her desire and longing overwhelming her, and the action allowed the kiss to deepen as he slipped his tongue into her slightly open mouth. She allowed him to, feeling her blood pressure reach new heights as she did so. Tentatively, she kissed him back, tasting his lips, his tongue, drinking him in as if she were afraid she would never again have the chance to.
Just as Buffy was finding herself more drawn into the kiss, the lusty vampire gently ended their arduous lip-lock, closing his eyes in amazement as he pulled away. Buffy licked her lips shakily, trying to calm her panting as she watched him with wary, hopeful eyes, somewhat regretful that their first, non-spell induced kiss had ended so prematurely.
Spike seemed to be collecting himself with some difficulty, panting slightly himself. Even after knowing how much he had wanted her, how long he had dreamt of touching her, he had never imagined that it would be this…electrifying. Part of him wanted to grab her and finish what he had started, but something told him to pull back and wait. Now was not the time. She was still confused, unwilling to admit to the fire brewing between them. Now she had a taste of him, and that was enough.
He opened his eyes and the lust and depth was still there, looking at her with tightly controlled desire. But his jaw was set commandingly, pushing his feelings aside for the moment. “Now…try ‘n tell me there’s nothing between us.”
Somewhat reluctantly he released her, and turning, disappeared into the gloom of the crypt, leaving Buffy to sort through her warring emotions until the fall of night.
* * * * *
TO BE CONTINUED…
Beyond the Darkness
Chapter One
By Nichole (Neko-chan) Johnson
Rating: PG or TV 14
Pairings: B/S
Disclaimer: All BtVS characters and such are owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy (bless that little paper monster…). The Red Bull, as well as the legend of the unicorns derives from an old cartoon movie The Last Unicorn based on the story by Peter S. Beagle, and is not mine, albeit being altered to fit this story. “You Don’t See Me” is by Josie and the Pussycats.
Spoilers: Takes place during Season 5, immediately after “The Body”
Author’s Notes: I slightly re-vamped the first 2 chapters, for those of you who made some helpful suggestions. To those of you who reviewed and made said suggestions, thank you! Your opinions and suggestions were and are highly appreciated!
I hope you’ll agree with my editing—I agree that Spike did use some British slang too much, so I went back through and toned that down a bit. I also got rid of the description of Dawn’s hair as ‘strawberry blonde’—I’m still not sure how you’d describe her hair color, so I just stayed away from describing it at all…^_^;;
* * * * *
Chapter One
“Yeah, I’m fine, Willow. I just needed some time to…sort out my feelings.”
“Are you sure? Maybe-maybe the two of us could have a, a girl’s night out. Or in, or whatever, you know what I mean. We could have ice cream and watch chick flicks, or, or—“
“Will, really, I’m fine. Besides, I don’t really think chick flicks would be the best idea right now.”
“Oh, right. Well, if you need to talk we could just do that. I’m a great listener.”
Buffy twirled the phone cord around her fingers lazily, sighing inwardly at the look of concern she just knew was on her best friend’s face. Evening had fallen barely forty-five minutes ago and she had hardly made it in the door but five minutes ago when the phone had already rung. She couldn’t really blame her friends, though, since she had been gone for a night and day with no word as to where or how she was—they were bound to get a little worried. The blonde appreciated the sweet brainy witch’s concern more than anyone’s, but being a Slayer, she had found that sympathy and pity were almost as hard to bear as the demons and evil she fought.
“I know, Will. I really appreciate the offer, but I think if I just get back into the swing of things right away, I’ll be alright.”
“Sure, Buffy. Do you want…Xander or me to patrol with you? I can always help Giles research some other night.”
Buffy smiled to herself slightly. “Nah. Besides, it should be pretty dead tonight, what with Glory the Shoe Goddess in town. Not as many free-roaming baddies these days, y’know.”
“Yeah, they’re all organized now. You sure you’ll be okay on your own, though?”
“You mean am I prone to waterworks at inopportune moments, such as in the midst of some heated staking?” She shook her head slightly, despite the fact that the young witch was unable to see the action. “Again, Willow, I really appreciate your concern, but I’ve got things under control. Really.”
On the other end, Willow seemed to sigh and think for a moment. “Okay. I’ll step down now. You can’t even see my resolve face from there so I guess I’ll just have to take your word.”
Buffy smiled, mock glaring. “And you can’t see my determined face so we’ll just call it a draw. I’ll stop by the shop after patrol to check in with all of you. You’re having another research-a-thon on Glory tonight?”
“In progress as we speak!” crowed Willow in a gruff voice. “Which reminds me, I should probably be getting back to the books now. Giles keeps clearing his throat really loudly—I think he’s trying to get my attention.”
Buffy couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Giles’ face. “You’re probably exceeding his calling plan. Its okay, I’d better go, too. Daylight’s wasting. Well, actually…no…light’s wasting…never mind.”
“I got it. Bye, Buffy.”
“Bye, Willow. I’ll stop by later, ‘kay?” A frown crossed the young woman’s features, suddenly remembering something. “Wait! Will, Dawn! How is Dawn?”
“Don’t worry. Dawn stayed with Giles last night—we didn’t want to bother you. She’s doing okay…She’s really quiet but I think she’ll be okay. We can keep an eye on her here until you get done with patrol, Buffy, it’s no problem.”
The young Slayer looked troubled; slightly horrified she had completely forgotten about her little sister in the muddle of the previous night. Her little sister that was much more than a fourteen-year-old girl. You can’t just lose your head like that again, Buffy! she thought, What would we do if something happened to the Key?
Losing your head…The Slayer felt herself warming pleasantly, remembering the feel of Spike’s lips against hers. Is that what happened back at the crypt? Shaking herself mentally of the memory, she turned her mind back to present matters. She definitely couldn’t afford to lose her head again. There was too much on the line when you were the Chosen One.
“Ah, thanks, Willow. Can I talk to her? No, no wait! Just tell her…Tell her I love her. And I’m sorry.”
Willow was silent for a moment, but then she spoke warmly from the other end. “Right. ‘Night, Buffy.”
“’Night, Willow.”
She continued to stare at the phone even after the line had gone dead. For a moment she regretted not asking for one of her friends to go patrolling with her, but then, remembering the previous day’s activities, she decided it was just as well. She needed a cool-off, to think about things. And what better way to release stress than fighting the odd vampire or various night-roaming forces of evil?
Hefting her Slayer bag with a lightness of step she didn’t quite feel in her heart, Buffy Summers, Chosen One, went out to kick some demon butt. For evil’s sake, she hoped it would be a slow night.
* * *
Xander leaned back in his chair reflexively, pushing aside the book he had been going through with little interest for the time being. “Let me take a wild guess. She said she’s fine and she appreciates your concern but she believes that her duty is more important than taking the time to mope pathetically and sort through the tangle of emotions she’s experiencing?”
Willow nodded sagely, taking a seat at the large table currently littered with an assortment of half-opened books. “And she’s going patrolling by herself in order to ‘think things through’.”
The young man sighed, a bit irritably, and reluctantly turned back to his reading. “Sounds like the Chosen One I know.”
Across the room, Anya looked up from her work at the counter. The Magic Box was currently closed, but the demon-girl was still busily at work with the accounts. She seemed to have a strange perversion with counting the money, bordering on the greedy, but since she was so good at it, her obsession didn’t seem to bother Giles. Too much.
“Is this…a bad thing?” she spoke up curiously, pushing strands of wheat-blonde curls away from her face.
“Bad for things that go bump in the night,” muttered Xander, stifling a yawn. Research was definitely not his thing.
“Good for us, though,” spoke up Willow, looking speculative. “I-if she doesn’t get killed, that is.”
Anya looked a bit confused. “Right. That would be bad.” Reassured, she turned back to her accounting with eager diligence.
Nose firmly in a large dusty tome, Giles wandered in from the back room, hardly glancing at the others from across the worn pages. “I do believe you might be worrying just a bit too much about Buffy. I must admit I was quite concerned about how she would fare after such a travesty but I’ve been quite impressed by the maturity of her bereavement thus far. She seems to be dealing quite well, which is not so surprising considering the ordeals she has endured in the past.”
Xander’s face contorted into a slight sneer. “Yeah, she’s a real brick wall.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in his tone.
Giles looked inquisitive. “You don’t agree, Xander?”
“No,” he stated firmly, pushing his chair back. “Look, I’ve known this girl since the tenth grade—“
“Well that’s not very long,” commented Anya pointedly.
Xander looked slightly irritated at being interrupted but didn’t reply. He continued: “—and though it doesn’t seem a very long time, I do think I’ve figured her out a bit by now. She pretends to be all brave and ‘over it’ around her friends, and then she goes to her current boyfriend and bawls her eyes out for awhile until she decides to just tough up and forget about it. Or, in this case since she is minus one boyfriend, she bawls her eyes out alone, but nevertheless it’s still the same cycle.”
Willow looked slightly hurt at her friend’s bluntness, fixing him with a stern glance. “Xander!”
“Ah, might I remind you that both Willow and I met Buffy the same day as you?” pointed out the Watcher tentatively. When Xander simply glared impatiently at him, Giles cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well, I do see your point, Xander. But don’t you think you are being somewhat…”
“Insensitive?” The brown-haired young man eyed his best friend and mentor somewhat challengingly. But then he nodded acquiescence, sighing wearily. “Yeah. And I’m sorry. I just don’t think bottling everything up is a great way of handling your mother’s death. Especially when so many people count on you to be the strong one.”
Willow looked hesitant to agree. “She is strong, though, Xander. And I don’t think she’s bottling it up, not really.”
“I just don’t want her going ‘Carrie’ on everyone because she refuses to ask for help. And don’t think she won’t.”
“’Carrie’? Is that a bad thing? A demon?” inquired Anya, looking confused. Willow and Xander took a breath as if to explain, then shook their heads dismissively, deciding not to bother.
Giles seemed to have come to some sort of conclusion of his own, closing the tome gently and adding it to the pile of books already covering the table. “I appreciate your concerns, Xander…both of you, actually. But I think that the person that deserves most concern right now would be Dawn.”
The others seemed to wilt, an uncomfortable sorrow befalling the atmosphere. Willow was first to speak, eyeing the graying Englishman with concerned eyes. “How is she?”
Giles seemed to pause momentarily. Removing his glasses, he proceeded to clean them gently, sliding into an open chair at the table. “The same, I’m afraid. She’s hardly spoken since last night. I do believe she’s experiencing a slightly premature form of shock.”
Xander looked pained. “Is she still back in the work-out room?”
Giles nodded, replacing his glasses with a long sigh. The others could see the strain he had been through in the last two days. As Watcher, he automatically considered matters concerning Buffy and the rest of the Scooby Gang as his responsibility, regardless of what anyone may tell him otherwise. He could feign un-involvement, but inwardly, the entire weight was on his shoulders. It some ways, it was his duty. In others, it was merely undying compassion for his young protégé and friends.
Calmly, Xander stood up. “I’ll go check on her,” he remarked tightly, leaving the others and heading towards the back room connected to the store which held Buffy’s training and work-out supplies. Despite the solemnity of the action, they could see his relief at getting out of research duty.
Willow nodded, squaring her shoulders and turning back to her books business-like. “And we should get back to researching. We’ve got a long ways to go.”
Finished with her money-counting, Anya joined the young witch and middle-aged Watcher at the round table, sorting through books methodically in hopes of finding something useful. “Alright, I’m through with my work. I’ll help you.”
Giles selected an old, threadbare volume labeled, Of Gods and Demons: A Resource Guide from the scattered pile, flipping carefully through the contents. “Yes. These last two days have been quite trying but we still have Glory to worry about. Currently, all we know is that she is a hell god, and a quite vengeful one at that.”
“And that she wants the “Key”, er…Dawn,” added Anya helpfully, pushing away her current book in favor of another more promising one.
“That doesn’t leave us with much to work with,” commented Willow a bit sourly, pursing her lips in concentration. Anya nodded agreeably.
Giles raised an eyebrow curiously at something he was reading. “If we had more, ah, credible resources on gods and deities, we might be able to find some basis to work with.” He turned the book so that Willow could read the passage he had found so interesting:
And the Goddess’s shall rise from their ivory towers of the nether and bring either great rejoicing and bounty to the land of the Chosen or an unending plague that will strip all of their souls for the Sin they have brought upon themselves, the Unworthy and Damned. And so shall it be, in the dawning of the twenty-first century when the apocalypse is decided.
The redhead’s voice was clear and barren as she read the passage aloud. She raised an eyebrow incredulously, clearing her throat slightly. “A little late for that. Like, a year late. At least we know we’re safe somewhat. For now.”
Anya didn’t look up from her own reading. “There should be another apocalypse in another hundred or so years. They’re set on this regular cycle sort of thing that goes off after a certain period of time unless some demon or other tampers with it. Then they just wait until the next allotted time and so forth. It’s a very sophisticated system.”
Her two comrades shared unlikely glances. “If we are even that fortunate…” murmured Giles a tad too darkly, shakily removing his glasses to wipe a handkerchief across his brow.
Willow shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, changing the subject. “Uh, anyway, maybe we should focus on information about the Key right now. Tara said she would look through her Wiccan books on anything about gods and hell gods, so if she finds anything she’ll call us.”
Both Giles and Anya nodded, the former still looking somewhat disquieted by Anya’s revelation.
“Right. So what kind of Key is Dawn supposed to be?” asked Anya, eyebrows furrowing thoughtfully.
“Those who saw Dawn for what she truly was remarked that she was ‘a thing’ or that there was ‘no data’—whatever that is meant to imply,” reminded Giles gently, “I do not believe we are looking for information on an actual physical key, so to speak, but a key in the metaphorical sense.”
Anya looked bewildered. “Oh.”
Pulling her nose out of her book, Willow fixed the blonde demon with a helpful smile. “What Giles is trying to say, is Dawn isn’t physically a key, she’s the key to something. Like, in a spell. Certain ingredients are key to the spell’s success.”
“Well, if you must put it so succinctly…”
The over-a-millennium old demon seemed to grasp the young witch’s concept more readily than the somewhat proper Watcher’s explanation. After a moment, another concern seemed to have occurred to her, however. “That still leaves us with little to work with. If we knew what Dawn was the Key to it would be a whole lot easier.”
Giles seemed a bit miffed. “Well, of course. That’s what we’re researching for.”
Willow smiled cheerily, picking another book from the pile before them. “And so the search continues…”
“I still think I should get paid overtime for this,” remarked Anya loudly, face expressionless as always.
“Anya, do be quiet.”
“Okey-doke!”
The three went back to their reading, noses deep in the old and scattered books before them, deep in concentration. Putting aside his current book with slight frustration, the old Watcher reached for a large book balanced precariously in the very center of the pile. As if on cue, a small thin book hardly an inch in width tumbled noiselessly from underneath it, landing open in the slightly surprised Englishman’s lap. Putting his chosen book aside, he picked up the book from where it had fallen, staring at what was written on the open page with unbridled curiosity.
“How peculiar…” he muttered, somewhat to himself.
Willow looked up from her reading with curiosity. “Hmm?”
Laying the open book on the table, the Watcher continued to read, his confusion and curiosity evident. “This book. I believe it is the same book that I found lying open on the table this morning once you and the others had left.”
The young witch looked even more confused. “Do you know where it came from?”
“I have no idea,” remarked Giles, befuddled. “I do not recall even having such a book in stock.”
Anya shifted inquisitively, trying to read over the baffled man’s shoulder. “What does it say?”
The Watcher cleared his throat reflexively. “It appears to be some sort of…children’s story. A fable, if I must. It reads,
…Said the butterfly to the Unicorn, “You can find the others if you are brave. They passed down all the roads long ago and the Red Bull ran close behind them and covered their footprints.” With a courtly bow, he landed before the great creature’s ivory hoof, inclining his head respectfully. “His firstling bull has majesty, and his horns are the horns of a wild ox! With them he shall push the unicorns, all of them, to the ends of the earth!”
Giles trailed off, looking at the blank space where the rest of the words had been smeared into an unidentifiable whirl of black ink and browned paper. “It ends there. Something appears to have spilt and smeared the rest of the text.”
Both girls seemed to ruminate on the appearance of the strange book momentarily, forgetting their earlier research. “Perhaps the-the title can tell us something,” suggested Willow finally, marking the open page with her finger and turning the book over to its cover. The cover’s only identifiable marks were the words “Metulj Srce” in worn gilt letters, leaving the three researchers further perplexed.
“What’s ‘Metal-J…Certs’ supposed to mean?” asked Anya bluntly, stumbling over the strange words.
Giles seemed just as perplexed as the demon-girl, pushing his glasses up on his nose in discomfort. “I…I’m not sure. I don’t quite recognize the language. It may be an old gypsy tongue but I can’t be sure.”
“It’s a little strange that it just suddenly appeared, but obviously it’s not going to help us discern the importance of the Key,” pushed Willow slowly. Giles nodded in agreement, taking the book from her and bringing it over to the store’s counter.
“Yes. Butterflies and unicorns are of no use to us right now. I’m sure the book must have been left by some customer. I’ll just keep it over here until it’s reclaimed.”
Stretching somewhat in her chair, Anya looked reluctantly at the piles of so far useless books before them. “So…more research?”
Giles and Willow both nodded, resuming their relentless search. “Right. More research.”
* * *
The punching bag swung uselessly on its tether, the teenaged girl’s half-hearted punches barely denting its thick bulk. Staring at the far wall of the room with blank, unseeing eyes, she struck it again with stiff, mechanical movements. Her heart wasn’t in it, wasn’t in anything. Every sense felt numb, overcome with an emptiness that hovered just out of reach on the edges of her consciousness, and if it weren’t for the solid feel of the punching bag under her hand, she was sure that it would swallow her.
Pulling her eyes from their dazed stare, she focused on the worn object beneath her hand. It felt real. She felt real, her pulse humming slowly and methodically in her ears in time to her heartbeat. But she was not real. Suddenly the punching bag on it’s gently spinning tether seemed miles away, her pulse a half-forgotten memory in her ears. She was not real.
It perplexed her and pained her. How could she not be real? She bled, she cried, she felt such pain overwhelming her in numbing torrents. She remembered, and the memories hurt. Her mother was dead and she was devastated. But it wasn’t her mother. And she wasn’t real.
Biting her lip in frustration and despair against the tears, the Key punched the hanging bag angrily, relishing in the pain it brought to her tightly bunched fist on contact. Physical pain was real. She needed more of that kind of pain.
So intent in her frustration, she didn’t even notice when someone else entered the gym-like room.
“Helps, doesn’t it?” remarked Xander softly, crossing his arms uncomfortably in the doorway.
Dawn gasped in surprise, upset at being caught off-guard. She nodded numbly, turning back to the punching bag with a firmly set jaw. “It hurts. But I control it, so it doesn’t have to hurt.”
Xander nodded wisely, watching her continue to hit the bag with fierce intensity. “You’re just like your sister. Buffy usually goes out to kick some undead-ass when she’s upset.” He seemed a bit embarrassed momentarily. “Of course, you already knew that.”
Dawn didn’t answer, but he saw the pained look on her face. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, not so sure that offering himself as a comforting shoulder was going to be as easy as he thought. Granted, he had meant well when he told the others he would check on Dawn, but once here, he wasn’t so sure of what to do, as he often was.
“So, mind if I join?”
The fourteen-year-old paused for a split-second, and then nodded slightly. “Be my guest.”
Careful not to hit it too hard, Xander joined her at beating on the worn punching bag, adding a few experimental kicks he had observed Buffy doing before. Glancing at the younger girl out of the corner of his eye, he mulled over his words for a moment, and then turned back to his half-hearted work-out.
“You think its dead yet? It’s not putting up much of a fight,” he commented ruefully, abandoning his former words of comfort for his usual humorous attempts.
Dawn was still silent. Xander cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Hey, you seen any good Hong Kong action movies lately? Those kung-fu guys can dish out some pretty wicked moves.”
The girl was silent for a moment, and then she paused in her bored attacks, fixing Xander with a pained yet blank expression. “You don’t have to talk. I know you’re trying to help but…I’ve heard enough talk for now. I don’t want to think about it.” She turned back to the punching bag with renewed ferocity, nearly knocking the bag into the young man’s face with the force of her blows. “I just want to hit something right now.”
Xander was silent for several moments, watching the look of concentration on Dawn’s face. Finally he nodded, smiling wanly, and joined her again in her endless fight with the beleaguered bag.
* * *
“Bloody hell…”
Flicking the ashes of his last cigarette into the wind, Spike gave the empty pack one last hopeful tap then tossed it away with disgust. It had been over three hours since he had dropped the Slayer off at her house. Three hours of pacing, thinking, and smoking. His pack empty, he looked around for something else to still his mind, but there wasn’t much to find in an empty graveyard. He regretted not bringing another pack. Or his flask.
The bad habits didn’t bother him in the least, seeing as he was dead—or rather, undead—but sometimes he regretted having started them in the first place, because when you got down to it, they were all he had. No friends, no place to go, and no hobbies. Well, other than his little-spoken Passions fetish and a few other strange pastimes, but those didn’t count. No, he was a vampire, an immortal being, with no place in life. And it was getting rather boring.
So here he was. What better place than a graveyard for a vampire with nothing better to do but wait and hope…and relieve a little frustration on some unsuspecting demon? Currently he was experiencing a lull in the current evil undead population, which irked him somewhat.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the shadows shifted slightly behind a nearby mausoleum with the movement of some unseen attacker. Grinning tightly, Spike noted the movement out of the corner of his eye and snuffed the exhausted butt of his cigarette on a nearby gravestone.
“And here I thought I’d have to wait another hour for any action.”
Realizing it had been spotted, the lone vampire relinquished its shadow skulking, coming into the pale moonlight that lit the vacant cemetery. Game face already on, it crept forward with a cautious predatory step, and Spike smiled inwardly to himself at the obviously newly-awakened vampire’s jerky movements.
Things were looking up.
Running its tongue over its newly-sharpened teeth, the undead creature continued to creep forward, eyeing the casual looking peroxide-blonde with an ancient hunger Spike was all too familiar with. “Action, huh? I don’t think you know what kind of action you’re getting yourself into, blondie.”
Spike stifled an amused laugh, smiling at the other vampire with his familiar “Big Bad” grin; lips parted, teeth slightly biting his lower lip. “Alright, mate. And just what type of action would that be?”
Instead of answering, the other vampire leapt forward, hopping a headstone with ease and rushed the smiling, leather-clad Brit. Chuckling slightly, Spike easily dodged the amateur attack, straightening up from his casual position against a stone angel and casually hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans.
“Well, sod it all! You were trying to attack me!”
Regaining his footing, the newbie vamp spun around angrily, hissing in annoyance. “What the—? I’ll get ya this time, smarty-pants!” He prepared to rush the British vampire again but Spike put up a hand, halting him.
“Can’t you recognize your soddin’ brethren, moron?” he demanded in an impatient tone, showing the other vampire his game face for a brief moment. He reverted back to his human face, preferring it as a sign of experience.
The other vampire was taken aback, staring at Spike with stupid amazement. “You’re a…vampire, too?”
“Last time I checked, pillock.”
He continued to stare at the older vampire with awe, befuddled by his human appearance. “How’d you do that? With your face?”
Spike flicked an eyebrow in amusement. “You really are a newbie, aren’t ’cha, mate?” He shrugged his shoulders casually, inwardly getting impatient. He was tired of this game. It was time to end it. “It’s simple. Just concentrate on pushin’ aside the hunger…”
He watched the young vampire close its eyes in concentration, its features slowly reverting back to its former human form. With a casualness borne of experience, Spike pulled the stake hidden within his duster and hefted it experimentally, sidling over to the trusting demon.
“…And don’t forget to watch your back.” With an almost offhand flick of the wrist, he plunged the stake into the unsuspecting vampire’s back, dusting it before it could even remark on its newfound talent. Dusting his hands off methodically, he returned the stake to his duster, one hand automatically straying to the pocket that usually held his pack of cigarettes. He frowned irritably, looking down at the pile of ashes with obvious frustration.
“Bloody hell. Should’ve asked the bloke if ‘e had any fags on him.” Shrugging, he turned his back on the former vampire to further patrol the mostly uneventful graveyard. Maybe his next victim would be a chain-smoker.
* * *
Buffy looked at her watch impatiently, stifling a yawn. It had been roughly three hours, and so far she hadn’t seen as much as a rat, let alone anything undead. Just as she had expected, it was a dead night. Good for the citizens of Sunnydale, bad for her jumpy nerves.
“What I wouldn’t give for a crazy, bloodthirsty vampire to leap out at me right now,” she sighed in frustration, easing a cramp out of her neck. She was dying for a distraction, any distraction, to get Spike off her mind. Ever since that afternoon…in his crypt…For the life of her, she couldn’t seem to get him out of her head, despite her best efforts. She would have liked to brush it off as just a kiss but it was obvious it hadn’t been just a kiss. Both of them had known it and she had felt the spark. There was no denying it was there now.
Of course, that hadn’t stopped her from trying to deny it. To him, just as before, and to herself. Here, alone with her thoughts in an empty cemetery, she couldn’t seem to escape the truth of the matter, though. She had feelings for Spike. Wrong, bad, icky feelings, she thought to herself sourly. Wrong, wrong, unforgivable, disgusting—
Hot, lusty, longing, wonderful feelings. She sighed to herself, picturing his strikingly handsome features and imagining the feel of his cold lips against her fevered skin. Stop it, Buffy! It’s Spike, for the love of God! The memory of her hands on his hard, firm chest stopped her in her mental berating, and her body betrayed her once again. Yes…Spike…
“I think it’s about time to call it a night,” she muttered to herself aloud, shaking away her romantic daydreaming and retrieving her Slayer gear from a nearby headstone. She was just about to leave, when a tiny sound stopped her. It was brief, and hard to decipher; had it not been for her Slayer senses, she wouldn’t have caught it at all. She froze immediately, scanning the darkness for signs of an attack. When no attack came, she resumed her walk cautiously, senses on the alert.
She was nearly out of the graveyard when she felt another jerk in her Slayer senses. Following the feeling with her eyes, she spotted a nearby grave-marker. It was an expensive looking oddity, an enormous white marble pillar with the conflicting figures of a snarling, wicked looking gargoyle and utterly innocent looking cherub perched cozily on its smooth base. Guessing by the cleanliness of it and the fact that she hadn’t seen it there before, it had to be quite new.
And bathed in heavy shadow, it was the perfect place for a predator to hide in wait of prey.
Silently slipping a stake from the inner pocket of her jacket, Buffy continued her casual walk, eyeing the sculptured marker with anticipation. It seemed she would see some action tonight, after all.
Still creeping silently, she was just flanking the darkened pillar when a figure rushed her from behind with calculated cunning. In a flash, she had spun around to face her attacker, one arm up to block a blow and the other ready with the stake, leg poised for a kick. But her attacker had backed away just in time, narrowly missing her kick, just as caught off-guard as the Slayer.
“Well sod it all, it’s just you, Slayer,” grumbled the familiar bleach-blonde vampire, half disappointed, half glad to see her. He straightened his duster self-consciously, seething inwardly at being caught so completely off-guard.
Buffy fixed the punk rock vampire with a stern glare, ignoring the flush in her face. “Spike, what are you doing here?” she demanded harshly, finding herself avoiding his eyes despite her best efforts to appear indifferent. Silently she cursed herself for not being able to recognize him with her Slayer senses in the first place.
Spike eyed the young woman uncomfortably, noting the uncertainty in her stance as well. He felt oddly off-balance after that afternoon. Shrugging his shoulders casually so as not to let her see his discomfort, he gave her a self-assured glance. “Same as you, I’d guess. Out for a stroll, lookin’ for a good spot ‘o violence.” Much to his pleasure, he noticed the rise of color in her face.
Uncharacteristically flustered, Buffy lowered her stake, staring at the blue-eyed vampire with an unreadable expression. Finally she seemed to shake herself uncertainly, turning back on her original path. “Go home,” she insisted, almost pleadingly, eyebrows furrowed uneasily.
He watched her go for a moment, puzzling over her anew. Then he hurried after her. “You look like you could use some company, pet,” he offered, catching up with her.
She didn’t look at him, staring intently forward, but he could see the twitch in her cheek. “No.”
Even from his distance, Spike could sense the quickening of her pulse. He continued diligently, matching her pace for pace as they continued their walk, a slight smile touching his lips.
“Come on, Buffy. Don’t tell me we’ve gone back to the ‘cold shoulder’ bit, now.”
“No,” bit out Buffy with controlled features. “We’re at the ‘I don’t want to see you anymore’ bit, now.”
Spike pursed his lips thoughtfully, mulling over her reply for several seconds. “No. I don’t think that’s it, luv.”
Finally, Buffy spun on her heal, halting them both as she turned to glare at him. Once again, Spike noted her glare held little animosity, but he kept his features blank.
“Then what is it, Spike?” she demanded sharply, frustrated. Frustrated because she for once honestly didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t been prepared to face him again just yet, and yet there he had been, practically waiting for her. Half of her wanted to grab him by the lapels and kiss him until her lungs burst, while the other half wished he would just disappear forever. No! I don’t want him to go! I want him to stay, stay forever in my arms…
Reflexively she shook away the thought that had sprung unbidden into her mind, recoiling at the intensity of it. “What, do you think things have changed between us? Because of…what happened?” She was raving, her frustrations and confusion overcoming her. “It was an accident! It was just…an accident! You…me…It wasn’t suppose to happen! Never! Forget about it, Spike, because—“
“Forget about what?” His features were tight, hardened by years of violence and emptiness.
Forgetting his doubts, he stepped closer, frustrations of his own taking over. “Forget about the dreams? The ache? The hollowness I feel without you?” He sneered derisively, waving a hand with an indecisive movement. “You’re telling me to forget about something I have no control over, damnit, something I never wanted to feel in the first place but, bloody hell! here I am, loving you more than ever!”
She was turning away and he grabbed her shoulders firmly, forcing her to look him in the eyes. Blue eyes, pained and deep and brimming with passion. “You think you’re the only one, the only one who’s fighting what you feel. But I did. I did for a bloody damn long time, Slayer! But there’s no getting over it, pet, believe me. I’ve learned that now.” His features softened, eyebrows furrowing with the pain of his longing. “I’m stuck with this curse for all eternity, whether you love me back or not. And don’t say you don’t, Slayer! I can see it in your eyes.” He closed his eyes in an attempt to collect himself, feeling her heat wash over him; a painful reminder of his own lack of true humanity. “Can…feel your blood rush…God, can I feel it!”
She stared back at him, feeling the desire wash over her in a rush at his heated words. She was gasping, her mind weakly attempting to fight it, but the longing was so strong. “Let go of me,” she whispered hoarsely, but she was frozen, making no move to push him away.
He pierced her with a firm glance. “If you really want me to let go, push me yourself, Buffy. But you can’t make me do it. Not anymore.” She seemed to hold her breath; desire, longing, and desperation flashing in her olive-green eyes. He stepped closer then, gaining little resistance, and his lips just grazing her neck, spoke softly against her ear, “You can’t do it, can you?”
Her only reply was a soft moan escaping her lips. Pulling away again, he gently brushed her hair aside from her face, looking at her with tenderness unbefitting his vicious reputation and gently caught her chin with his thumb.
Buffy closed her eyes expectantly, resolves dissolving under the intensity of his words. A warm tremble worked its way down her spine, and she felt his lips graze hers…
…And with a vicious jolt, he pushed her roughly to the ground, pulling her into an evasive roll across the hard dirt. “Duck!” he yelped gruffly in belated warning. She heard the rush of cloth on air and the muffled thump of a body making impact with a tombstone, just as the second vampire that had been lying in wait rushed at them, hissing angrily.
Kiss forgotten, Spike leapt to his feet, immediately falling into full combat mode. With true martial artist’s grace, he spun his leg up in a smooth arc, catching the vampire across the chest with a well-aimed kick. Caught off-guard, the vampire stumbled under the hit but was quickly back on its feet, lashing out at the peroxide-blonde with a heavy fist. Spike dodged the punch, ducking to grab the vamp’s offending arm. Using its own leverage against it, he flipped the vamp on its back, pinning its arms down at its sides.
Still in his human face but clearly enraged, he snarled viciously into the downed vamp’s face, eyes flashing. “Interfere with my love-life, will you?!” Snarling, he grabbed the other by the collar and jerking him to his feet, tossed him with offhanded disgust into a nearby headstone.
Meanwhile, Buffy had jumped to her own feet and was easily fighting off the first vampire’s attacks. Knocking away its initial attack with a swift roundhouse to the jaw, she followed through with a well-aimed elbow to the solar plexus, further disabling it for the time being and buying her just enough time to scramble for the stake that had fallen from her jacket when she’d hit the ground. Her back to it for a moment, the angry vamp—having recovered quicker than she had hoped—took the opportunity to attack her supposedly unprotected back, fangs bared. Spinning around just in time, she swung her leg about, knocking its feet out from under it, and grabbed her stake from the ground next to her, back-flipping away as it swung at her in retaliation.
Weapon finally in hand, she faced off with the angry vampire, legs akimbo in a fighter’s stance. “Okay, buddy, you picked the wrong time to try and kill me. Where were you earlier when I was looking for a fight?”
The vampire didn’t answer her, snarling in irritation. It rushed her again, swiping at her with wicked claws.
Nearby, Spike and the other vampire had each other firmly by the shoulders as they danced around the headstones in fierce, head-to-head combat. Cursing angrily, Spike rammed his opponent into the large pillar Buffy had noted earlier, loosening its grip on him enough to disentangle himself. The vampire roared in pain and anger, bringing its knee up hard into the punk rocker’s gut, but Spike merely ground him harder against the polished marble, waiting until he heard the crack of bones to relinquish his hold. Panting angrily, he gave the smaller vampire several fierce blows to the face and retrieved the stake from his duster, prepared to end their deadly dance.
His opponent had other plans, however. Catching Spike by surprise, the seemingly beaten vamp dove at him in a football tackle, driving him heavily into the dirt. The two rolled about the dusty ground, each trying in vain to gain an advantage over the other as they tumbled between the scattered headstones.
So far, Buffy had been able to avoid her opponent’s erratic attacks. Seeing its comrade’s methods working, the vamp now came at her with slightly more cunning, hitting her with a similar tackle and knocking her into a nearby tombstone, sending the stake flying from her hand. She grunted in pain, hearing the crack of her skull against the cold stone and feeling the warm trickle of blood roll down the back of her neck. The smell of blood seemed to encourage the vampire further, and it dove on her hungrily, preparing to sink its fangs into her unprotected neck.
Still slightly dazed from the impact, Buffy lashed out with her fists in the nick of time, boxing its ears viciously. If she had been a normal person, the blow would have dazed it, maybe even popped its eardrums. Being the Slayer and having superhuman strength, it crushed its skull.
Pushing the crumpled, unconscious form off of herself, she struggled to her feet, preparing to stake the vamp at last. “Okay, time to end this. Like they say, ‘Ashes to ashes and dust to dust’…”
Without warning, there was a violent rush of wind and a brilliant flash of crimson light, blinding her until she was forced to raise her arms to shield her face from the violently whipping wind. Sand and grit bit into her flesh and she gasped, choking, as the smoldering air burnt at her lungs. Above the rush of the wind a cry met her ears; a chilling, unearthly cry of pure animal rage cut through by the mournful lowing of some immortal beast. She tried to tear her eyes open against the light and rushing air, but the heat and dust overwhelmed her and she could no longer gasp for breath in the cloying, dust-filled torrent.
Lungs burning, she lurched forward and faded unwillingly into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
TO BE CONTINUED…