Home : Stories by Author : Stories by Kimi : The Story of B - Page 2
"Do you even like me?"
Oh, God. How had they ended up talking? She couldn't believe it -- hated where these conversations went. She *should* have kicked him in the head and left while she could.
And *like* him? He was crude. He was annoying. He talked too much. He was rude to her friends. He was infuriating, frustrating, and exasperating.
She'd never liked Spike. Not even when Willow had cast that spell and accidentally gotten the two of them engaged. Liked him? A resounding no.
But she didn't have to like Spike (something was wrong with that, but she'd think about it later). And on the other hand, he could be sweet when he wanted to be. He was a good listener (at least he had been back in the old days when they used to talk). He cared about Dawn. Good fighter, good to have at your back.
And then there was the sex. The heart-numbing, mind-blowing, always incredible sex.
"Sometimes."
In fact, her life had ceased to feel real outside his presence. Outside this crypt. Oh, yes, she was good and addicted now. He must spend all his time planning the next little sexual interlude. And it showed.
It was a little like fighting with him. Well, a lot like fighting with him. You could never anticipate his next move. She'd forgotten that until very recently.
So not looking at him. She'd been having fun and he'd blown that with that stupid animal remark. Of course, what could she expect? His frame of reference was Drusilla. She wondered again just what she was doing.
He had stopped telling her that he loved her. After the night they'd found Dawn with Willow, he hadn't said it again. Maybe it was just sex for him too. Because now it was all fun and games.
Lots of games.
He was jealous of the time she spent away from him though. She'd figured that out. Noticed lately that if she skipped a day seeing him, the sex was twice as intense. And those days it was much harder to keep him mindful of the rules.
Of course, sometimes it was worth bending them a little.
'Do you trust me?'
She'd glanced back at him, then to the dangling handcuffs in one hand.
Like now.
Again, no anticipating him. And now he was looking at her with that appraising look of his.
If he was trying to get her attention, he'd done it.
Trust him? Stupid vampire! She'd been having sex with him for weeks. His mouth had been on or around every major artery she possessed and he wanted to know if she trusted him?
But no, she didn't. She didn't trust him not to kill her friends - didn't trust him not to start feeding again if he ever got that chip out. Didn't trust him not to break her heart if it had ever in a million years been possible to fall in love with him. Didn't trust him not to leave.
Of course, the falling in love part was so not happening. This was all about the way he made her feel. Connected to herself again. For a while, at least.
'Never.'
He lowered his eyes at her ambiguous tone and reached over to pick up her arm.
She didn't protest, or even look at him, as he weighed it in his hand, waiting for her to call him down. Then he snapped the first cuff into place.
She considered. After all, she thought, I've already trashed the crypt again. He'd spend the rest of the afternoon getting blood out of the carpet from that half-full mug they'd knocked over.
Their sex sessions always started the same way.
It could be a quick simple fight or a long drawn out full-scale war, depending on whether he was prepared to play by her rules. She'd set those that first night: her way or not at all.
And Buffy was always on top.
But sometimes, Spike seemed determined to challenge her. A free for all invariably ensued unless he managed to remember what the consequences were. Sometimes he did, most times he didn't.
Of course, sometimes they just both got carried away and a trashed crypt was the strangely satisfying result.
White body shining in the dusk of the room, Spike got up with the other end of the handcuffs in one hand and tugged lightly on her arm, cocking an eyebrow at her. He obviously wanted her to move onto the bed; since that was the direction he was headed.
She ignored him. Uh uh. Do it yourself, Big Bad.
He made an exasperated noise and lifted a limp, unresisting Buffy over his shoulder, and walked to the bed. He dumped her unceremoniously, driving a little woof out of her.
Eyes hooded to hide the glint of amusement, she thought idly that he hadn't missed the bed this time.
She settled in slightly, trying not to be too noticeable doing it, as he threaded the other end of the handcuffs through the headboard.
Uh huh. Much better than the scratchy carpet! She ran her hand across the bed lightly. Was this Egyptian cotton? Trust Spike to have Egyptian cotton. She was making do with 180 count sheets from the dollar store.
He straddled her and grasped her other wrist. He was already hard again. Three things she'd found you could count on in this world: death, taxes, and Spike's erections.
Working at the whole nonchalant thing, she craned her neck curiously to watch as he slowly drew her other arm above her head and placed it inside the open cuff. She almost giggled. She could always break the cuff if she wanted out. Stupid vampire.
She followed his hand up to his face and saw him looking at her questioningly. She gazed at him unflinchingly, expressionless. No reason for him to see that she was curious. Of course, he already knew that she was wet.
Snap.
And he remained there, chest suspended above hers. She felt his fingers trace the outline of the cuffs on the sensitive underside of her wrists, the insides of her forearms. Taking a breath, she waited for him to do whatever it was he wanted to do.
For a moment, she almost got impatient. What? Where was the sinister handcuff stuff? She'd read her mom's old dog-eared copy of "The Story of O." Time to bring on the bondage and humiliation. That'd be fun. And she certainly deserved it. After all, look at what she was doing and with who. Then she realized that he was lightly stroking and tracing his fingers up - down - whatever, her arm. His hands danced lightly at the crook of her elbow. She jerked a little.
Tickles.
Then he started again at the cuffs, at the join in her wrists.
She must have read the wrong book.
He leaned over and put his lips on the inside of her elbow, while his hand traced the same route.
Squirming slightly, she flushed as he leaned back, sitting on his heels, to look at her.
But he wasn't looking at her face. He was looking at her breasts. She realized that her nipples were getting hard. She flushed a little deeper red.
His hands continued their journey down the insides of her upper arms to her open armpits.
Good thing she'd been paying special care to her hygiene lately, she thought, trying to get her mind off the arousal that was making her stomach clench.
She began to feel a little uncomfortable with this single-minded exploration he had going on. Couldn't draw her hands down to cover herself, couldn't roll over, couldn't curl up and away from his eyes. She began to think she'd made a mistake. He was still staring at her breasts intently, exciting her even more.
Then his eyes narrowed. She looked down knowing just what she would see. What he was seeing. Her nipples were incredibly hard. Hard little knobs. He nodded, satisfied that he'd found what he was looking for, and locked gazes with her. His hands were tracing the skin just around the mound of her breasts. She gasped, looking at him pleadingly, and tried to turn a little to push one of them onto his hand.
She realized she couldn't and made a little mewling sound deep in her throat. He smiled as he saw her realize just how this was going to go.
Oh, great! He was going to torture her to death with those soft, tickly fingers, and she had absolutely no control over any of it. That is, unless she tore up the bed -- and she liked his bed!
He swept his hands down her sides, and traced her hipbones. She looked at herself with the same frowning look he had. She really needed to put on some weight. But lately, it seemed like there was only one thing she had an appetite for. And she was getting plenty of that.
Shifting and leaning back, he ran his hands down the outside of her legs and ran his hands around her ankles, never taking his eyes off her face. There was a small smirk playing around his mouth.
Bastard! she thought as she realized she was really, really wet.
He must have tortured her for hours - well, it seemed like hours - stopping every time she came close to an orgasm, those insolent eyes fixed on her face. She'd seen him watching her even as his tongue teased her between her legs. She hadn't begged him to stop - well, not out loud anyway. But she had been reduced to gasps and moans a while back. He was absolutely diabolical.
Finally, in a quick motion, he had her legs up and slid into her. She was so wet and so ready that she gave up a contented sigh at the welcome relief of him filling her. He slid his hands up and grasped her wrists, to lay full length on top of her, chest to chest, and hooked her ankles around his. Then he began to rock softly and gently, head buried in her shoulder, murmuring into her neck like a real lover.
Her eyes blurred and her breath caught. When he held onto her like this, she almost forgot what he was -
Jerking her ankles away from his, she pulled her knees up to tightly squeeze his waist and began moving with him, spurring him along, determined to end this quickly. When she came, it was so explosive that he followed a beat later, already so aroused from the glazed look in her eyes that he couldn't hold out against those internal slayer muscles.
She was shivering so hard when the waves of orgasm receded that she had tears in her eyes. He slowly pulled his head out of the juncture of her neck and shoulder and looked at her, dazed. He put a shaking hand on her wet face.
"Get these off now!" she said, embarrassed and angry.
Silently, he slipped out of her and reached for the handcuff key, unlocking her hands slowly. She jerked her hands away as he traced the reddened places.
She rushed to find her clothes, trying not to cry, and dressed quickly. Then she looked at him, eyes welling with tears and anger.
"No. More. Handcuffs."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
She was restless. So restless. Suddenly the Bronze seemed like a place she didn't belong. Willow and Anya and Xander were all on the dance floor juking to big band music. She smiled wistfully. Once she would have been down there with them, livin' the high life. Now it seemed -
Well, it seemed like she didn't belong with them. When she did try to spend time, like in the old days, she felt off-balance. Out of sync.
Asking Tara to look into the spell used to resurrect her had made her feel a little more connected. Sometimes she felt like she was living in a nightmare. And Dawn. Now there was another bad dream she couldn't wake up from. Angry, rebellious, outspoken. Dawn had always been the brat kid sister. Spike had even called her that once - but now she was working up to demon status.
And she couldn't blame Spike for how she felt about her life. So obviously something *had* been wrong since she'd gotten back. Even then, she'd been seeking him out, going to him for the things she used to go to her friends for.
Buffy was glad she didn't love him or anything like that. Having sex with him was complicated enough.
She felt like a cheat, a liar, every time someone mentioned Spike's name.
She stiffened. He was there. On the catwalk with her.
Of course. She'd almost expected him. They had unfinished business, and he could always find her, no matter how she tried to avoid him. Their relationship was made up of a series of trysts.
She'd even dressed for it. Oh, she hadn't realized at the time; she'd just wanted to be different. Too bad her haircut hadn't turned out quite the way she'd planned. 'Adorable' had not been the description she'd had in mind. But she hadn't heard him use that little girlish 'Goldilocks' nickname again, so she guessed she'd survive until it grew out.
She'd gotten into her closet, into some trash bags she was using for storage, and found some things she'd bought years ago, but had been scared to wear. She hadn't felt comfortable. They'd seemed a little 'old' for her: a little too femme fatale.
That was no longer a problem. She was glad she'd forgotten to take them back. She was rapidly moving far past 'femme fetale-ish' into something that was decidedly debauchey. She'd even slathered some of her mom's old Opium perfume on tonight. She was heavily into overpowering tonight. Or being overpowered, maybe. She'd looped the rawhide thong around her neck about twelve times. Her neck looked all trussed up. Like it needed to be undressed.
He was behind her, hands lightly touching her. Leaning over her shoulder, he gazed out at her friends. She looked at them from his perspective: they seemed ridiculous -- Willow manically trying to have fun without Tara; Xander huffing and puffing; Anya flailing away at the air like some silly bird.
He'd taken to wearing the thumb ring a lot of the time. Heart speeding up a little, she absently glanced down to see if he was wearing it.
He was.
Shivering slightly in anticipation, she realized she was already getting wet. Like one of those dogs, she thought idly. That salivated when they heard the dinner bell ring.
Okay, so not an animal. Right.
'You try to be with them but you always end up in the dark. With me.'
True, she thought, slightly disturbed. Lately she did. Because the light wasn't so harsh in his world, the edges were softer. Even his edges didn't seem so rough anymore. That was probably because she had hardened to it, or her own edges had gotten a little frayed. Pick one. Frowning, she listened.
No romantic words tonight, just evil incarnate, trying to bring her over to the 'dark side, Luke.' Good. Darth Spike, she thought fleetingly, almost sighing. Maybe she was there already. She just let his voice play over her, not turning to look into his eyes because that meant seeing too much. She liked it like this, this all unseeingness. He sounded eerie -- like a real vampire, all mysterious and dangerous.
His words were touching her in a deep black place. She felt herself breathing faster as his growling whisper filled her ear, saying those harsh things to her, about her - and her friends - things that once she would have punched him for.
His words reminded her of how being with her friends made her feel, how he made her feel, how she felt right now.
And anyway, this *was* a game, she thought defensively. Right? She loved her goofy friends - just not a big band music kind of gal. She was just playing a game. Playing at being. Right?
But somehow it was all like standing outside looking through a window. Or being in a clear plastic bubble. No matter how she tried to take up her old life, she'd still rather be on the outside looking in. And he was on the outside with her.
He understood her. He understood everything, she thought, as desire rushed across her leaving her breathless. She got wet when she felt his breath in her ear, wet when he talked to her in that dark, thrilling way he had, wet when he put his hands on her.
Ah. Spike hands on her leg, pushing her short lace skirt up as his hand moved under it, which meant it was time for the usual token resistance. Next move in the game.
But she was way too aroused to really want him to stop. Her token resistance was very token and pretty much non-existent. She felt so sad, looking down at her lost life. She wanted him to take her sadness and turn it into something else. He could do that. He could make her forget how empty she was when he filled her.
She didn't look at him. This was a night for faceless sex. A night for nasty whispers and liberties taken. A night to feel a little smutty. Which would make up for that bad moment when she was wearing the handcuffs.
This was going to be a lot different than the night the two of them had had grimy sex in the alley behind the Palace. Now that had been very unsexy. She didn't even know what she'd been thinking to try it. First she'd been wearing that uniform that felt like she was wearing a traffic cone. Even taking the hat off hadn't helped.
It had even been her idea. She'd wanted to see him, but she didn't want him to start in about quitting her job. Sex seemed like an excellent compromise. It had seemed to work for him anyway.
Of course then she'd been panicked that her break would be over and someone would come looking for her. After all, she and Spike weren't known for their quickies. Nothing was quick about sex with Spike. He'd had years of frustration to make up.
By now, he only had somewhere around two months left to go.
But the balcony at the Bronze was just the place for liaisons like this. She didn't even care if someone saw them, because they were probably there for the same reason she - *they* were. As long as none of the dancing Scoobs stumbled on them, she wasn't worried. And she had her eye on them now. He'd told her to look at them.
It was so easy to submit for once. So, just for tonight, she'd give in. Because she needed him to tell her how bad she was. How wrong.
He slowly pushed two fingers inside her, pushing the wisp of black lace out of the way. Submitting with a small tremble, she leaned toward the rail of the balcony to make it easier for him.
His voice droned on, dripping with dark sex. Just as she felt a drop of moisture roll down her leg, she felt him catch it, and in the same motion flick his thumb sharply against the fabric between her legs.
Her thong snapped, leaving her naked for him.
She felt the hard silver band move against the hard nub between her legs. Gasping slightly, she moved back against him as he pressed his crotch against her.
No, no. Don't give him anything! Make him work for it.
She could barely keep her face still. Barely breathe. She was aching for him.
He continued to speak, words without meaning, as he moved his fingers inside her with a sharp, deliberate rhythm.
She felt the tremors of an orgasm and wondered where they could go to finish this. She needed skin. She needed him. All of him.
For a moment, she thought he had read her mind. She gasped as he withdrew his hand, moving away from her in silence.
She stood there a moment, not daring to turn, not daring to allow him to see her face, so naked in this public place.
Turning at last, she felt her eyes widen in surprise.
He was gone. Nowhere in sight.
The ache in her body intensified as she whimpered softly.
Bastard.
She could patrol this place with her eyes closed; she knew every marker, every crypt, and every exposed tree root. She'd become one with the night here - a part of it, just like the trees and the blackened sky. The old cemetery felt more like her home than the house on Revello Drive. These days, no matter where she was headed, she always ended up here.
It was dark tonight, even without all of the trees.
When had she started feeling safer in the dark than she did in the daylight? Safer here - near him - than she felt at home?
Stake joined to her fist, she moved along - not stealthily but relaxed. The outward calm was deceptive. Her mind was anything but relaxed.
There was always very little activity in this cemetery. Buffy suspected that Spike had meticulously cleaned house ever since he'd made this place his home, obsessively keeping the fledgling population to nearly zero. These days (since he seemed to stay in the crypt so much of the time), she thought that he must keep the 'beasties' at bay by mere reputation. This was the last place she patrolled most nights. She was usually tired by the time she got here and a tired Slayer was a dead Slayer. Even dead on her feet, she could always pick out the golden glow of the tiny candle flames through the grate; see the shadow of the door in the dark like it was lighted.
Tonight, she was early. She'd come here first.
"Look at your friends and tell me you don't love getting away with this right under their noses."
She still hadn't decided whether last night at the Bronze had been real or some kind of waking dream. If it had been real, she should be really pissed-off, ready to kick his ass from one end of the crypt to the other. Obviously, he was angry that she had spent her off time with her friends instead of him. He probably would have been fine with it, if she hadn't looked as miserable as she felt. Despite everything, despite the complications and the conflicts, she knew that he hated to see her unhappy. Last night's aborted sex had been punishment - of a strange but comfortingly Spike-like variety.
Of course, his leaving her hanging like that could have been just another move in a game calculated to bring her to him last night - some kind of siren call/power play thingy. If so, she hadn't played. He hadn't said a lot, but the things he had were half-recognized truths by the time she'd returned home. They'd begun digging away in her brain, burrowing deep. She'd lain awake for an achingly long time, wishing she had someone to talk to about it. About how she felt, or even scarier, about how she *didn't*.
Once, not so long ago, she would have gone to him to talk about it. Barged in with some half-ass excuse. Or maybe just come right out with it. And he would have listened quietly, eyes soft in understanding, then glittering with some secret amusement.
Still, he would have listened. And then he would have talked. Asked her questions, helped her excavate some answers.
They really didn't talk anymore.
Her feet had carried her to the door of the crypt and absently she put her hand on the door to push it open. But she didn't. Instead she just stood, mind churning with confusion and clarity.
Conflicted much?
"The only reason you've lasted as long as you have is you've got ties to the world... your mum, your brat kid sister, the Scoobies."
Once that had been true. She'd known it when he said it. There had been a lot of big truths hitting her like anvils that night. Now, Big Bad Vampire Spike had become her tether. The evil undead fiend behind Door #3 of this richly ironic Dating Game had become her lifeline! How sad (and sick) was that? He'd become her connection to herself, like some priest that acted as a conduit between God and confessee. Spike kept her grounded; he kept her sane. He was her sanctuary, her escape, and her single tie to the world - to herself.
Had to be that shared experience of broken fingernails, bloody knuckles, and dirt sifting down as the coffin cracked open. She remembered how she'd known he would understand that better than anyone.
Who was she kidding? He'd *always* understood her better than anyone else - even Angel. Especially Angel. She and Spike had always had some bizarre something. He'd always been able to see into her. She hated that about him. He had always seen too damned much.
And somehow, she'd come to rely on him, over everyone else in her life: her sister, her now-absent Watcher, and her all-but-absent friends.
She had stood motionless, hand on the door, frozen in time like a fly in amber, willing things to be the way they'd been before. She missed the easiness, the comfortable things about being with him.
Now, instead of the easiness, everything between them was all raw nerve endings and bruised tissue. She was fighting for her life and he was fighting for it too.
She couldn't let him win.
Never should have kissed him. Never, never should have done all the rest. He knew where she lived now. He'd said it and she believed it. He'd proved it time after heart-stopping time. He had a taste for it, obsessive as it was.
And so did she.
Everything had changed.
But things never stayed the same. She knew that. She and Spike had moved on to something else. They were on the next level - something dark and thrillingly dangerous.
And sad.
She used to be able to lean on him. Not much. Just a little. Let him have her back sometimes. Expect him to watch over Dawn for her when she couldn't. Count on him to understand when no one else could or would.
Now she had to watch her own back, because she had to be tough, on guard, in control or she'd lose herself in this. Never knew when he might slip in.
No, no slipping here.
It was all so complicated.
She missed the simplicity of the quiet conversations on her back porch.
She missed his sense of humor. Didn't see much of that anymore. Now the only time things weren't tense between them was in the languor immediately following sex - and sometimes not even then.
She missed *him* -- and the way it used to be when she first came back. And she could never tell him that.
He already knew that she needed him for sex. Hell, he knew that this was the best sex of her life - the bastard. She suspected it was the same for him. When he danced with her, either with his fists or with his cock, it was the most intense thing she'd ever experienced. Vampire and Slayer locked together in a dance they couldn't stop. And they were the only ones who heard the music, knew the steps.
When she was with him, when he was touching her, she could completely let go - instinctively knowing that *whatever* she dished out, fair or foul, he could take it. This wasn't Riley. This was Spike. She could trust that.
Absently, she realized she was tracing the grain on the door.
What he could never know was that she ached for the safety and comfort just being with him had provided once upon a time. When she had been with him, she had felt his love - no matter what she said to the contrary. And that was way too much information, way too much power for him to have.
Besides, *she* didn't love *him*. She just loved how he made her feel. And that wasn't the same thing as loving someone - as being in love with someone. No. Not at all. If he suspected, he would misunderstand, and she would never be able to end this. He'd fight her every step of the way.
She needed to end this. She couldn't be with him, but she couldn't stay away.
If things could just be like they were.
If she could just talk to him again.
So complicated. How had it gotten so complicated? They'd been friends.
"You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other till it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends."
She turned and walked away.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
She was trapped somewhere between waking and the oblivion of unconsciousness, in the twilight of sleep. Her bed didn't feel right. Felt wrong. She whimpered. Everything felt wrong.
She felt the bed shift. Spike eased over to her and whispered soothingly as if she were a little girl.
"It's all right. Shhh..."
And in that moment, everything that was wrong went away. She was safe. Someone else could slay the demons.
"It's all right."
She sighed silently as he settled in next to her.
"...our little secret."
She was glad he had come tonight. She had needed him to. At that moment, she loved him more than she'd ever loved anyone.
She turned to him then, to thank him for being there. Slid her arms around his neck as she kissed him tenderly. Needed him so much. Needed the completion he gave her. The kisses became more ardent, urgent. He made her weak with hunger.
Suddenly, they were in his crypt. She was riding him, devouring him with her eyes and an intense concentration that bordered on anger. His blue eyes were clouded with desire and something else she couldn't name and didn't really care to delve into. All she knew was that she was flushed and hot at the sight of him lying under her. She wanted to punish him with hard sex and harder kisses.
His wrists were encircled with bracelets of silver.
So wet. And he was so hard. How could he be so hard she could feel it all the way through her body like this? His brow was furrowed as she tried to wring every bit of life from him that she could.
A slight shift and she was sitting astride the girl. Same vantage point. Calmly, she asked the same question Spike had asked her a few days before.
"Do you trust me?"
The girl's soft dark eyes were shining in worship. Buffy felt strangely detached from her. She snapped the handcuffs into place and dropped the girl's arms back over her head.
The girl came. It was short, sharp.
Forehead pressed against his, Buffy found herself beneath Spike, as he pushed into her. They matched each other move for move, stroke for stroke, straining tensely for release. They fit together so perfectly. She wanted him so much.
She drove the stake toward his defenseless sleeping form - down to his unbeating heart.
And watched the girl's eyes open widely as Buffy impaled her on the hard, wooden stake.
Her eyes were bright blue.
Buffy was panting when she woke. She looked around wildly to get her bearings and realized she was still wearing the turtleneck she'd had on when she returned from the woods.
Dream. Just a dream.
Nightmare - or Prophecy Girl dream?
Either way, she'd killed that girl twice now.
She shook her head to clear it. Never staked Spike. Never staked that girl. It had been an accident. Spike had said so. And he was there.
At least, she thought he was there.
But she'd thought he was here too. In her bed, making love. Even in her dream, she'd felt the love in it. She'd kissed him as if he were her lover - glorying in his touch, his mouth, his love.
But she'd never once handcuffed Spike to his bed. Never had seen that girl before tonight.
Right?
She *had* killed that girl though. Her eyes narrowed in remembrance. Killed her and left Spike to clean up the mess.
That was the part that was impossible to understand.
Buffy couldn't believe she had done what Spike had told her to. That she'd come home and climbed in her 'comfy' bed just like he'd said. When had she started listening to Spike? It wasn't right to have left that dead girl in the woods to be cleaned up like some 'mistake.' What was wrong with her?
Wrong. That explained it. All wrong.
She should never have listened to Spike. Spike wasn't a part of the human world and its human laws. He had his own set of rules. Rules that could be broken when the need arose. She knew that. She'd always known it. Why had she forgotten?
Because she'd wanted to. She hadn't wanted to deal with that dead girl any more than she wanted to deal with the escalating pile of bills on the table or Dawn's increasingly bad behavior.
Well, this time she had to deal. Giles had been right. And it wasn't too late to go to the police. Somehow explain what had happened - that there had been some kind of accident.
Spike's rules were not - and could never be - hers.
She had trusted him tonight to take care of her in his own way. She knew that Spike was trying to protect her. Didn't doubt that for a second.
Pushing wisps of hair back off her forehead with shaking hands, she remembered the dream. Thought about the rush of satisfaction she'd had as she'd plunged the stake toward Spike's motionless chest.
Who was going to protect Spike? Or Dawn? Or any of her friends? From her? From Buffy?
She'd killed a human tonight. Not a vampire, not a demon. The Slayer of undead evil things that go bump in the night had taken a soul from the world before its time.
She very deliberately got up and put on her leather coat.
Her life had been a nightmare since she came back from the dead. She thought she might just be waking up to it.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
She'd taken a deep breath as she'd rounded the corner of the alley. The police station was lit up - obviously one of the busiest 'after-hours' establishments in the Hellmouth. She'd been arrested once before - or had been about to be anyway - when Kendra had died.
Kendra's death made her think of Drusilla. And Drusilla had made her think of Spike. Spike had kept her from being arrested last time.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Anger surged within her, but she clamped down on it, just as she had had to do with the fear earlier when she'd made the decision to come here. To walk into the police station and turn herself in for a crime she wasn't sure she even remembered.
She'd already been through this with Dawn. She was so not going through it again with him! She replied in a cold voice that brooked no argument.
As he had in the woods, Spike once again grabbed her from behind. But this time, as he bodily removed her from the scene, he tossed her across the alley in frustration and something bordering on disgust.
He was spitting out his words precisely. She hadn't heard him sound so cold, so British in years. Talking to her as if she was a child. Reasoning with her, telling her what she could and couldn't do. She was getting angry again.
Then, all of his coldness fell away as she told him to let her go.
"I can't. I love you."
Loved her? He picks now to say it? In the alley by the police station? Not that she'd wanted to hear it anyway. Just another thing to use to get her to do what he wanted, not what she needed to do.
He'd stopped her from getting arrested the first time because he wanted Drusilla back. And now he was stopping her again? Because he *thought* he loved Buffy?
This was hard enough as it was. Loving Angel hadn't stopped her from pushing a sword through his body to save the world, had it?
What made him think his love was more important than hers had been?
The anger and fear that she'd been holding down surged up and swallowed her.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
There *had* to be something wrong! Buffy Summers would have never done what
'she' did last night.
But Tara had said there wasn't. She trusted Tara. Tara would have kept looking if there'd been any room for doubt. Tara was a book researcher - the college brain. A real student of the old moldy texts.
Tara's soft eyes reminded her of her mother's. She didn't deserve Tara's pity, didn't deserve Tara's soft hand on her hair. Didn't deserve anyone's.
How could she have done it?
She'd never forget the demon disappearing to reveal the barely-recognizable face that had looked at her with such sadness. And forgiveness. Like she'd been a wicked child.
She thought idly of that old movie, "The Bad Seed." If the resurrection hadn't gone 'wrong,' then what had happened to her?
She'd beaten Spike's face to a bloody pulp. It had been a Glory-style beating. But instead of calculated to torture, it had been an outpouring of fear and rage and frustration.
It had been punishment.
Had she been punishing Spike or herself?
She knew she hadn't physically crippled him. This was Spike, not some fragile human male. No, she hadn't crippled him, put him in a wheelchair or anything like that.
What she'd done was much worse.
She should have gone back to that alley, even if she'd discovered he was gone anyway to tell him that she hadn't killed that girl. Katrina. She was sure of it now: she hadn't killed Katrina. She should have gone to the crypt after she'd met with the Scoobies to tell him she hadn't done it and about the time-wonky demons Anya had told them about. She should have gone to him before she saw Tara today to tell him she was sorry for everything she'd said, everything she'd done.
That would have been the right thing to do. The 'Buffy' thing to do.
But she wasn't right. Spike had told her she was 'wrong.'
And now she knew she wasn't. So why didn't she go see him, talk to him, tell him-
Tell him what?
What could she possibly say to him now?
She'd been so scared. And he had been there in front of her, egging her on, going into gameface. Sounding so much like the old Spike she had hated so much. Taunting her to fight.
"Put it on me. Put it all on me."
And at that moment, that was all she'd wanted to do. Let someone else take it, the way she had been taking it for years. Taking it on the chin. The gut. The heart.
"That's my girl."
That was when things had gone crazy. She was not his girl. She hadn't been anyone's 'girl' since Angel. Not Riley's, not anyone's. Spike needed to know that, remember it always.
She'd had to kill Angel, even when she knew that she was his girl, would always be his girl.
And here was this soulless thing calling her that. Angel had at least had a soul. Angel loved. You couldn't love without a soul.
Right?
She'd gone to him once after a beating like she'd given him last night. Seen the damage, the pain. It had been impossible to see him like that and not care a little. Even if it was Spike.
She didn't think she could walk in there and look at him, knowing that this time, she'd done it to him. Done it with her own two little Slayer hands, knowing all the time that he'd just been trying to help because he 'loved' her.
What could she say anyway? 'Sorry' didn't really cut it. And how could she explain something that she didn't even understand herself?
She couldn't face him. Couldn't look at him - or at what she'd done.
How could he have forgiven her when she couldn't forgive herself? She didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve anyone's forgiveness.
Why had he let her do it? Keep doing it?
That scared her more than anything else. That he'd *let* her punish him like that. The things she'd said - the things she'd done - and he hadn't said a word, hadn't raised a hand to defend himself. Just taken it. On the chin. The gut. The heart.
She thought about the dream again. About the stake driving toward his defenseless body.
He would let her kill him, wouldn't he? If she needed to do it, he'd let her - anything for her.
"I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it."
There was no way she could go there and see him right now. Didn't know if she ever could. How could he ever forgive her for what she'd done?
Deep down, she knew that he'd forgiven her even while she was beating him blind.
But how would she ever forgive herself?
That was the real question, wasn't it?
Oh, God, what had she done?
It had been four days. *Four* days!
What had happened to that super Vampire healing? Go on vacation or something? Four days and he looked like *that*?
The first things that she'd noticed were kind of a blur. Spike wasn't alone. He'd brought along that floppy-skinned guy and Mr. Six Pack for company - just like any other guy who wasn't sure what kind of reception he was gonna get.
Then she'd really looked, cause something wasn't right. Usually his eyes jumped out at you, all bright blue and sharp, whether you were standing in a lighted room or sitting on top of him in the dark.
Oh, God.
She'd put on a poker face - had learned that from him - and tried to act like she always did when Spike was around her friends. Make a quip. Try not to think about - that other stuff. Like the way he looked when she was coming, or the way his hands traced the arteries in her neck.
*So* not a problem. Not tonight!
Buffy had been thrilled to take Richard outside to park his car. Spike might be letting her know that he'd forgiven her by coming to this little shindig, all uninvited (despite what she'd said to Tara, inviting him would have been the last act of her current life: she would have staked herself), but he was far from forgetting about it. There was wariness there.
He'd missed her. Of course. Only *Spike* could miss someone as crazy as she was right now. Hello! Drusilla! And dammit, she knew she was crazy, cause all at once, she'd realized that she missed him, too. How much more complicated could this get? She'd beaten him to a pulp, left him lying in an alley, couldn't even get together the stones to check on him, and now -
So glad he couldn't see his reflection in the mirror. That he couldn't see what she'd done to him. She didn't know how she'd get through the night looking at him. And what she'd done to him inside was worse - more than enough for one stupid, romantic, infuriating, short-fused vampire to take. And the idiot just kept coming back for more.
She'd better just suck it up. Not get all melty every time she saw his prizefighter-battered eyes. She'd hurt him all right. In more ways than one. And she'd pay for it sooner or later. But not tonight. This was her twenty-first birthday and if he couldn't let it go (for tonight anyway), he could take his friend and Mr. Probably-Now-Four-Pack and leave. This was so not a topic for conversation tonight in this house.
Later, they'd talk about it later. In some neutral location somewhere. Like New Zealand.
Thank God Tara had come. At least somebody knew what the real deal was. That this was no casual drop-by for a party. Except - Tara really didn't know that, did she? Because Buffy hadn't told her what she'd done.
And really, how lame was this Richard guy? Nice, but hardly Slayer stuff, she thought idly.
Just what *was* Slayer stuff?
Buffy suspected that Slayer 'stuff' was standing in her kitchen right now looking at his Docs and trying to fit in.
Well, she owed him that rescue - and several others. But this was probably the one that really counted. Spike and Xander in the same house for the evening. She hurried Richard up and took a deep breath. Talk about nightmares!
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Well, somehow this was going very well. Surprisingly well.
Xander hadn't tried to stake Spike yet.
Buffy had managed not to go all gooey and end up having SpikeSex in the hallway under the stairs (thanks, Tara!).
Tara and Will had moved out of 'circling' mode and were actually chumming up here and there, that is until Tara had started scalping the pokerettes.
Dawn seemed to be having fun.
Sophie? Well, what could you say about Sophie, except she'd managed to avoid allergic reactions to anything in the house (so far)?
Richard seemed to be good for one thing, as far as she could tell: courting the green-eyed jealousy demon.
Spike had caught her alone in the hall and had come on all Mr. I've-Got-A-Line-I've-Been-Saving-Just-For-You-Baby.
"I'll let you blow out my candles."
So that was a chip shot. Slam dunk, Spike straight into the basket. Three points. No mercy.
You just didn't throw a line like that out there and think she was gonna let it lie. But she got it. Spike had definitely not liked the idea of Buffy's having a 'date' for her birthday. Buffy had eased right out of his manufactured pick-up line by calling him on it and watching him sputter.
"You think he'll take you out on his ten-speed, pet?"
God, Spike was cute when he was jealous! She'd wanted to laugh in his face. Never seen him off-balance like this. Who'd have thunk it? He'd been playing the bad secret Boyfriend guy - Mr. Motorcycle in Docs and leather.
Jealous? Richard? Please!
It had probably been the very first regular-style flirting she and Spike had ever done. She had to admit she liked it. Liked it a lot. It was almost like -
Don't go there. Nope. Not there. Back to the guest list.
Clem. Now Clem was just about the cutest excuse for a demon she'd ever seen. Clem was the ice cream on a slice of cherry pie. Demon a la mode. Somehow he'd even made his 'skin condition' work for him.
Which brought her back to Spike, who'd brought Clem. Of course these days, just about everything brought her back to Spike. Richard had caught her alone in the hallway (got to stay with crowds!) and tried to talk to her. Buffy had let him down easy but quick. Gee, she didn't want to hurt his feelings, but she'd seen Spike hovering in the background and -
As Richard headed for the living room, Spike moved in.
He never should have started with the Richard-mocking. She had him there. Wham! But she'd let her guard down. Stuck around a second too long. In that moment, he'd backed her against the wall. And she didn't even notice his blackened eyes anymore. She'd gulped, started to melt - had been wavering. Almost falling, matter of fact. Then he took her hand and was propelling it exactly where it wanted to go. In the neighborhood of his crotch. She was trying to fight it - determined to stop using him, but - jeez!
Suddenly and just in time, the Cavalry had arrived. Tara. Giving her just the right amount of breathing (gasping) space to reconnect with Resolve Girl and get out while the getting was good.
The last thing she heard was Spike making a truly lame excuse to Tara.
"I had a - muscle cramp. Buffy was, uh, helping."
Okay, so it *wasn't* the last thing she heard. Because she'd stood on the other side of the door and used her finely tuned slayer sense and the open doorway to hear the whole thing.
Muscle cramp? In your - pants? At Tara's reply, she clamped her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. She'd have spewed if she'd had anything to drink.
Saved - by the saintly Tara's timely arrival and her wit.
Now they were all together in the living room, making a night of it.
The camps were divided into the Monopoly faction (headed by Anya the Capitalist) and the Poker crew (with the Xanman and Spikey vying for leadership - Spike and Clem seemingly handicapped by the lack of kittens). Somehow Tara had ended up over there and seemed to have won enough hands to have both demon and human males on the run.
Girl power, yay!
Frankly, Buffy would have preferred to sit behind Spike and make pointed remarks about his poker hand. That is, if Buffy had known anything about poker. Instead, she was stuck with sappy, sweet Richard. And Monopoly. With a crazed money-hungry ex-demon. She sighed and covertly watched the poker game.
What was that Tara had just said to Spike? About ice?
Oh, this was just too good! She thought she might be kinda gay for Tara...
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Somewhen, during the last few weeks, they'd crossed a line. Or rather, she had.
It had happened sometime after Buffy had beaten him so badly. Was it after Tara had told her she hadn't come back wrong after all - that she was still the same Buffy? After he had come bearing beer and Clem to her birthday party? After they'd had their private spat by the front door with a room full of her friends on the other side of the wall?
Pick one. The end result was the same.
"What are you gonna do, beat me up again?"
That had been the sum total of their conversation about that night. But he'd made his point. The demon she thought she'd been fighting that night wasn't him.
So she'd stopped fighting it. And him. She was resentful, yes. Confused? Double on the yeses. Conflicted? Well, not so much with the conflict right now, cause she'd kinda stopped thinking about it. Just started letting Spike lead; he was a lot better at it than she had been.
She had stopped reminding herself that he was an evil undead thing. That she was only using him. Hadn't done any good. She'd just kept turning up at his place anyway.
Sometimes he was waiting for her under the tree when she got home from work and she would tell him 'no.' She liked telling him no. Liked watching his eyes go soft as he tried to persuade her. The way he touched her hair or invaded her space. They had a secret. He knew she liked it that way - knew that she liked it when he pushed exposure into the danger zone. Dangerous, stolen kisses in her front yard.
Some nights he came into the Doublemeat to see her at work. He'd order and then sit back and watch her. Other nights, she would take her breaks and he would be waiting for her out back. They'd indulge in some kissage and set the stage for later that night. There were days she left for work early, making a detour to try and catch him still in bed. Sometimes she did.
The craziness and violence and darkness had been exorcised by events of the night in the alley by the police station. All the fight had gone out of her after she'd done what she did.
They'd settled into some kind of mutual acceptance of the situation. He had refrained from bitching about her job, bitching about the secrecy. He'd stopped bitching completely. She'd stopped calling him a thing, trashing his crypt. Stopped screwing with his head. And they'd eased into this series of moments to try and gouge every bit of time they could from her everyday life. Moments that could easily turn into hours, if she let them.
He never remarked on the grease smell that clung to her hair. Never told her she was getting too thin. Never shrieked at her (Get out, get out, get out!). Never encouraged her to miss work or shirk her responsibilities (Well, not often anyway). And his face always lit up when he saw her.
He was consistent. Solid. For Spike, anyway. A smirking, flirting monster who loved her completely and unconditionally.
Envied him that. She wished she could love someone. Even him.
Even him.
She did love kissing him though. Loved the sharp planes of his face and those eyes that could go from hard to soft and back to hard in a blink. She loved drowning in them or skating across them depending on his mood. Having him inside her and feeling the low growls that crawled into her from the back of his throat, well, she loved that. She loved the way he made her feel and the way she *could* feel for that endless moment in time.
Never had to look for him. When she wanted him, he was always there. Always eager to see her, and to put his mouth on her to take away the deadness and the darkness that lingered inside.
They still didn't talk much, but that was okay, right? Because there wasn't much to tell. Her life outside of his crypt pretty much sucked. And he had no life outside the crypt at all anymore, so.... She knew it; he knew it, so why rehash it?
Buffy did her slaying alone most of the time now. If she needed help, he was somehow always there, but for the most part he must be hanging back, watching. It was okay if he watched - as long as he didn't try to impress her by horning in on her fights. She needed the fighting as much as she needed him.
Why not grab onto the little things that postponed the pain? And the dirty dishes and the laundry and the burgers and the endless temper tantrums from Dawn.
"I want you. You want me. I can't go inside - so maybe the time is right for you to come outside."
Tonight they'd done it in her front yard. She hadn't cared about the neighbors, hadn't cared about anything - except the hard comfort of him rocking away inside her.
Thinking was for the self-absorbed.
She was the numbed.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Rakish.
Was that the word? Rakish? Somehow good old, solid, corn-fed Riley Finn had looked pretty exotic standing there with his new scar, all in black.
And the new wifey, Sam, had looked pretty good, too. She had to admit it to herself. Buffy was a little jealous of their relaxed banter - the cute couple in Kevlar sharing their work, their life, their bed.
Look how her friends had reacted. Xander's tongue was pretty well dragging the ground over Riley and his bride. Dawn was in general bitch mode, but Buffy didn't put much stock in it, because she remembered how Riley had been there for her when their mom was sick. And even though Willow had been fully prepared to hate Sam, Buffy thought it might only be because of their long-term friendship. Under other circumstances, Willow might have fallen at Sam's perfectly-shod commando-style feet.
Bottom line was simple math - Riley plus Sam equaled okay. Riley plus Buffy had equaled okay. Her friends, then and now, had accepted Riley - even with a new wife. A relationship between her and Spike was not even in the equation. Not in a million alternate realities.
She told herself she didn't care. It wasn't like she was gonna marry Spike or anything.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
It had just been too much. She couldn't discuss she and Riley's relationship with Sam. Hell, she couldn't even stay in the same cemetery with Superwife. She muttered some excuses about seeing a source and headed off to regroup. By the time she looked up from her feet and away from her thoughts, she was parked at the door of Regroup Central, with desperate questions that needed decisive answers.
"I love you. You know I do."
Decisive. No hesitation at all. The one thing that she had been able to count on as her life fell apart around her on a daily basis.
Spike loved her. Loved her when she was sweet, loved her when she was cruel, loved her when she smelled like burgers - or sex. He loved every twisted part of her. And in that moment, she loved him, too, in her own warped way. She wanted to show him and she wanted him to show her.
Right now.
Silencing him roughly, she pushed him over to the old sarcophagus in the corner - the one place they'd never been together. He had the softest look in his eyes, like he was being given a gift that he'd wanted all his life. It broke her heart to see him like that and it broke her heart to feel the way she did: guilty.
She reached down and started to undo his belt as he began to slowly and carefully push her clothes off of her. Wanting to memorize the look in his eyes, so that she would always have it, she tried not to look away, even to undress him.
Buffy didn't kiss him. That would mean not seeing his eyes. And he seemed to understand - his gaze accompanied every touch of his hand.
They made love for the first time. It was tender and poignant and everything she'd ever wanted. All that she bled for, he gave her. And she gave it back.
Finally, she did kiss him and it was like no other kiss they'd ever shared - all comfort and completion. Everything she'd never had, from him or anyone else.
There was music and they were dancing. It was a waltz, and this time they were creating the dance together, making it with their hands and lips and bodies.
It was fragile in its birth, trembling with new life. It cried out in sighs and whispers, murmurs and gasps. He told her he loved her, told her he needed her, told her he couldn't be in a world without her in it ever again. And she believed him, because she knew it was true. He'd never lie to her.
She didn't say any of the things *she* felt out loud. Because that would make them real, wouldn't it? And this was a dream - the dream where the stalwart lover finally breaches the castle walls and arrives victorious to rescue the maiden from the demon inside.
Oh, God. The demon inside.
As she climaxed, tears began to roll down her face. Locked in his own orgasm, he couldn't react. And if he could have, he wouldn't have known what to do anyway.
She was so afraid. The tension of months had been drawn away like pus from a half-healed wound. The pain had been her constant companion since she had returned - and now it was gone, leaving her empty inside.
As he stilled and buried his face in her shoulder, she looked up at the ceiling of the crypt, lit by the many candles that still burned, always burned, in his world.
But her borrowed candle had gone out.
He slipped out of her and she turned away. He didn't question the sudden distance between them. Best to let her 'suss' it out? Give her space? Sounded right. He never pushed anymore.
She fell into an exhausted half-sleep, rooted in twilight. This was slowly killing her - and if it was killing her, it had to be killing him. When she woke, if she did, this would be over.
It was time.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Buffy walked away from Spike and out into the harsh sunlight. She'd done it.
The look on his face had hurt her deeply - she knew she had hurt him deeply
- but it had had to end. Ultimately, she thought he understood that this was
not about Riley or anything Spike had done. It was about her. About who she
was, who she wasn't anymore, and who she might be again some day.
She knew she had finally done the 'right' thing. And she could be strong. She just hoped it wasn't too late - that she hadn't waited too long - to learn how to love.
The End
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